Racing the Line (novel Excerpt)

One...two...three, jump! That was the rhythm that had guided her through the jumping competitions of her first outdoor sport of horseback riding. Though it offered no real help in her current situation, it inevitably entered her mind at one particular moment. The moment came as she sat astride her superbike at the starting grid awaiting the green light and the madness that ensued afterward. Dressed in tight black riding leathers and a black helmet she felt the oppressive heat as it radiated up from the pavement beneath her. The helmet along with thick ear plugs helped block the deafening roar of revving four strokes but did nothing to keep out the slightly intoxicating smell of race fuel. She twisted the throttle with her leather-gloved right hand while holding the clutch in with her identically adorned left hand. She checked with a stomp of her booted left foot on the shift lever to make sure-for what felt like the hundredth time-that she was in first gear. Not exactly the reassuring rhythm of a horse's canter, but it was a familiar procedure and all she could do to combat her nervousness as the start lights cycled through.

Half a heartbeat later, the lights went green. She dropped the clutch to shift one, two, three, four times as she raced to keep up with the mass of thirty bikes, all speeding out of the straightaway toward the first corner. Fighting up from the back row of the grid, she made it past half the pack before the turn. Then that familiar surge of fear and intake of breath as she started her right-hand lean into the hairpin. No matter where she raced or how familiar she was with the track, the first corner always caused her the same catch of panic she had felt the first time she ever rode a motorcycle around a bend. She found it both reassuring and annoying. Two years of street riding and four years of road racing and she still got butterflies in the first turn. Ridiculous.

By the fourth turn, the nervousness had vanished and she was intent on passing every rider she came up on. It was growing harder, as with each spot she gained, she grew closer to the real professionals: factory riders. She envied those riders lucky enough to have the backing of both their motorcycle's manufacturer and a gaggle of money-hungry sponsors who all happily paid for experienced mechanics, the best gear and equipment and coveted spare bikes. She had been riding the same older model superbike for the past two years. She had modified it to the best of her mechanical and monetary ability but its reliable performance was as predictable as a role of the dice. Today luck seemed to be on her side. She reveled in the race of her career and with each completed lap she crept ever closer to the prize of a place on the podium, the mention of her name in the press and the slim possibility of someone with clout noticing her impressive riding skills. It was a daydream at best but it was why she kept riding, and what robbed her of sleep during the worst of finishes.

She knew she was a minority in superbike racing. Female riders were rare and usually only noticed because of their gender and how poorly they always placed in what many considered a sport for boys only. She had encountered both curiosity and animosity from male riders and while the former was almost acceptable the latter was intolerable. One of her most vocal male adversaries was a privateer like her who seemed to make it his mission to insult and harass her at every opportunity. The fact that she almost always placed higher than he never helped matters. She was not looking forward to passing him in the lap traffic he was deservedly traveling with.

So intent was she on worrying about her enemy, that she was caught off guard when a member of her pit crew held out the lap board and it read P5, L3. She was in fifth position with three laps left? She had never been that close to the lead pack! Finding new resolve, she shifted her mind into the proper gear and concentrated on passing the elite of motorcyclists: those with an actual chance at winning the championship. She overtook the fourth place rider with braking in the next turn and felt another position tick off in her mind. She was content to remain in fourth through the tricky hairpin, knowing from personal experience that passing in that section was an act of bravery beyond her desire, and almost dangerous on her cantankerous motorcycle. The racetrack opened up into more sweeping turns and she timed her braking just right to move up another position. The exhaust pipe of the third place rider was well within sight.

Realizing that there was not one, but two exhaust pipes in her vision, her mind slipped from the race just long enough to realize she was on the back tire of a rather well-known professional superbike racer. He had more wins under his belt and within those red and black leathers than races she had entered in. As she felt the opportunity to pass him within her grasp she could not believe her own fortune. Shifting down into the next wide turn, she rode the brakes just enough to allow her to slide the back wheel without losing too much speed and took the tight inside line to his outside run. His surprise was obvious in his posture as she sailed past him to claim third place. She shrugged her shoulders as her only indication that she even knew he was now behind her.

Third place! She had never made it up to third place in a national race! The planets must surely be in some sort of odd alignment for her to have such an amazing ride but she wasn't done yet. Pit board read P3, L2 and she planned on using those last two laps to get as close to the lead bikes as physically possible. Halfway through the lap though, her intentions were forced backward as she dared to glance behind and see the swift approach of the former third place rider. Before she could even contemplate fending him off, he was past her and she dropped back to fourth position. Grumbling in her helmet when he cockily tilted his head as his only acknowledgment of her existence, she almost missed the fact that they were coming up on lap traffic. Perfect! She could pass him in the crowd and at least secure third, though right now all she wanted to do was prove she could pass him not once, but twice.

