Racing the Line (novel Excerpt)

One...two...three, jump! That was the rhythm that had guided her through the jumping competitions of her first outdoor sport of horseback riding. Though it offered no real help in her current situation, it inevitably entered her mind at one particular moment. The moment came as she sat astride her superbike at the starting grid awaiting the green light and the madness that ensued afterward. Dressed in tight black riding leathers and a black helmet she felt the oppressive heat as it radiated up from the pavement beneath her. The helmet along with thick ear plugs helped block the deafening roar of revving four strokes but did nothing to keep out the slightly intoxicating smell of race fuel. She twisted the throttle with her leather-gloved right hand while holding the clutch in with her identically adorned left hand. She checked with a stomp of her booted left foot on the shift lever to make sure-for what felt like the hundredth time-that she was in first gear. Not exactly the reassuring rhythm of a horse's canter, but it was a familiar procedure and all she could do to combat her nervousness as the start lights cycled through.

Half a heartbeat later, the lights went green. She dropped the clutch to shift one, two, three, four times as she raced to keep up with the mass of thirty bikes, all speeding out of the straightaway toward the first corner. Fighting up from the back row of the grid, she made it past half the pack before the turn. Then that familiar surge of fear and intake of breath as she started her right-hand lean into the hairpin. No matter where she raced or how familiar she was with the track, the first corner always caused her the same catch of panic she had felt the first time she ever rode a motorcycle around a bend. She found it both reassuring and annoying. Two years of street riding and four years of road racing and she still got butterflies in the first turn. Ridiculous.