I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my grimy hand, leaving another streak of oil and dust across my skin. My father's old Yamaha R6 sat in front of me, no longer hidden under years of neglect but humming with life after three hours of desperate mechanical work.
Thank God for all those afternoons I spent hiding behind the tool bench, I thought as I tightened the last bolt on the exhaust system.
"Carlotta, come here and hold this wrench," Papa's voice echoed in my memory as I adjusted the bike's mirrors.
I could still see myself at twelve years old, crouched behind stacks of tires, watching Papa and his friends work on their bikes. They never knew I was there, absorbing every word, every technique, every secret they shared about engines and racing.
"The clutch is the most