A flash of yellow leathers ahead drew her attention. She swore loudly in her face shield as she recognized the bike and crappy riding position of her rival woman-hating privateer. He always gave her trouble when she tried to pass him and she doubted today would be any different. Forcing her focus on using the lap riders to obtain third place, she wove through the crowd until yellow leathers and black bike were all that rode between her and the familiar dual tailpipes of the pro racer. She was now in one of the trickiest sections of the track where passes were near suicide, but she knew she had to make her move. Her rival would never expect her to overtake him in such an area, so she did just that and tried to ignore the way he shook his fist at her as she sped by. She had just regained sight of those exhaust pipes when her narrow vision cost her and luck gave way to treachery.

She felt a rough wiggle from her back tire and the changed ride nudged her less than gently off her fast line. Just entering the tricky hairpin she could not regain control fast enough to properly apply the brakes or lean. Her world suddenly tumbled out of control as she was thrown off the left side of her bike in a high side. The next moments consisted of ground, sky, pain and anger in dizzying repetition as she rolled through the grass followed closely by her similarly somersaulting machine.

When her world finally stopped spinning and rolling out of control she was lying on her back staring at the sky. She fought for the breath her last impact with the ground had stolen from her. This wasn't the first time she had endured having the wind knocked from her, it had happened numerous times when a lesson horse threw her. At least then she had known that her instructor would be rushing to her side to make sure she was all right and help her back up. No doubt the race was continuing as her crash had carried her off the track and out of the way. It would take a while for the corner guards to reach her in that particular area, by which time she would probably be breathing normally again and on her feet. She might not miss the stupid horses that launched her from their backs but she did miss the instant concern for her well-being from her handsome teacher. The little things.

Those thoughts passed rather quickly through her mind as her breathing began to resume its normal pattern only to be halted in a gasp when the sight of a surprisingly familiar face filled the width of her visor. It was familiar not because she knew the person, but because she had seen the person. On television, in magazines and most recently in the race pits. She was looking into the face of the very pro rider she had been trying to take third place from. Daniel Branton.

"Hey, Dan, did ya hear there's a girl racing today?"

A tall, muscled, brown-haired man paused in the process of picking up a bottle of water from the paddock food table. He gave his head mechanic Hank a puzzled sideways glance. "Yes," he replied shaking his head slightly which stirred his dangling bangs across his forehead and almost into his amused green eyes.

Hank smirked which wrinkled his sun-leathered face. "Her name's Shiara Lee and she's been racing in the novice classes for the past few years," he continued.

Dan sat down in one of the folding chairs beneath the large trailer awning and pulled his gray muscle shirt away from his chest in an attempt to dry the sweat clinging there on the warm day. Standing six foot tall with a well-muscled physique, square cheekbones, thick brown eyebrows and sun-highlighted brown hair, Dan was capable of earning the attention of most women who even glanced in his direction. In light of that fact, Hank had never once needed to point out an attractive woman to his friend in the ten years they had worked together. He had mentioned the girl rider for a reason and damn all if Dan didn't want to know why. "And?" he pressed twisting the plastic cap off of the water bottle to take a swig.

Hank shrugged nonchalantly and tugged at the collar of the black and red polo shirt that was standard crew attire on race day. "If you'd seen her we wouldn't be having this conversation." He turned toward the table to find something to eat.

Dan peered at Hank thoughtfully. Something was certainly up and he wanted to know what. The pathetic attempt at a breeze moved over the part of his legs left bare by his black shorts. It did nothing to cool him or distract him from the mystery at hand. "She's hot?" He raised a curious eyebrow.

"You'd know if you'd seen her out jogging the track this morning in shorts and a tank," he laughed before giving an appreciative whistle.

Frowning slightly as something occurred to him, Dan finally nodded. "Yeah, I saw her from a distance. She had the weirdest run," he recalled shaking his head.

Hank laughed again as he sat down in the chair beside Dan and smoothed a hand through his wavy black hair. "Darnedest thing that," he began still grinning. "She kept switching from miming her riding moves to dancing along with her music. She didn't seem to care who was watching her and believe me, plenty were watching her!"

"Yeah, but can she ride?" Dan asked before taking another swallow of water.

"She's managed some pretty impressive lap times on that piece of scrap she calls a bike." Hank gave an appreciative nod. "If she had a real machine she might stand a chance."

Dan shrugged screwing the cap back on his bottle. "That can be said of a lot of privateers, Hank."

"Most privateers don't have her body!" Hank chuckled earning Dan's nudging elbow in his side.

"Enough with the chicks, man. Keep your mind on the bike and out of the gutter." Dan smiled amused by the older man's interest in the girl rider. "I'll check her out after the race if it will get you to shut up."

Hank smirked and his black eyes glimmered with mischief. "I bet you will and I bet I won't."

As it turned out Dan had been given the chance to "check her out" earlier than expected when the privateer woman that was Shiara Lee actually managed to pass him in the last laps of the race. He did not allow her to hold third place long but he had been impressed by her riding skills on what Hank had accurately termed a scrap machine. He was not surprised when the girl looked ready to make another move on him amidst lap traffic. While her efforts were risky, he was stunned when he saw the cloud of dirt that marked her departure from the track when he leaned into the next lefthander. Moments later red flags were waving along the track signaling a stop to the race. Dan should have continued along the track and back into the pits but instead he found himself turning left into the closed loop of the track to circle back to the grass she had run off into.