Happy Birthday sophiedb!
For sophiedb, Happy Birthday sweetie, here’s a bit of gratuitous bike!porn featuring Richie, just for you. Hope you enjoy, and I’m sorry for any inaccuracies, I’m only a casual watcher of superbike, so I may have some details wrong. Much love, B xx
This is set in the same universe as Watcher!Abby, and occurs just before that series.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, not one little bit, or things would have turned out very differently.
Getting Back on Track
Richie’s heart beat in time to the steady thrum of the engine as the Kawasaki Ninja 250R idled at the start line. It was the first time Richie had raced professionally since France, but he was confident he could beat the field.
For once he was grateful for looking nineteen; it had allowed him to enter an open under-25 race. The time trials had shown the other riders were relatively inexperienced and Richie knew he could win without taking any stupid risks like the one that had cost his career, and Basil’s life, in Paris.
The prize money wasn’t much, but it was a good way to get back on the circuit after so long. Next he could progress to some of the minor league races. With a bit of luck and skill he’d be able to win a tidy nest egg to see him comfortably through college. And nobody would recognise him as the man who’d supposedly died fourteen years ago.
He flipped down his visor and revved his engine, sitting in pole position, waiting for the light to go green. His adrenaline levels rose, the knot in his stomach drawing just that little bit tighter as his mind went back to that last fateful race.
It’s different now. I’m older and wiser, he thought, pushing down the mutinous thoughts. He wouldn’t crash this time, and nobody was gonna get hurt because of him.
The light went to green and the Kawasaki roared away from the line, but the sound of that one engine was lost in the thunderous sound of twenty bikes simultaneously pulling away.
Richie opened up the throttle, gaining an early lead and leaving him free to ride the track his way without risking any mortal life. As he approached the first turn, he leaned the bike into it, pulling it almost parallel with the tarmac, his padded knee scraping the ground and acting as his brake.
The track whipped past, Richie pushing the bike and his own abilities to their limits, despite his earlier thoughts about taking it easy. Once he was in the race, Richie’s competitive side took over and winning was all that mattered. It was the same competitive nature that had kept him alive for fifteen years in the Game.
Halfway through the race, he began lapping some of the slower competitors, and he realised that he was pushing too hard. Risking a glance back, he saw that he had a clear lead and allowed himself to pull back a bit. If he made it look too easy he might be approached by a scout for one of the AMA teams, and that could lead to awkward questions.
It wasn’t long before he was on the final lap, still maintaining a good lead, although the main pack had gained ground in the last ten laps or so. As he leaned into the final bend, Richie felt the bike start to buck underneath him.
No, no, not again, please, he thought frantically, struggling to right the bike and keep it under control. He eased back on the throttle, fighting to keep upright and managed to bring it back under control. He cruised past the line, winning easily, and in celebration he pulled the bike up into a wheelie, almost bringing it vertical, before bringing it down for a victory lap.
As he came back round to the line for the final time, he waved at the people in the stands, milking it for all he could. He’d missed this, the thrill of the race, the great feeling of winning. Maybe he could put off college for a few years, go back on the circuit. He was sure nobody would remember him by now.
He pulled into the pits, stopped the bike and pulled off his helmet. A group of teenage girls came up, wanting his autograph. Richie beamed at them, initiating a fit of giggles from the girls. Behind the girls stood a man dressed in a dark business suit.
“Impressive, young man,” he said. Richie detected a hint of a French accent, and was immediately on guard.
“Thank you,” Richie replied, his tone casual, although he was paying full attention to the man. He signed another autograph, remembering to use his current alias.
“You remind me a lot of a young rider I saw back in France, must be ten years or so ago. Unfortunate business, poor boy died in his first season. But he had your kind of talent, could have gone all the way. I could do business with a boy like you,” the man continued.
Richie’s heart sank.
So much for that idea then, he mused. He turned to the man and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m just doing this to get money for college, I’m only going to do a few more races,” he replied politely.
“College? With your talent, you could be making millions. Who needs college?”
“I’m sorry, but no. Thank you,” Richie said, polite but firm, making it clear it was his final answer. He got off the bike and started to head away, but the man followed.
“You know, you really do look like him. It’s quite startling. Perhaps he was a relation?”
“As far as I know, no relation of mine has died racing,” Richie replied.
“His name was… Ryan, Richie Ryan.”
