The Amazing Bike Rider

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The dust hit my eyes before I even blink, like a storm come alive from the ground. A rider rush past with noise that make my ears ring, the dirt bike scream loud, the tires digging deep like claws. He lean his body one way, leg stretch out, and I swear for one moment I thought he will fall but no, he hold himself steady like he was born on that seat. The colors of his suit flash bright, yellow, blue, black, like fire painted on cloth, and the helmet shine under the sun.

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I see the sand kick behind him like wild smoke, flying high as if it want to cover the sky. My chest feel tight, not because of fear, more like I was inside that rush with him. The track twist and bend, it not smooth, it rise and drop like hills made of dust. Far away, small figures ride too, but they not close, they just shadows racing the horizon. My eyes don’t want to leave the rider in front, he is the storm himself.

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Sometimes I imagine if that was me. Hands on the bar, fingers gripping so hard my knuckles turn pale, heart shaking inside the rib, but a strange smile creep too. The sound of engine like thunder, but instead of rain it bring heat, sand, wind on the face. I feel a bit scared, maybe, but the fear taste sweet, like sugar burned on tongue. Adrenaline they call it, but to me it just feel alive.

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The dirt scatter under his wheel, it sting if you stand near. I want to laugh but no voice come, only breath stuck in throat. In that moment, time break apart, only the bike and rider matter. The dust dance around him like loyal guards. He tilt the bike lower than I think safe, but somehow, the machine obey like a wild horse trained with love and fight both.

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I think about the story behind him. Maybe he been riding since he was small, maybe his father push the first bike to him, saying go, don’t stop, trust the wheel. Or maybe he ride because silence scare him, because when the world roar he can’t hear the quiet pain inside. Every rider carry a reason, hidden beneath the helmet.

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It turn into a kind of poem in my head.

The wheel cut earth,
Earth cut sky,
Sky hold dust,
Dust hide cry.

The rider chase,
Chase no end,
End become start,
Start again.

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I breathe deep, words stumble inside me. I don’t even know why I keep watching, but it pull me like magnet, the speed, the risk, the colors mixing with brown sand. I almost smell the fuel, bitter and sharp, like fire liquid. My shoes dig into ground, small stones underfoot, the echo of every roar crawl into my chest.

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One thought came strange: maybe life itself is a track, uneven, with bends and drops, and we all just try to hold balance, kicking one leg out so we don’t fall. Some ride fast, some slow, some crash, but the dust always rise and cover what’s behind. The future only show in the turn ahead. That picture stay in my heart as I keep watching the boy number eighteen carve his story into the dirt with two spinning wheels.

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Cc,
@hive-166850

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