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Not a chance, Piper said to herself, and pulled on her helmet before gunning her street bike to life. She and Pony had arranged to meet at a parking lot on the way to wherever this illegal street racing was going on, and the short ride gave her a chance to calm her jitters down a bit.
When Piper saw him in the parking lot, she almost didn’t recognize Pony on his street bike. He was built for his heavy Harley cruiser; on the sleeker Aprilla, he almost seemed over-sized for it.
She pulled in next to him and lifted up her helmet.
“Nice outfit,” he said.
“Thanks. I’d return the compliment, but you’re dressed exactly the same as you always are.”
“Yeah, I didn’t really think about that,” he said, looking down at his jeans and heavy boots. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this sort of thing.”
“Ride a motorcycle?”
“Very funny.”
“Don’t worry,” Piper said. “I’ll take it easy on you if I see that you can’t keep up.”
She thought again how easy it was, falling into rhythm with Pony as Piper the Wild Child. How good it felt, how natural, like sliding on an old leather jacket that had molded to her over the years.
“Where are we headed?” she asked.
“About twenty minutes from here.”
“And you know these people? These street racers?”
“Not really. Heard about it second-hand, thought I’d check it out. You ready?”
“Absolutely.”
He nodded with a smile of appreciation. “You look ready.”
It was a quick twenty minutes to the rally point for the race, and Piper thought about that appreciative smile for every one of those twenty minutes.
She could see the rally point before they reached it, thanks to the headlights of the motorcycles lighting up the dark night. They were the only lights for miles; they were out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees, at the base of a large hill that passed for a mountain in these parts.
The parking lot was dark, old, and clearly out of use for ages. A small building that might have once been a gas station sat at the end, windows boarded up and the boards covered with spray painted graffiti.
Dozens of people milled around on the cracked asphalt, lit by the headlights from a number of motorcycles scattered about. Piper noticed that the bikes were all street bikes, racing bikes, sleek and built for speed.
The bikes and their riders were gathered in clusters, little knots of cliques consisting of two or three. Piper and Pony parked on the edge of the groups, pulling off their helmets and looking the crowd over.
“Kind of reminds me of my teenage years,” Piper said.
“How so?” Pony said.
“I grew up riding dirt bikes. Most of the time, it was, you know, nice and supervised.”
Pony said, “Most of the time?”
“As I got older, and better at riding, I started sneaking out whenever I could and riding fast on the back roads around my house. My parents would’ve shit themselves if they saw me riding like that.”
“Sounds familiar,” Pony said with a grin.
“Yeah? Was Little Pony a rebellious youth?”
“Little Pony?” he said.
“Oh, sorry. Is that what you call your man parts?”