“No, doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry,” Richie replied, his heart sinking further. Damn. Mac warned me it was too soon. Maybe I could give motocross a try…
This is set in the same universe as Watcher!Abby, and occurs just before that series.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, not one little bit, or things would have turned out very differently.
Getting Back on Track
Richie’s heart beat in time to the steady thrum of the engine as the Kawasaki Ninja 250R idled at the start line. It was the first time Richie had raced professionally since France, but he was confident he could beat the field.
For once he was grateful for looking nineteen; it had allowed him to enter an open under-25 race. The time trials had shown the other riders were relatively inexperienced and Richie knew he could win without taking any stupid risks like the one that had cost his career, and Basil’s life, in Paris.
The prize money wasn’t much, but it was a good way to get back on the circuit after so long. Next he could progress to some of the minor league races. With a bit of luck and skill he’d be able to win a tidy nest egg to see him comfortably through college. And nobody would recognise him as the man who’d supposedly died fourteen years ago.
He flipped down his visor and revved his engine, sitting in pole position, waiting for the light to go green. His adrenaline levels rose, the knot in his stomach drawing just that little bit tighter as his mind went back to that last fateful race.
It’s different now. I’m older and wiser, he thought, pushing down the mutinous thoughts. He wouldn’t crash this time, and nobody was gonna get hurt because of him.
The light went to green and the Kawasaki roared away from the line, but the sound of that one engine was lost in the thunderous sound of twenty bikes simultaneously pulling away.
Richie opened up the throttle, gaining an early lead and leaving him free to ride the track his way without risking any mortal life. As he approached the first turn, he leaned the bike into it, pulling it almost parallel with the tarmac, his padded knee scraping the ground and acting as his brake.
The track whipped past, Richie pushing the bike and his own abilities to their limits, despite his earlier thoughts about taking it easy. Once he was in the race, Richie’s competitive side took over and winning was all that mattered. It was the same competitive nature that had kept him alive for fifteen years in the Game.
Halfway through the race, he began lapping some of the slower competitors, and he realised that he was pushing too hard. Risking a glance back, he saw that he had a clear lead and allowed himself to pull back a bit. If he made it look too easy he might be approached by a scout for one of the AMA teams, and that could lead to awkward questions.
It wasn’t long before he was on the final lap, still maintaining a good lead, although the main pack had gained ground in the last ten laps or so. As he leaned into the final bend, Richie felt the bike start to buck underneath him.
No, no, not again, please, he thought frantically, struggling to right the bike and keep it under control. He eased back on the throttle, fighting to keep upright and managed to bring it back under control. He cruised past the line, winning easily, and in celebration he pulled the bike up into a wheelie, almost bringing it vertical, before bringing it down for a victory lap.
As he came back round to the line for the final time, he waved at the people in the stands, milking it for all he could. He’d missed this, the thrill of the race, the great feeling of winning. Maybe he could put off college for a few years, go back on the circuit. He was sure nobody would remember him by now.
He pulled into the pits, stopped the bike and pulled off his helmet. A group of teenage girls came up, wanting his autograph. Richie beamed at them, initiating a fit of giggles from the girls. Behind the girls stood a man dressed in a dark business suit.
“Impressive, young man,” he said. Richie detected a hint of a French accent, and was immediately on guard.
“Thank you,” Richie replied, his tone casual, although he was paying full attention to the man. He signed another autograph, remembering to use his current alias.
“You remind me a lot of a young rider I saw back in France, must be ten years or so ago. Unfortunate business, poor boy died in his first season. But he had your kind of talent, could have gone all the way. I could do business with a boy like you,” the man continued.
Richie’s heart sank.
So much for that idea then, he mused. He turned to the man and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m just doing this to get money for college, I’m only going to do a few more races,” he replied politely.
“College? With your talent, you could be making millions. Who needs college?”
“I’m sorry, but no. Thank you,” Richie said, polite but firm, making it clear it was his final answer. He got off the bike and started to head away, but the man followed.
“You know, you really do look like him. It’s quite startling. Perhaps he was a relation?”
“As far as I know, no relation of mine has died racing,” Richie replied.
“His name was… Ryan, Richie Ryan.”
“No, doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry,” Richie replied, his heart sinking further. Damn. Mac warned me it was too soon. Maybe I could give motocross a try…