At the Races
With the continuation of the Intergalactic War and continual victories for Earth, it only made sense that society itself got a little cocky. Everything was more dangerous, riskier, and games got continually less and less safe. But with medical technology the way it was, no one really cared and only once in a blue moon did you hear about anyone dying.
One such growing favorite was among NASCAR racing. They extended their competition to motorcycles. It was a harsher competition: the turns were more dangerous, any pushing and shoving went straight to the driver’s legs, and you could see his or her expression as they went around the track. The look of frustration and bewilderment as the ejector seat took over before their vehicle went up in flames. Like I said, no one died, but it was an awesome sport to watch. It became so popular they had to split it into men’s and women’s divisions because there were just too many drivers out there. Soon after that it was an Olympic sport.
I worked as a mechanic for one of the best female racers in the world. It’s funny because people stop me on the street and ask for my autograph, but they usual don’t recognize her. Anyway, we were out on the town together the day before a big race because she loves to go to bars and get a chocolate martini the night before. I usually just order a Shirley Temple, which sends the waiters up in arms since I’m supposedly too old to be ordering a fake drink like that. But just as it’s ready, my drink is intercepted by a strange looking man sitting next to me. He hands it to me gently, reminding me of all the movies out there about suave young men trying to hit on equally attractive young women. Not that I’m movie star gorgeous, but for the sake of argument…
I asked him what he wanted, but he just said he was interested in speaking to the young woman next to me. She turned around and glanced at him. She asked him the same question, but in a rougher fashion. She’s the perfect example of not being what you expect. She looks like a model and is the most graceful person apart from a ballerina that you’ll ever meet, but when she talks she speaks like a southern boxer and you almost expect her to cock a shotgun when she asks that. He introduced himself as Tory Hunt and said he was the manager for a couple of the guys on the American motorcycle racing team. She sat there sipping her margarita taking in just about every word with one eyebrow up and the other one down like he was wasting her time. But she didn’t interrupt as he said he was missing a mechanic due to the war and he needed to borrow another one. Then he included both of us and asked whether we knew anyone who could mechanize a motorcycle for the races.
She looked at me and I knew she had a stupid idea and I tried to tell her no, but she had already volunteered me before I could get my mouth open. Tory raised his eyebrows and looked at me. I knew what he was thinking: usually mechanics for the guys are not girls. I don’t know why this is, but since there are enough female mechanics for all the female drivers it doesn’t seem to make a difference. It was breaking a protocol, but as soon as I saw him smile I knew he had grasped onto the idea, however crazy it was.
“No,” I said, “absolutely not!”
But it was too late at that point; they were already plotting against me.
So that brings you up to speed (no pun intended…well, yeah it was). I’m at the stadium working for a pretty famous gentleman driver. I say gentleman because that’s what he was: almost the opposite of Her except in listening skills. He didn’t look graceful, but he was a good dancer. And he thought the idea of me as his mechanic was insane. Problem was, I only met him the day before the men’s race and there was no time to say no. They promised no one would recognize me and I could do my stuff. With luck, they wouldn’t even have needed me. But I’m here anyway.
The gun goes off and the first lap goes according to plan. I have his second bike ready for the fourth lap all oiled and checked. I can see the other mechanics working beside me and I’m proud of myself that I was at least twice as fast as they. He turned smoothly around the bend a second time. Men’s races are dirtier ones than women’s. I’m not going to pretend I don’t have an inkling why, but it’s better to be open minded about such things rather than cynical. Third time around and he’s lost most of the crowd. Some guy on an orange bike it trying to wipe out the competition leaving the people in front with ample room. Nice of him, I think.
Fourth lap and he’s half a lap a head of the pack. Because I’m such a good mechanic (and cute, too), I’ve got his new bike ready and he barely steps off the old one before going off on his new one. He’s faster than She is about switching. Before the rest of the racers whiz by my station, I’ve fixed his old bike and reloaded it. The problem with the old bikes is that they use up fuel fast. The tanks had to be smaller because of the oil crisis back in 2020, so they only have a small amount of gas. That’s part of what makes bikes so expensive. He’s running on special fuel that isn’t good old petroleum, but his tank is that of a 2021 model motorcycle, so he doesn’t have much stored fuel anyway.
By the time I’ve set it up for his eighth lap, he’s been around one more time. The orange guy is coming up fast and I wish I could warn my driver to watch out for him, but he switches so fast I can’t even say hello. I can tell he gets in a mental zone when he’s driving, which is good I suppose for several reasons. For me, no one suspects I’m a girl.
