She was standing there again, a spot of darkness leaning on the white inner wall, watching him. She was as beautiful as the last time he had seen her in person, as she always was when she visited him at the track.
He gunned the engine of the motorcycle beneath him as he passed her, the wind of it pulling at her hair and snapping her black leather trenchcoat.
As he passed by her again, he saw her jump the wall and slowly walk across the track. It didn't matter where he was on the track, he could still see her in his mind's eye. He had run this track for so long, he could close his eyes and not even leave the lane. But even with his eyes closed, he could see her, feel her, a nova on his soul's radar. Each lap he completed, she took another step toward the groove he was running at the bottom of the track. She reached it but didn't stay long. She knew better, she had better sense than that. He didn't know if he would run her down if she ever did stand there.
She stood just a cycle's double width from the groove, only her head turning as he passed. Her entire stance was of relaxation as hot metal speed raced by her, her hands resting easily in coat pockets at just the right height. The wind caught up to him as he left the turn, carrying what could have been her voice whispering his name. Her face still wore that look... and the track of the single tear he always caused.
She had loved to see him race. She called him her modern knight on an armored horse. He was torn between his two loves, her and racing. He had found it distracting knowing that she was there. Even if she lied to him, saying she wouldn't come to watch him, he knew better. That she wouldn't be able to resist. And knowing that no matter where she was at the track, he would be able to point to her, the pull of her greater than the roar of the crowds of thousands. He shouldn't have blamed her for losing that last race.
He could see it again. He had lost. Not the first time. But this time he placed the blame on someone other than himself. He wore his false smiling face, congratulating the winner but then stayed as the lights went out. He had practiced at the track before at night, all by himself, the bare minimum of lights left on. No one really cared. The crowds of people had left, except for one blending in with the shadows, watching him. He ran the tank dry, refilled, ran it dry again. The sun went down and a full moon rose above the track, giving more light than the feeble electric lamps.
She had finally gotten tired of waiting up in the stands, playing at hiding. She waited down in the pits, sitting on the wall. She didn't even flinch as he pulled up next to her. The others before her always had... they'd talk about wanting to ride with him but then would get scared when they saw the speed he rode at. That was the speed he lived at. The times off of his bike were slow-motion. She wasn't afraid and never asked for a ride. She understood that his bike couldn't carry another at his pace. When she was with him, time couldn't pick a stable speed, always running faster than light or stopping completely. Time stopped that night in the pits. Maybe it never started again.
"Next race will be better," she had said as he took off his helmet, still sitting on his bike.
"I was distracted," he had replied, turbing his helmet this way and that.
"Cox in Turn 3?" she had asked, turning her head to glare at the offending piece of asphalt. The moonlight picked out different highlights in her hair than the sunlight during the race had.
"You," he had stated. As she started to turn to him, he continued, listening to the pinging of hot metal cooling in the night air, still staring at his helmet. "I can't be distracted again. Ever."
Her voice was now cool, detached. "I won't come then."
"I'll still know where you are. I'll feel you off somewhere thinking of me."
"And that's bad?"
Silence. He had to be strong, no show of emotion, no flicker of even a moment of the feeling that was threatening to burn its way out of his soul and straight through his body. It must have shown in his face, that struggle, because she suddenly turned from him, clutching her arms around herself in protection of that cold.
"You're always in hurry. Even in the off season, you're always doing something, speed of sound, speed of light, like a shark. If you're not moving, you're dead... and if you're not moving fast, you might as well be dead." She looked up at him, the only tear she'd ever allow anyone to see of her crying, striking glints in the moonlight. "Where are you running to? Or are you running away from something?" She turned toward the moon, her profile now with a hard edge to it. "Are you running from me?" was a whisper that floated away on the breeze.
He was silent. There was no answer to any of her questions.
She stood up, looking him over, him and his bike. Calculation? Understanding? "If that's the case, keep running. The world's a circle, eventually, you'll come back. No matter what, you'll be back." She came closer, so close he could smell the delicate touch of vanilla musk she wore for her perfume. "I won't stop loving you, you know."
He had started to tremble inside, fearing her touch, her kiss, what they would do to his resolve. He tried to shore up the walls crumbling with every breath he took that had her scent in it, every current of heat from her body. And, he realized, he was scared that she wouldn't touch him, that her kiss would never be. So much for perfect resolve.
Her fingertips traced their way down his cheek, just short of a caress.
He steeled himself to keep from leaning into the palm of her hand like a cat begging to be petted, to ignore the pulse of her blood that was thudding just under her skin and pounding into his. He closed his eyes in the torment.
Her lips gently touched his cheek, the feel and smell of strawberry lipgloss flooding his senses. His ears took notice of her words as she whispered, "I love you. Will love you. You will come back to me."
Cold air sped where warmth once was, shocking him into opening his eyes. She had stepped away, a look of sorrow, of pity perhaps, of heartbreak that filled her eyes. "I just don't know how long I can wait."
With that, she turned from him, walking slowly, deliberately away from him toward the exit. The edges of her trenchcoat billowed out like leather wings. The only sounds in the night were of the gravel beneath her feet and the pinging of the still cooling engine beside him. Her hands were clenched in her trenchcoat, her shoulders were hunched, as if expecting a blow at any moment. She didn't even try to look back.
He had watched her walk away, then put his helmet back on and sped off on the track again. Maybe blaming her for the loss was too much. But racing is his life, right? Right?
The days, months, years perhaps, had sped by, practices ran into each other. He didn't race anymore, but he was always practicing. It was always night.
He still practiced at night at the track, even after the visiting had started. He wasn't sure if she was real or not. A friend had tried to tell him something about her once, her death? But he had ran to the track that night and she had been there, as always. She couldn't be dead. That would be like him dying. No, it _would_ be him dying because even with her gone from his life, he didn't want to live after her death. Life was racing, death was nothing. Death was always riding with you, a racer in leathers blacker than night, a bike pale as bone, racing stripes of the blue on the knife's edge; who always won the Last Race. You didn't think of him any more than you would your sponsor. You'd meet both, eventually.
He stared ahead at the turn, wondering about the sudden turn of thought. He just needed some sleep. He tried to remember the last time he had gotten some sleep, something to eat. Nothing.
He tried to remember the last time he hadn't been practicing. Nothing. He couldn't even remember the last time he had refueled. He wouldn't look at the fuel gauge in case of some weird Heisenberg twist, that by looking at it, it would make the tank suddenly empty.
He laughed, a hollow ghost echoing in his helmet. The analogy made him slow down, wondering.
Could it be that _he_ was the ghost and that she was still alive? A man stuck in a ghost dance, lead by the thumping heartbeat of a racing engine, making his way through the labyrinth of an endless circle? And that she was the alive one, haunted by him and her memories, drawing her to him and his endless journey?
Maybe they were both dead. Did ghosts haunt other ghosts? Do ghosts ever stop and wonder if they are ghosts?
All he had to do was stop by her. Talk to her.
He could remember the look in her eyes when she would see him, her entire face lighting up. To see that again.... He drove the motorcycle harder, faster, around the track. He felt the purr of the engine, the push of the wind against him, the thrill of the speed.
Well, maybe after one more lap...
Do not copy or quote the above material without the expressed consent of the owner of this page.