It takes us three hours to get Tiller off the bathroom floor and a trip to the ER where he has to get a tetanus shot. Stupid fuck scraped his ass against a wall in the tunnels and got a nasty infection.
By the time we’re at the event, Tiller is sound asleep in the van, and I’m on my game, ready to throw some tricks and impress Scarlet. And then I think to myself, when did I become the guy wanting to show off for a girl? I hadn’t done that since I was a kid, thirteen years old, trying to get Rhya to notice me in a way other than a friend.
I chalk it up to her ignoring me. Scarlet that is. If she wasn’t going to give into me, I’d show herwhythat would be a mistake.
Freestyle riding in the streets of Paris is something I’ve always wanted to do. Even better with this event, there’s no scoring, no judge there to critique your every move. It’s about throwing the best trick and getting the crowd pumped for when the real show comes.
The lead up to the world tour in Madrid, Spain is what we’re all looking forward to, but events like this are some of my favorites.
A lot of people ask me why I like freestyle riding. My answer?
It defies gravity, and when I’m airborne, I come to life. It’s about being free and doing what you want. The thrill of pulling off a trick no one else has.
In theory, all of it defies logic and sanity, but it’s a rush from a lifestyle of being so close to disaster yet taunting it. It’s about being completely in the moment. If only for a second, my mind is nowhere else.
For me, that’s why. If only for seconds, I’m free from everything else. The sponsors, the brand of me they’re creating, the women, the other riders. In those seconds, I’m alive only for me.
It may sound selfish, but it’s the only time I have that.
The freestyle events are set up a little differently from a competition. There’s a lot of down time and talk amongst the other riders. Or shall I say provoking? It’s how we work. It starts out as comradery and ends in shit talking. Every time.
I’m doing my practice runs, throwing tricks to rouse the crowd and get them on their feet. It ends in me trying to convince ESPN to move the ramp back so I can go for a double backflip since Scarlet’s here and has never seen me perform yet, I thought, hey, double backflip, oh yeah, that’d get me out of her so called bullpen.
“I’m not doing it, Shade,” the official tells me. “I don’t want to scrape you off the concrete tonight. Besides, if we move it for you, it messes up the rest of the event.”
Damn it. I’ll have to show off another way.
I’m heading back to the staging area, removing my goggles and hanging them on my handlebars and cursing myself for not carrying my helmet with me on the plane. Maybe that’s why everything is going to shit. It gets a whole lot worse for me when I see Jaime. He stops me by positioning his bike in front of mine on the narrow path to the pits.
I’m tempted to pin it and ask him how a mouthful of my front tire tastes. That’d probably get me disqualified though.
Jamie’s got that look in his eyes. After our interactions in Orlando, do you think I talk to him on a regular basis?
No. Never. I avoid him at all costs.
He nods to Scarlet standing in my pit, her phone in hand. “Is that your new assistant?”
“Don’t even think about it,” I snap, revving my bike, fully prepared to lay his ass out on the concrete.
He winks, placing his helmet on. “Oh, dude, I’m more than thinking about it.”
“No, you’re not. She’s off limits to you.”
“Relax. Maybe I’m looking for an assistant when you’re done with her.”
My blood boils in my veins, my grip on my handlebars tightening. The fuck he is. I’d make goddamn sure she’s never hired by him. Wasn’t sure how, but I’d make sure of it.
Do you know why freestyle riders enjoy the sport so much? It’s certainly not because we like being injured, though every rider here tonight is masking the pain of injury of some sort.
Two months ago, I tore my ACL and LCL and a partial tear to my PCL. I know what you’re thinking. . . what the fuck does all that mean, Shade?
It essentially means my knee is floating. There’s also this fun little artery that’s an extension of your femoral artery. It carries blood from your heart to your upper and lower leg. So. . . all that means is by me tearing up my knee so badly, there’s nothing keeping my knee from shifting and severing the artery. If my knee shifted on landing, I could bleed to death.
Your eyes are wide, aren’t they? You’re asking yourself why am I still throwing a leg over a bike?
I have an answer for you.
Because when I’m airborne, I come to life. I do it for the thrill of pulling off a trick no one else has. I do it because I’m defying all logic and sanity for the rush of a lifestyle that has me so close to disaster, yet I’m taunting it.
