Ridley Holland has just lost the love of her life. She has no desire to return to the world of motocross, but she knows Teuvo would want her to continue. So she plays the part: an upcoming professional athlete with inevitable determination to domina...
Ups! Gambar ini tidak mengikuti Pedoman Konten kami. Untuk melanjutkan publikasi, hapuslah gambar ini atau unggah gambar lain.
Ridley
I stare at the horizon. The track is laid out before me, prepped for my first big race since the accident. Water trucks have just finished dampening the dirt to prevent a heavy upturn of dust. Medic sites are set up at every obstacle, off to the side and beneath sponsor tents. Today's track race is regional, and people are arriving from multiple places in the Okanagan: Keremeos, Penticton, Naramata, Kaleden, Oliver, Peachland, Summerland, Lake Country, Vernon—to name some.
Well... they will be arriving. It's barely past four o'clock in the morning and I'm already here. The nerves are getting to me. Which has been a natural occurrence since day one of professional racing. Under normal circumstances, I would go for a pre-race ride up to the top of Blue Grouse or Bald Range. I'd sit on the rocks or wooden fence and centre myself by looking at the view and taking deep breaths. But riding up to Blue Grouse with Jacks has done something to my psyche. Whenever I glimpse the mountain, I feel a strange pang in the hollow depths of my chest. It's like emotions are trying to reignite, but there's a missing link.
A link I'll never find again.
Sighing, I pull on my helmet and climb onto my dirt bike. I'm dressed in all my gear and my small backpack is secured to my body. A well of emotions builds up in my chest, threatening to spill through my eyes. There's a burning sensation at the back of my nose. I close my eyes and mutter a soft curse. I wish I could find that missing link—where the passion and drive came from before the accident. My love for riding is somewhere just below the surface, but I'm stuck in some fucking rut, unable to move.
With another deep breath, I shift into neutral and start the engine. With one kick of the kick-start, the engine roars to life, drowning out the songs of the morning birds. The vibrations radiating through the seat shake my body, and for a brief second, I close my eyes and think back to the first ride Teuvo and I went on.
I can remember every aspect of that ride: the weather, the terrain, what he was wearing, what he smelled like when he kissed me, how his hands felt on my hips, what colour the pastel-streaked sky was—all of it.
With the memory on my mind, I take off up the trail that leads to the forest service road. While I could take the back trail to my destination, I refuse to go anywhere near Blue Grouse Mountain. Having the track stand beneath its shadow is hard enough. Which is why I take the forest service road—to avoid trauma and cut down on time.
For most of the ride, the road is rough with small ruts but it's not busy. I don't get trapped in a whirlwind of dust from any dump trucks or logging trucks. When I pass the ten-kilometre mark and its infamous hairpin turn, I climb up a hill and then take a sharp right to the Upper Pits. The road, while it is still gravel, is not as rough as the service road. Although the Upper Pits (or the Burke Campground) is gorgeous, it's less popular than the Aspen Campground (also known as the Lower Pits). That means the road is smoother and has less prying eyes.
