Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 23821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
“You’re gonna like watching me race.”
“I really doubt it,” I muttered. But when he turned his head and touched his lips to the spot on my jaw right under my ear, I forgot what else I was going to say.
“I don’t.” He sighed deeply, so obviously content. “Promise to stay with me.”
And I would, until it hurt too much.
THREE
The breadth of what I had to learn staggered me. The places we went in the off-season before the official start of the MotoGP calendar left me dizzy. Those races were not, strictly speaking, legal. Our trip to the Atlas Mountains was terrifying, and learning from Aidric that the race wasn’t sanctioned by anyone confused me. But apparently the money was good because of the threat of imminent peril.
Varro was looking for a wild-card spot before the racing season began, and if he got it, more cash would be needed to maintain the bikes and pay a larger staff.
The year before, after his injury, Varro lost his premier-class status when he failed to collect enough points to keep it. So even though he was riding a Honda RC213V—a 1000cc bike—over the Stelvio Pass in the eastern Alps in Italy (where we were right after Christmas), he would not be riding it once the official racing season started unless he could win the wild-card spot. Currently he was in the Moto2 class, which meant he was racing a 600cc bike.
“I’m lost,” I admitted to Aidric as I stood with him two weeks later on the Guoliang Tunnel Road in China.
“There is MotoGP and Moto2 and Moto3.”
“I got that part.”
“Well, Varro needs the FIM/Dorna to nominate him as the one wild-card entry for the MotoGP class at each Grand Prix.”
“Who?”
“FIM is the Fédération Internationale de Motocyclisme.”
“And Dorna?”
“Dorna Sports is the company which administrates MotoGP.”
“Okay.”
He waited.
“So it could be a different guy each time, right?”
“That they nominate at the Grand Prix?” he checked, and I nodded. “Aye.”
“But if Varro wins, it stands to reason that they would pick him again and again?”
“Yes.”
“And his backup plan is to run in the Moto2.”
“Don’t say it like Moto2 is not—”
“Yeah, okay.” I was trying to wrap my brain around everything. “Now explain about the bikes.”
“Well, like I said, Varro used to ride for Quad Ducati, so he had a bike made by the manufacturer. But since he lost his sponsorship, now we’re runnin’ a satellite bike, which means that the bike itself is still basically factory, but Honda doesn’t sponsor us.”
“And what about those guys with the CRT bikes?”
“That’s a team that claims special status because they race bikes that are modified.”
“And your bike isn’t?”
“It’s more than one bike, mate.”
Of course it was. “How come he doesn’t ride a Ducati anymore?”
“When Varro had his accident in Jerez, and then again in Mugello last year, he just couldn’t keep coming back in time to race.”
“Which was why he was doing the Isle of Man TT when he got hurt again,” I summarized.
Quick nod from him to confirm.
“But the places where he—” I couldn’t bring myself to say “crashed,” it wasn’t enough of a word. “Won’t we go back to all those this year?”
“Aye, my lad.”
I had to absorb that. “Sorry, go on.”
“Well, once he was released from the team, they took the bikes back. I talked him into getting a Honda. Everyone runs better on a certain kind of bike. Sometimes it’s as simple as the shape of the fairing, but for Varro—he seems to do better on the esses on the Honda.”
He was talking about turns. On the switchback ones, the hairpin ones, the esses, Varro, for whatever reason, maneuvered better on the Honda. Everyone swore by a different kind of bike, and as far as I could tell, every rider could make a case for why his was the best. I just wanted Varro to stay vertical—or at an angle—without losing his balance. How he could even hold the curves, slanted as he was when he took them, like he could have turned his head and touched the pavement with his nose, was a feat of balance I could not imagine. The physics of it was lost on me, but science had nothing to do with him believing. I was there, so he could have flown if he needed to.
Every day, Varro stared into my eyes as he got on the bike. I looked at the helmet and the red and black racing leathers and thought, How can that be all? Shouldn’t there be more padding? Armor, maybe? But that was all there was, because otherwise how was he going to hunch over the bike and fly down the course?
I didn’t say anything; it wasn’t my place. The words be careful never passed my lips. I just prayed them over and over in my head.
Each of the Grand Prix events lasted three days, and during that time, we lived in a motorhome. We had two—one for the crew, one for the rest of us—and quarters were tight. We parked in an area called the paddock, and really, by the time we were in Qatar for the first race, I was certain I was going to need tranquilizers.