Seven. Zoom. Eight, switch. Zoom. Nine. Zoom. Two bikes have exploded their drivers are in their respective circle. The guy on the orange bike is in the lead. Ten. Zoom. The exhaust pipe in the back of a blue motorcycle is rattling against the back wheel and slowing him down. I wish I could help, but he’s on the other side of the track. Eleven. Zoom. The crowd is getting more and more wild. Twelve, switch. Zoom. Thirteen. Zoom. The orange bike is trying to push my driver into the wall. Luckily, he has his starting bike, which I, personally, like better so he pushes ahead. The orange driver is right beside him and has him in a bottleneck (that’s what you call it when you’ve got barely enough room between the bike next to you and the wall). Fourteen.
Boom. Right behind me the blue bike cracks and the ejector seat sends the driver into the air as the bike explodes. But a broken exhaust pipe doesn’t usually do that. Orange has left my driver alone, but I know something’s wrong. The last person to whip by Blue was Orange and then Blue when up in flames. I’m swearing, which I never do, and hope the mechanic next to me doesn’t hear my voice.
What occurs to me at that moment is that Orange is employing a technique that only a couple people are allowed to do. It’s illegal, of course, but the cops let people do it because they usually get something out of it themselves.
With the growing risk of the games, sports gambling got riskier, too. Certain individuals would buy shares of a company’s stock and gamble the stock against winning racers. If a company saw that more stocks were for a certain driver, they hired drivers who either had no bets, or very few. In order to insure that certain riders won while others lost, without any risk of that information getting to the public, the winning riders were given sticker explosives to put on the bikes. They would just overheat the engine or cause some sort of malfunction that caused the ejector seats to take over and blow up the bike.
I didn’t know what would happen with a bike that didn’t run on petrol gas, but either way, my driver would lose the race. As a mechanic, that’s the last thing you want to happen because, well, on a practical level, it’s a pain in the nether regions to fix a broken bike.
Since you’re riding on motorcycles, there are no radios to quickly page my driver. He concentrates pretty hard anyway, I wouldn’t want to distract him and make him jump and cause the explosive to go off prematurely. I also knew that he wasn’t going to get off his bike for the next lap because it was his last one. Sixteen, though was a multiple of four and if there were more laps he should be switching. He whizzes past me. Fifteen.
I set up his last bike and do something I would never do with Her. I honk the horn. The crowd is screaming and then puzzled yelling as I see his head snap to where I am leaning on the horn and trying to get his attention. Orange whizzes by me. My driver seems clueless but he gets on the motorcycle I set up in record speed practically driving over my foot and leans forward on the bike to ease it forward for the last lap. Just as he heads away—
Boom! The red motorcycle didn’t stand a chance. The driver skids across the track and lands in the safe zone on the other side. My driver’s motorcycle explodes with a plain neck explosive. I had hoped if it wasn’t in use, it wouldn’t have gone to pieces, but it went anyway and took a nearby driver with it. The mechanic next to me swears loudly, but it isn’t my fault. I try not to catch his eye. Debris from the broken bike is everywhere and the driver of the red motorcycle is nowhere to be seen.
Finally, cheering and screaming. Orange whizzes past me, generally slowing down. Then my driver dodges the bits of bike on the track and pulls into his stop. He gets off his bike a little dazed.
“Who won?” I ask, but he just shakes his head and takes my hand.
“How’d you know?” he asked pointing to his previous bike. I shrugged as he probably couldn’t hear me over the noise anyway. It was taking the police a lot of effort to keep the fans in their seats. The crowd was chanting his name and the mechanic’s I replaced. My driver starts walking towards the locker room and I’m not sure what to do. If I follow…
Tory Hunt approaches me and motions for me to follow him. She was in the stands and was able to follow me out. Hunt hands me some money but I don’t let him pay me and say it was my pleasure. He says those are the bets that we got for winning. He also says I should fix the bike that exploded and maybe improve upon it. Hunt was about as subtle as a Great Dane in a baby carriage, but I let him have his fun and ask him what he meant. Once he explains that he wanted me to make a better model, I say I’d be glad to work with the original mechanic. Hunt says the old mechanic won’t be coming back for a while, so I’m no my own.
Anyway, it was an exciting day and I’m glad I read up on my sports gambling. If I didn’t…well, he wouldn’t have died, but Orange would have reason to gloat. We still would have lost the bike, but stories of that mysterious, brilliant mechanic also wouldn’t have been written in the gossip magazines. I’m so proud of myself sometimes.
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I Like this one! make it a favorite!