He slapped my helmet, which was the only way he had to tell me how much he loved me, and then backed away, gesturing toward the track.
I pushed the bike into my lane and straddled it, firing it up to the roar of the crowd. Seven other bikers sat in their respective lanes here to hopefully nab one of the final spots left in the selection for finals later this month. It all came down to this heat.
I recognized a couple of the other racers from the qualifier circuit. Danny Pruett, who had a habit of cutting inside on the first turn. A guy from Millhaven whose name I didn't know but who'd nearly taken me out at the county fair race in August. And the rest were local boys who'd been riding since before they could drive.
And then there was me. The only woman on the grid and somehow, that still felt like a fact that needed defending, even now.
I'd placed fourth at the qualifier two weeks ago—that's what had gotten me here to the semifinals. No woman had ever made it this far, and it was up to me to make my parents proud, and probably my brothers a little jealous.
I settled onto the bike and felt that familiar drop of calm internally as I shut out the crowd and the roar of other engines.
I knew Garret was watching, along with a hundred other people who may or may not have placed wagers on the race today, and more importantly, I had the weight of expectation on me.
Judges, other racers, and women who watched this sport all set a standard so high, they expected me to fail, and I refused to prove them right.
When the starter moved into position, I rolled my shoulders and leaned forward, bracing myself for the pistol's bark, and the instant it snapped off, the line exploded in energy.
Danny Pruett did exactly what I knew he was going to do—cut hard inside, forcing two of us to give up ground or eat dirt right off the starting gate.
I gave up ground to stay upright and came out of the bend in fifth, swallowing the urge to push too hard, too soon.
Smooth.Dad's voice rang in my ears. Smooth gets you there.
The track swept out wide to the south in a long curve that favored nerve over common sense.
I'd ridden this layout a dozen times over the years.
Watched my brothers work out the line when we were teenagers, then went out and worked it out myself. Early mornings, before anyone else was at the field.
I threaded through and picked up two spots coming out of the bend as my tires bounced over the rough hard-packed dirt.
The crowd noise lifted briefly, and I let myself have exactly one second of satisfaction before I tucked down harder and focused.
Halfway through and I was still trading third with the Millhaven rider and a local who had a modified suspension and wasn't shy about it. My palms were drenched with sweat and my knees ached from holding my body up to avoid bruises on my thighs. Then on the sixth of eight laps, I almost threw it all away.
I shot into the south bend a fraction too fast—exactly what Dad had told me not to do—and I felt my rear step out and my stomach drop. For one sick, stretched-out second, I was sure I was going down.
The tire spun on the dirt and slid, and the temptation to put my foot down almost got me.
A rider zipped past on the inside, and I counter steered, rolling off the throttle just enough to let the rear of the bike find its way back under me.
The bike shuddered and then straightened, and I was through the corner with my heart somewhere up near my visor.
I stayed upright but only barely, and the Millhaven rider had closed the gap while I was busy nearly destroying my race. I got my head down and pushed hard. With one lap left, it was still anyone's race. Now in fifth place, I had my work cut out for me and I knew it.
I blinked, just a split second, and watched as a local, one spot ahead of me, hit the dirt.
He laid his bike and threw up a cloud of dirt, and everyone instinctively dodged it, sending me to the inside of the final curve and Millhaven to the outside, allowing me clearance to nudge my way through, and this time, I cranked that throttle so hard my engine screamed and I felt my front tire want to come off the dirt.
But I crossed the finish line in third and the crowd erupted.
Screams and whistles were so loud, they could be heard over all seven engines remaining as I lifted my fist in the air and blew past the stands for a cool down lap.
Someone near the fence was screaming my name. I saw my mom standing beside Dad in tears, jumping and clapping.
And my eyes scanned the crowd for Garret but didn’t find him, so I coasted through the victory lap thinking about every early morning I'd put in on this field, every bruise, every time someone had made me feel like the racing wasn't for me.
It was such a good feeling, I could almost forget the way Garret's hands felt on my body, but the instant I let that floodgate open a trickle, the dam burst and he was all I could think about.
