The engine winds down to silence after pressing the big red kill button. Then, subconsciously, my back leg swings up and over the bike, and as my front hooves reach up to unbuckle the helmet, my eyes dart right to the mini fridge in the back corner of the garage. Just a few seconds later, and the bulky mass of padding and plastic surrounding my head is lifted, meeting fresh air for the first time in hours. In a blur of movement the fridge door's open and I'm chugging a 2 liter bottle of water. I hear somepony behind me telling me something. Finally, my thoughts regain themselves after consuming every last drop of the precious liquid. I turn around, and of course that voice was my teammate-but-not-on-the-same-team, Spitfire, or Spitz as I call her,
"What was that?" I gasp out while still catching my breath from the chugging,
"You worked yourself pretty hard this time, didn't you?" Spitz asked again, sounding the slightest bit impressed, but I wouldn't count on it since that's pretty hard to do,
"Well, if two hours out on the track proves anything, it means we've got a decent tune going" I say back, looking back at my bike. I always think one day I'm gonna look back and that thing's gonna be on its side or stolen. Or both, but that's for another day, "Why haven't you been riding around?" I ask Spitz, who's been working on her bike since I rolled out at celestia-knows when,
"Something's up with the valves, and it's been going on since the middle of the season. Only now is it getting really bad" Spitz responded, concentrated on what she was doing,
"Alright then, I gotta refuel and then I'm heading back out" I say to her nonchalantly, already heading out of the garage,
"Smell ya later" Spitz says back. I chuckle. That saying means so much more in the racing world than a cheesy way of saying goodbye. Having reached my bike, I lean down, put it in neutral, and wheel it up to the fueling pumps. I screw off the lid, stick the pump in and gasoline starts to fill the tank. I can hear it hitting the bottom, must have burned a lot of laps. A burly stallion that looks like a poser is leaning against the wall, trying to look as smug as possible. Yep, he's a poser alright,
"*Snicker* How's the marefriend?" He taunts at me. I just roll my eyes. Stallions like him have been everywhere since I started racing,
"We're sharing a garage. How does that make us marefriends?" I ask in what used to be my vicious voice,
"Isn't that what your MOOOOM said?" He tries to jeer. Like I haven't heard that before. I just look back at him as I go to deactivate the pump,
"Nice try, 6th grader" I tell him as I get the pump back in its place,
"Hey" He calls back out to me,
"*Sigh* what" I say, trying to sound as disinterested as possible hoping he'll get the point through his thick skull,
"I'll bet you can't run a lap in less than 1:40" He says, thinking that's actually the slightest bit challenging. I turn around,
"Pfft, I just did 3 consecutive laps, each 1:25" I smugly disown him,
"Well I'll tell you what, if you can't do it by the next time you roll in," he leans in for effect, "I'm telling Spitfire you're proposing to her" he says in the same smug way I just told to him. Confident in knowing this colt's gonna be sent home crying,
"Oh. It's on," I boldly tell him, but not to the point where I sound offended. I turn around and head back to my bike, and Spitfire comes trotting out to me, "What happened?" I ask her in a tone completely different than what I just used.
"I gotta swap out my bikes, that ones dead. I'll be back soon" Spitz tells me, then heads back towards our garage. I hear a familiar snicker. I just roll my eyes and start rolling my bike to the pit lane,
"Oh, and you get one lap before I start timing you" He tells me as I get ready. My helmet's slipped back on and rebuckled, and I swing my leg back over the seat and place my flank in the appropriate position. I pull my visor down, hit the electric start, and the engine roars to life once again. I hear some static from my in helmet radio, and I hear the stallions voice, "Can you hear me?" He asks,
"Yep" I tell him,
"I'll tell you the time every time you come by... Ready, go!" He says loudly. Calm down, your only gonna be limping home slower if you don't. I pull the clutch in and shift into second gear. The bike starts to slowly coast out of the pits. Once my front tire hits the white exit line, I pull my hoof back, the wind blows through my suit and helmet's vents, and the thrill of high speed riding kicks in.
This lap seemed like clockwork, I've only been doing this for the past two hours. I rip down the back straightaway, through the chicane, and back through the line where I hope he starts "timing". I shift my body weight from left to right through this s-curve section as the bike continues to accelerate. Two seconds later, front brakes pulled in and my knee's on the ground as I roll right through the two tightest turns on the circuit, and then crack the throttle wide open for the back section. Whip through that section, and back through the line.
"1:41" I hear the stallion's voice say. I mentally roll my eyes, as my knees back on the ground for the first corner, then for the S-turns. Few knee-scraping bends later,
"1:41" he says again. This stallion's just pulling my leg, but I do this lap a little faster and rougher so that maybe he'll give up on it. 4th time through the line,
"1:41" Okay. This is getting on my nerves. I go all out on this one, just to prove my worth. On the back straight, I start hearing drips on my helmet. Rain. Just what I need. Back through the line...
"1:41" How is this possible? I can't be going this slow. Nonetheless, I push forth as the rain starts to thicken. Through the line once again, usual results. Either this guy is horrible at timing or he really wants a black eye. Or both.
--
It's pouring rain, I'm blazing it on the track, I've done celestia-knows how many laps, and this stubborn stallion won't stop saying "1:41". Ordinarily I'd get off and give him what he deserves, but I can't let him know I'm a quitter. That and I know Spitfire would never look at me the same if he ever told her I wanted to propose. Back through the S-Turns, and I've go this throttle wide open. I swear on Celestia if he doesn't... OH CRA-
--
I'm soaring in the air.
Where are my wings?
WHERE ARE MY WINGS!?
I tumble and land on my back.
WHERE ARE MY CELESTIA-DAMNED WINGS!?
I see my bike soaring right over me.
WHERE. ARE. MY-
I blackout for a split second.
I've stopped sliding.
The bike's at my side.
I look down.
Please Celestia, NO. PLEASE NO.
I try tomove my leg.
Sharp pain runs through my body, no response from the leg.
NONONONONONONONONONO
I want to scream for help but no one can hear me.
I can't die on a 1:41.
I just can't.
Maybe I'll just close my eyes.
And everything will be alright.
Everything...
Will be...
Alright...