Page 27 of Moto
“Red, yellow, green,” he says as if he’s counting backward and the herd of riders take off. I watch, unenthused at first, as they speed down a straightaway. But when they come to the first turn, my stomach flutters. The high-speed riders race so closely and so fast it looks like they’re touching. As they come to a particularly sharp turn, the camera angle changes, displaying a line of racers leaning over so unbelievably low, their knees and elbows practically touch the ground.
“Holy shit. How do they not wipe out?”
“Centrifugal force. Push and pull of gravity.” Reese schools me without taking his eyes off the television. He watches the race the same way a cat would watch a reflective object. Lap after lap, my interest increases as the commentator enthusiastically calls the action, describing in rushed detail the movements of the bikers on the track. The scene is a high-powered battle of leather-clad warriors on two wheels creating a domino effect over and over as they round every corner at death-defying speeds.
A rider suddenly loses control of his bike, and I jump as he’s sent skidding across the asphalt and into a cushioned wall. “Holy fuck!”
“He’s fine.” Reese brushes the accident off. “He just went cement surfing.”
“That’s all?” I reply sardonically.
“That’s all,” he returns lightly, still not breaking eye contact with the screen.
By the last lap, my pulse is actually racing as fast as the speedsters. The energy the commentators are emitting is palpable as two men battle it out for first place, bobbing and weaving so closely it looks like their machines are kissing.
“C’mon! C’mon!” Reese yells as the British-sounding announcer bellows ‘the Yamaha pulls ahead.’In a flash, the brightly-graffitied bikes speed across the finish line, and the checkered flag is waved.
“Yes!” Reese clenches his fist. “Yamaha. Winner.”
I regard him surprised. “I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you genuinely happy.”
“I’m not really. I’m dying inside. That should have been me, but at least the points stay in-house.”
“Points?” I repeat naïvely.
“Points determine the individual world champion. But the more races that are won by the sponsor’s team, the more publicity, the more money, the better engineers, and racers. Get it?”
“Got it. Winning makes the world go round.”
“In a nutshell.” He sighs.
“You look tired.”
“I guess I am a little.” He frowns.
“It’s normal.” I try to reassure him.
“I hate it. Makes me feel weak. Powerless.”
“It’s temporary.”
Reese doesn’t verbally respond, just pensively laughs to himself.
“Can you make me something to eat, please?” He actually asks nicely. I almost fall over.
“Sure. What would you like?”
“An egg white omelet with mushrooms, peppers, onions, tomatoes, and a quarter cup of cheese.”
“Wow, specific.” I laugh.
“Part of my diet.” He rests his head on the pillow and closes his eyes.
“Give me a few.”
His lips curve up. “Thanks.”
Holy crap, Reese Dane using his manners. He needs to watch racing more often.
