Girl on Track

62| Almost time

Mick Jagger once said that if you ever lose your dreams then you might lose your mind, and I think he was right. Ever since my bike got destroyed, I'd convinced myself my chances in the tournament were over, but dreams never really end – not unless you want them to – and riding again and being at the track feels a lot like I've made it back home.

Still, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't without its challenges. The first time I'd ridden Dad's bike, I'd expected to feel the same hard edges and grip of my old bike, but despite watching him ride it for most of my life, his bike feels strangely unfamiliar.

Even now, on the brink of the tournament, I still don't feel ready. The bike has a little more horsepower than I'm used to, and walking the line between speed and control is a challenge I'm not sure I'm ready to face.

Not that it stops me from trying. Every minute leading up to the tournament is spent practicing at the track, only for me to go home and sit in the study with Dad so he can give me tips. It's an endless cycle, but the moment I cross that finish line, it'll all be worth it.

The day before the tournament, I wake up extra early to get some last-minute practice in before tomorrow. I fly past Tyler – who is leaning against the barrier – for maybe the hundredth time. He's been with me every moment, either training himself or stopping to watch me, and I'm grateful for the support. It doesn't seem to matter that he's no longer my trainer or that we're competing tomorrow; he dutifully cheers me on.

I push myself harder on the next lap to get a better hang of the control. Despite the difficulty so far in adapting to its functions, it feels nice to ride the same bike Dad used to win his tournaments. Riding has always felt somewhat like a solitary sport, but now I've got a little piece of him with me.

After what feels like the millionth lap, I slow to a stop in front of Tyler. He lifts my helmet to peer in my face, and I flash him what must look like an exhausted grin. My thighs are burning from gripping the bike, and my hands feel red raw beneath my gloves. I've been so determined not to fall off again and not to destroy Dad's bike that I've held on for dear life.

"You want some advice?" he asks.

I tilt my head until I'm looking right at him. "Always."

He kisses my nose gently and says, "Stop thinking so much." I don't know how he can tell, but he does. "You're not going to ruin the bike. The tournament is here, Sirenita. It's okay to be scared, but it's time to go all in."

And he's right, of course. As Dad would say: fear is natural when you step out of your comfort zone, but whatever you do, don't let it win. "When did you get so wise?"

He grins and says, "Probably around the same time that I met you. C'mon, let's take a break."

I want to protest, but practicing more now won't make any difference now that the tournament's here. I'm either ready or not and the only time I'll find out which is tomorrow when I race. "Where are we going?" I ask.

He winks and says, "You know where," before heading to the bay to grab his bike. I grin and flick down my visor before racing down the track toward our spot, desperate to get there first. And this time there are no hangups or worries or holding back, there is only me and Dad's bike, zipping through the trees and up the rutted hill. Whoever invented Motorcross must have craved something others hadn't known they were missing.

As soon as I get to our spot, I take off my helmet, park my bike and walk over to the cliff's edge. Parkwood has always reminded me of one of those model town replicas. Everything is perfect, from the rich green color of the trees to the winding roads that travel like valleys through the old Victorian houses. Kianna had fed me horror stories about small towns before I left, but Parkwood is nothing like she'd described. If anything, moving to this town was exactly what my family needed to heal.