32

How Chuck Ended Up In A Wheelchair

I can see the red bike passing me and there is nothing I can do about it. I have a racer right behind me and one right in front of me thus I cannot escape. All I can do is wait for the outer line to clear so I can safely slide there, but nothing looks like I'd be able to do that anytime soon, but I can see how behind I am staying because of this. Why did I pass on this stupid inner line?! I panic and do the one thing I know Chuck would yell at me later, but later is later and I need to get myself in a good position now. I force myself out of the line and avoid crashing with a racer in question of millimeters. "Now you almost died make it worth!" I hea Chuck yelling in the microphone. I speed up and manage to get myself in one of the leading places. But I am not able to catch the leading one. "Catch him in the steep part of the track," says Chuck whose voice is followed by a quick beep signaling he's off the line. I quickly speed up and catch a racer I recognise to be Claus. I manage to pass him and the fight for the first place begins. In the next lap he passes me and I chase him again. I can see the finish line and I speed up even more. Claus is about to pass the finish line and the only way for me to pass him is to drift. I do it and pass him to the cost of nearly falling, but I manage to stand up straight. I win! I am first! I raise my hands in the air and listen to the crowd cheer. My first win! But it's not mine! But I don't care! I drive into the box.

"We won!" I exclaim as I take off my helmet accepting Eric and Johnny's hug.

"You won," whispered Johnny in my ear so Chris can't hear it because he would get mad if he heard it.

"Swift!" Chuck grabs my forearms making me look into his eyes. "You nearly fell two times!"

"But I won..." I stumble being so happy Chris has already left because he would love this.

"Get your stupid ass in my car," he groans. "Grande, get her vespa to her place."

"I will," says Eric with a smile I just want to punch off his face.

I take off the suit and follow Chuck into his adjusted car. Despising my attempts to help him, he snaps my hands away doing everything by himself, so I just sit down on the passenger's seat and wait for him to get ready. When he does, he doesn't give me one glance, but starts a car. The entire ride goes silent. I have no idea why is he so mad? I won, right?

Finally he stops in front of a small house. "Get out," he mumbles as he starts exiting himself. I do as he asks without question. He leads me in. The house is surprisingly friendly opposing to his personality. "Cookie?" he gestures with his head to the ones on a plant.

"No, thank you," I say hesitantly.

"Good girl," he says. "Come." He gestures his head for me to follow him. The whole house is on one main floor, which comes to no surprise to me since Check is on a wheelchair thus moving in higher floors would require some sort of a mechanism, but clearly Chuck went for the easier option. He leads me through the long hallway and stops in front of the black door. It is the only black one in the house in defence to the others that are dark brown. For some reason Chuck looks sad and nostalgic at the same time before he opens the door. The room is dark and has no window, but I can see the silhouettes of things I cannot really distinguish until Chuck turns on the light. The room is also painted black, but it has a giant neon yellow number 32 on one of the walls. There is a glass cupboard that is filled with things that look like merchants. All black with neon yellow 32 on them. On the other wall is something that looks like outdated motor racing suit covered with glass. There are also some framed news articles on the walls, but I don't get a chance to look at them in detail because on the middle of the room there is the very king of everything. The old racing bike. It is gorgeous. It looks like the ones used about forty years ago and it gives up that retro vibe. I remember them being very expensive and only a couple of these were out. "Do you like it?" asks Chuck with a hint of sadness in his voice.

I would squeal from excitement, but something holds me back. Something about this whole room seems sad. "Yes," I answered honestly.

Chuck moves closer to the bike and petts it almost fatherly. "He is a beauty with no compare."

"What is all this?" I ask with a quiet voice. I just feel this weird feeling of respect towards everything in this room, which makes me speak in a lower voice.

"The reminder of how dangerous ambition can be," says Chuck chuckling softly. "Beauty here is not the one you see on every picture hanging around here. It's just a mare copy of the one I used to be applauded for riding."

"Where is the original?" I ask without thinking. Chuck doesn't say anything, just nodding his head over to one of the famed news articles. There is a giant black-and-white photo of the same bike standing in front of me just that one is crashed and there is a man lying under it. I step closer to read it. "32's career crashed," I read the title. So the neon yellow 32 on the wall and the merchandise means the racer's number.

"I was the highest raising racer of my generation," says Chuck with a heavy voice, which sounds almost dreamy. "I won race upon race. In only one season I managed to get myself into the very top of popularity and reputation." He sighs. "I was doing what I always wanted and people loved it. People loved me! I was what I always wanted to be. A racer. I was riding the most amazing bike I ever dreamt of and I was admired for doing what I loved." He turns to the article next to me. "The final race of the season. I wanted to win so badly so I could beat the record for the most wins in one season.I wanted to win so badly I was training extra hard thus on the day of the race I was extremely nervous and in bad shape. It all looked like I was going to lose, but I just couldn't take it thus I did the wrong thing. The dangerous thing, yeah?" He closes his eyes and sighs. I can see telling the story hurts him. He sighs again and continues, "I fell. And I hit the fence and the bike was thrown over me and it hit a couple of other racers as well. None of us died that day, but the part of me certainly did. After almost a year enduring treatments it was clear I were never to be walking, let alone racing again. You know all of that love and admiration I got? It all disappeared. And I pushed my friends away when I was at the high so I had none when I was in the low. I tried to join the mentoring but no one would want to take me seeing how I was pushing myself to the limits and how that sat me down. So I left this world. Chris found me when he was looking for a mentor, but was not able to get one because he was and still is so untalented and not willing to listen to others. So this world pulled me back in somehow." He sighs again, petts the bike and looks at me clearly seeking some reaction.

I take a deep breath. Chuck Wilson. The man with no emotions and no empathy is now in front of me telling me about his most traumatising experience. What am I supposed to do? I just stand there playing with the zipper of my jacket. Finally I manage to gather enough courage to look him in the eyes again. "Why are you telling me this?" my voice is understandably weak.

"I don't want you to end up like this. A lot of racers don't realise there is a dark side of this sport. There are trophies and champagne and the adrenaline, but there are injuries and life altering events as well. I never want you to forget that."

"But... I am not a racer. I am just a mechanic. After this is over..."

"You really want to spend the rest of your life sitting in boxes changing oil and tires?" he asks me. His voice is not sarcastic or harsh, but rather soft. "Christine, you are a racer. If you admit it or not. I see the way you race. I see the way you talk about racing. So stop saying that just to please Rose."

I look down at my boots in shame. I don't know what to say to that. I really don't. I feel so overwhelmed by everything and just can't get over the fact Chuck is in a wheelchair because of a motorcycling accident. "But why no one knows who you are?"

"Oh, they know, just don't care. As I told you: no one wants to pick up something from the dirt," he says his seriousness returning to his face. He moves a bit of his grey hair revealing a scar on his head. "Thus the worst scars are always hidden. Because we do not get compassion with them. We get pity." He looks up the wall again and sighs. "I just don't want you to end up like this." After a couple of seconds he turns around. "I'll take you home."