Page 156 of Bend

The bike is pulling hard beneath me as the road opens up, engine climbing while I tuck lower behind the screen and let my eyes work farther ahead than the front wheel. There’s a patch of darker asphalt coming up on the left side of the lane, rougher than the rest and just uneven enough that I noticed it yesterday

I adjust my line before I reach it, barely more than a few inches, then let the suspension do its job instead of trying to fight every little movement through the bars.

Better.

Echo’s adjustment helped, not that I’m surprised, little firefly knows what she’s doing.

The front still gives me enough feedback that I know exactly what’s happening underneath me, but it isn’t resisting me the way it was yesterday every time I load it hard.

I make a mental note because I know the second I get back she’s going to ask me about it, probably before I’ve even got my helmet off.

She never settles for it feels good either.

Front under braking. Rear on transition. Whether the throttle response stayed clean. If I felt anything strange through the faster direction changes.

If the bike settled properly after the rises.

I’ve never met anyone who can make a simple answer feel like I’m sitting an goddamn exam, but I’m starting to like it.

A stone wall flashes past close enough to remind me that this is not the time to be thinking about Echo.

My attention snaps back to the road.

This place is fucking ridiculous. There’s really no better way to describe it.

One minute I’m cutting through open countryside with fields stretching out beyond low walls, enough space around me that for a second I could almost pretend this is just another road race. Then the course tightens again and suddenly there are houses sitting so close to the racing line it feels like I could reach out and knock on somebody’s front door, trees crowding the edge of the road and corners disappearing between buildings that were never designed with any of this in mind.

That’s the thing about the Mountain Course.

Nobody built it for us.

The road was already here. The walls, houses, trees, elevation changes, all of it existed long before any of us showed up wanting to see how fast we could get around it. It doesn’t care whether something would be safer with runoff or whether a corner would make more sense if the camber went the other way.

You learn what’s there, you respect it, and you don’t get fucking arrogant enough to think being fast means the road owes you anything.

There are riders who talk about fear like admitting you feel it makes you less brave. I’ve never really understood that. There are sections out here that scare me, and I’m perfectly fine admitting it. I mean, it’s not the kind of fear that locks my arms or makes me hesitate when I shouldn’t, but it’s enough to remind me that one bad decision can carry one hell of a consequence.

That isn’t weakness, it’s information.

I brake earlier for the next section because I already know what happens if I try carrying too much speed into it. Yesterday I had to make a correction farther into the corner than I liked, so today I finish the braking sooner, get the bike settled and tip in cleaner.

The line is better.

The front stays planted, and I’m back on the throttle earlier.

“Fuck yeah.”

The words disappear inside my helmet.

Probably for the best.

The road rises again and the bike gets light under me for a beat, enough that my stomach follows half a second behind before the suspension settles and the tires find the surface properly again.

I laugh. I can’t help it as that familiar feeling builds.

I’ve tried explaining racing to people who don’t do it, and it always sounds stupid when you say it out loud. From the outside it’s a bunch of idiots throwing expensive motorcycles down roads at speeds that probably look like a cry for help.

From here, it’s different.