Don't Try To Stop Me - Sequel to 'Trust Is Everything'

Chapter Three

After eventually gathering up a decent team of mechanics and managing to get my three top bikes prepped, we were finally on the road to Kirkistown, Ireland. Well, at least I was. My team took the later ferry. Fuck that, I'm not wasting my time. The sooner I get to this place the better.

Thankfully, I managed to get hold of a truck designed to carry bikes and to sleep in. It belonged to one of my dad's mates, Ryan Farquhar. It was fancy as hell, just my style. Ryan was one of the best when my dad started racing, and he still is. Part of me wishes I did road race, to meet all those faces that raced alongside my dad. But the rest of me knows I was made for the circuits.

-

After the 4 hour drive from the docks in Belfast, Northern Ireland, I pulled into the home of the 500 Motor Racing Club Ireland, Kirkistown circuit. The truck hissed as I put the hand break on. I jumped out and looked around me. The place was dead quiet, but I was two days early. I liked to get the feel for the track itself that first night, then spend the entire next day prepping and practicing with the bikes before the actual races the following day. People may think I'm crazy, but as the saying goes in the racing world, it's better to be prepped than wrecked.

I lowered the automatic ramp of the truck and rolled the first bike out. A black Suzuki 1000, the one my dad rode the day my mum saved him from a crash by replacing one tiny little bolt. I propped it up onto its stand, checked for any dents or scratches, and left it there beside the truck. My head mechanic had informed me that him and the team were less than 10 minutes away, they could look at the Suzuki for me then.

As I waited for them, I leaned up against the side of the fancy lorry and lit a cigarette. I didn't care what my mum said, she didn't know this feeling. When you're so piled up with stress you can feel it physically weighing you down, but as soon as you inhale what's inside one of these things, all that pressure melts away. It's not getting me high or anything, it just eases the stress. Just as I'd finished the cigarette, the dark blue transit van with my picture on both sides pulled up beside the truck.
"Black Suzuki needs checking over." I said as soon as they opened their doors. Like the good team they were, they immediately got to work without any questions. I may not appreciate many things, but I sure as hell appreciated a good team.

-

After checking, testing, practicing, amplifying, and testing again the day before, the three bikes were ready for the races. Today was the day. Inside the truck, I pulled my red and white sponsored leathers on and pulled my helmet over my head. I looked long and hard at my reflection in the mirror.
"I can do this!" I said aloud to myself.

I stepped out of the truck and was just about to throw my leg over my Yamaha 600, when one of the officials ran over to me.
"Martin you need to register before you race." He said.
Shit, I'd completely forgotten about that. I half-jogged to the registration tent and quickly signed my name into the Superstock 600. As I turned in a hurry to get back to my bike, I bumped into a girl so hard she fell back. Somehow I managed to catch her by her arms. It was a strange moment. When I caught her, she looked up at me and our eyes...locked, but only for a few seconds.
"Whoa! Sorry about that!" I managed to say, muffled by my helmet, as I returned to practically jogging across the yard. I don't know what it was, but for the rest of that day I couldn't get her face out of my head.

Back at the bike, I hopped on as my head mechanic gave me a push off. As I joined the crowd of racers, we made our way onto the track and given our places on the grid. I was in 10th place. The Marshall raised the checkered flag into the air. I wrapped my right hand around the accelerator, one foot in position, the other on the track. I lowered my body so that the bike and I were one. Eyes locked on that flag. It seemed like slow motion, as it always did, when the flag came down and my foot came off the ground. We were off.

I knew this track well, and I knew this bike. I knew it's kicks and tricks, and how far I could push it. I rounded the first corner well, bending and braking where needed, overtaking a few lads while I was at it. Further down the track came what we all called the 'Zig Zag'. It was made up of three bends on a straight. You had to rapidly change gears up and down while braking early here and later there, and staying on top of the power at all times. In order to get the most out of the tyres, you have to bend the bike right over, but this isn't usually necessary unless it's an actual corner. Not a zig zag. I knew a lot of boys who lost it here by coming in too fast or highsided because they overestimated the bends. It was either serious injury or worse. Luckily for me, I knew this zig zag well, and got through it easily as usual.

In the end, I came over the finish line in 2nd place behind Nicky Hayden. Why on earth the American MotoGP winner was over here doing this race was beyond me, but he won.

That night, I slept in the truck. The bed was damn comfy (I wouldn't expect anything less from Farquhar) so I should've fell asleep quickly. But I didn't. I wasn't even thinking about racing, I was thinking about her.