Chapter Fourteen: Carlotta's POV
1312 Words
The flag came down and suddenly everyone around me exploded into motion - everyone except me. I sat there for a split second, confused and panicked, watching as seven other motorcycles shot forward like rockets while I remained frozen at the starting line.
Move! my brain screamed. Why aren't you moving?
I twisted the throttle, but nothing happened. The engine sputtered and died, leaving me sitting on a silent bike while the roar of the other racers faded into the distance.
"What the hell?" I muttered, frantically trying to restart the engine.
The crowd around me erupted in jeers and laughter.
"Look at that!" someone shouted. "The new girl can't even get her bike started!"
"Probably doesn't even know how to ride!" another voice called out.
"Maybe she should have stayed home!"
The commentator's voice boomed over the noise, dripping with amusement. "And it looks like our mystery rider is having some technical difficulties! That vintage piece of machinery appears to be living up to its obsolete reputation!"
Obsolete? The word hit me like a slap. How dare he!
"Come on, sweetheart!" someone yelled from the crowd. "This isn't a bicycle race!"
"Maybe she borrowed her daddy's bike!" another person laughed.
If only they knew, I thought bitterly, my hands shaking with frustration and embarrassment.
I hit the starter again, and this time the engine coughed to life, belching a cloud of blue smoke that made the nearby spectators step back.
"There we go!" the commentator announced mockingly. "The antique is finally running! Though at this rate, she'll be lucky to catch up before the race is over!"
Rage flooded through me like fire in my veins. Antique? Obsolete? We'll see about that.
I twisted the throttle hard, and Papa's old Yamaha responded with a roar that surprised everyone, including me. The bike shot forward so suddenly that I nearly lost my balance, smoke pouring from the exhaust as we rocketed away from the starting line.
That's more like it, I thought, shifting into second gear and feeling the bike surge beneath me.
The other racers had a massive head start, but I could see their taillights in the distance like red stars guiding me forward. The wind hit my face through the helmet visor, and suddenly I was eight years old again, sneaking rides on Papa's bike when he wasn't looking.
This feeling, I realized with a smile spreading across my face. This is what I've been missing.
The speedometer climbed rapidly as I leaned into the first turn, my body remembering movements I'd practiced in secret years ago. The bike handled beautifully, responding to every shift of my weight like it had been waiting for this moment.
"Rider seven is making up ground!" the commentator's voice crackled through speakers positioned along the route. "That old bike might have some life in it after all!"
I caught up to the last rider within half a mile - a guy on a red Honda who looked over in shock as I pulled alongside him.
"Where the hell did you come from?" he shouted over the engine noise.
I didn't answer, just shifted up and shot past him, my smile growing wider.
One down, six to go.
But as I pushed deeper into the race, I quickly realized this wasn't the simple speed contest I had imagined. The riders ahead of me weren't just racing - they were fighting.
I watched in horror as two bikes ahead of me suddenly collided, one rider deliberately ramming into another as they approached a sharp turn. Both motorcycles went down hard, sliding across the asphalt in a shower of sparks and twisted metal.
"Oh my god!" I gasped, hitting my brakes as I swerved around the wreckage.
The two riders lay motionless beside their destroyed bikes, their bodies twisted at unnatural angles. I wanted to stop, to help, but the other racers roared past without even slowing down.
This is insane, I thought, my stomach churning with shock and fear. People are getting seriously hurt.
"Rider down! Rider down at mile marker two!" the commentator announced with disturbing enthusiasm. "Looks like we've got our first casualties of the evening!"
I could hear sirens in the distance now, growing closer. Someone had called for medics, but it might be too late for the fallen riders.
What have I gotten myself into? The question echoed in my head as I navigated around another dangerous merge where two riders were trying to force each other off the road.
This wasn't racing - this was warfare. Every turn brought new hazards as riders used every dirty trick they could think of. I saw one guy try to grab another rider's brake cable, nearly causing both of them to crash.
Death hangs at every turn, I realized with growing terror. Everyone's doing whatever it takes to eliminate the competition.
But even as fear gripped my chest, I couldn't deny the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins. The danger was terrifying, but it was also intoxicating. Every successful turn, every near-miss, every moment I stayed upright felt like a victory.
I looked around desperately for street signs to help me navigate the route, my heart pounding as I tried to figure out where I was in the city.
That's when I heard them - sirens, getting closer by the second.
Police.
The sound sent a chill down my spine. If I got caught, it wouldn't just mean arrest - it would mean Mama finding out what I'd really been doing tonight. The disappointment in her eyes would be worse than any jail sentence.
Maybe I should quit, I thought, panic starting to override the adrenaline. Maybe I should pull over and pretend I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But then my hand tightened on the throttle, and I felt the bike's power responding to my touch. This was what I had wanted - to prove I was more than just some helpless girl who needed protection. This was my chance to show everyone, including myself, what I was really capable of.
No, I decided firmly. I'm not quitting now.
I twisted the throttle wide open, feeling the old Yamaha surge forward with surprising power. The speedometer needle climbed past numbers I'd never seen before as I wove between slower-moving cars and pedestrians.
Behind me, I could see the flashing red and blue lights of a police car, its siren wailing as it tried to navigate through the same traffic I was splitting at dangerous speeds.
Come on, Papa's bike, I thought, leaning lower over the handlebars to reduce wind resistance. Show them what you can really do.
The city streets blurred past in a kaleidoscope of lights and shadows as I pushed the motorcycle harder than I'd ever pushed anything in my life. The police car was falling behind, unable to match my maneuverability through the narrow gaps between cars.
"Hey! Get off the road!" a pedestrian shouted as I roared past, inches from the sidewalk.
"Crazy b***h!" yelled a taxi driver as I shot between him and a parked car with barely room to spare.
I could hear the police officer's voice crackling over his radio behind me: "Suspect on motorcycle, blue Yamaha, heading east on Fifth Street! Requesting backup!"
"Pull over! Stop your vehicle!" the cop's voice boomed through his loudspeaker, but I was already three blocks ahead and widening the gap.
A driver in a sedan rolled down his window and screamed at me: "You're gonna get yourself killed, you maniac!"
The sirens were still echoing behind me, but they were growing fainter. Ahead, the real race was still happening, and I was determined to be part of it, no matter what the cost.
"Come on, baby," I whispered to Papa's bike as I shifted into top gear. "Don't let me down now."
- Writer
