No Fear on the LinebajwriteJuly 25 2017, 02:29:37 UTC
Leaning on his casually crossed elbows against the upper lip of the velodrome wall, Rick looked straight down the steeply sloped cement track to the finish line. As Becky and the other racers cruised by him on their track bikes for the evening’s warmup session, he studied the fading blue and white lane paint lines. He noticed the blue line was faded only here and there by riders unlucky enough to experience blown tires or lost nerve.
The white line, however, was barely distinguishable from the rest of the gray concrete because of the countless riders darting over it to take advantage of a competitor. Sometimes the move was high, to blow by the other ride, but more often than not, the move was to settle between the two lines, no wider than a man’s chest, and move with ferocious speed, hugging the blue line across the perpendicular finish line.
As Rick kept one eye on Becky’s form as she kicked it into high gear for her last hard warmup lap, he half-turned his attention to a group of teen-aged boys rushing the wall at the first curve as they jockeyed for best viewing position. No doubt, he thought, at least one of them might amuse him with their initial astonishment as a first timer to the track.“Seriously?” the one in flip flops sporting a fresh Jersey shore sunburn of the pre-summer season, whistled just low enough for him to hear. “You weren’t kidding about no brakes? Guess that explains why the ambulance crew is setting up camp down there.”
Leaning down, Rick hid his chuckle by wiping his hand across his mustache. He understood the adrenaline rush of watching riders barrel after one another at full speed after leaving the starting line, where they had first perched like birds on a telephone line, so silently and gracefully on their toes, fully off their seats.
Becky approached and grabbed the wall with her right hand while loosening the bike’s toe strap on her left foot. She definitely had hit her race speed because her almost breathless babble turned into an eye roll she usually reserved for what she dubbed his lame attempts to make her lighten up. Sure, the two California girls who just arrived in town yesterday, were screaming for attention by showing up in matching yellow socks the same mustard yellow as the jerseys reserved for the leader of a road race, but you couldn’t let overconfidence or head games slow you down. Just as suddenly, Becky shifted and pushed off his hands clasped together. She stayed high and hugged the wall to wait for other riders to pass by before she settled in for one last lap on the white as if she were on a mission to fill in the missing paint.
The white line, however, was barely distinguishable from the rest of the gray concrete because of the countless riders darting over it to take advantage of a competitor. Sometimes the move was high, to blow by the other ride, but more often than not, the move was to settle between the two lines, no wider than a man’s chest, and move with ferocious speed, hugging the blue line across the perpendicular finish line.
As Rick kept one eye on Becky’s form as she kicked it into high gear for her last hard warmup lap, he half-turned his attention to a group of teen-aged boys rushing the wall at the first curve as they jockeyed for best viewing position. No doubt, he thought, at least one of them might amuse him with their initial astonishment as a first timer to the track.“Seriously?” the one in flip flops sporting a fresh Jersey shore sunburn of the pre-summer season, whistled just low enough for him to hear. “You weren’t kidding about no brakes? Guess that explains why the ambulance crew is setting up camp down there.”
Leaning down, Rick hid his chuckle by wiping his hand across his mustache. He understood the adrenaline rush of watching riders barrel after one another at full speed after leaving the starting line, where they had first perched like birds on a telephone line, so silently and gracefully on their toes, fully off their seats.
Becky approached and grabbed the wall with her right hand while loosening the bike’s toe strap on her left foot. She definitely had hit her race speed because her almost breathless babble turned into an eye roll she usually reserved for what she dubbed his lame attempts to make her lighten up. Sure, the two California girls who just arrived in town yesterday, were screaming for attention by showing up in matching yellow socks the same mustard yellow as the jerseys reserved for the leader of a road race, but you couldn’t let overconfidence or head games slow you down. Just as suddenly, Becky shifted and pushed off his hands clasped together. She stayed high and hugged the wall to wait for other riders to pass by before she settled in for one last lap on the white as if she were on a mission to fill in the missing paint.
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