Jimmy knew he was in trouble about three seconds before everybody else did. By then there wasn’t much he could do about it.
The stranger’s black Harley Road Glide CVO ST was already half a length ahead, and the gap was getting wider. Jimmy stayed in it anyway. Pride is funny that way. A smart man in heads-up racing lifts when he knows the race is gone. Jimmy Russo had never been accused of being that particular kind of smart.
By the time they shut down, the mysterious bike was several lengths out front. Jimmy coasted his 2020 Street Glide Special back toward the group looking like a man trying to remember whether he had left the oven on.
Deke was the first one to say something. “Well,” he said, “that went badly.” Nobody laughed at first. Then Rooster did, and that was all it took.
Within seconds the whole group was laughing except Jimmy, who pulled off his helmet and stared down the road where the stranger had disappeared. “Something’s wrong with the bike.”
CJ folded her arms. “Sure is.” Jimmy looked at her. “What?” “It had you on it.” That started everybody again. Even Erin smiled.
Jimmy ignored them and went straight for his toolbox. This was what Jimmy did when reality became inconvenient. He reached for tools.
They were an odd little collection of Harley-Davidson racers who had found one another through local drag strips, back-road grudge runs, track days, broken parts, and the universal willingness to drive three hours to argue about motorcycles with people they could have argued with at home. Different bikes, different riding styles, different theories about what made something fast. The one thing they agreed on was the name on the tank.
Deke owned the garage where most of them eventually ended up. Erin raced an M8 but had become increasingly obsessed with road courses, braking points, and getting back to the throttle sooner. CJ could fabricate almost anything from metal and had the irritating habit of being right shortly after telling you something you didn’t want to hear.
Tyler was the youngest. His M8 Low Rider S was probably the newest motorcycle in the group, although Tyler’s enthusiasm for ordering parts online ensured it was rarely completely assembled.
Then there was Rooster. Nobody called him Mack anymore except people who didn’t know him. Rooster had been racing Harleys long enough to remember when a Twin Cam was the new engine everybody distrusted. Now he raced one himself and viewed the Milwaukee-Eight with roughly the same suspicion normally reserved for messages from foreign princes requesting bank-account information.
Jimmy was the horsepower guy. Everything had a number: horsepower, torque, compression, injector size, throttle body diameter. He trusted numbers. Numbers didn’t have opinions. Which made the stranger particularly irritating.
Nobody had seen him before. He had rolled in quietly maybe twenty minutes earlier in an old pickup pulling a small enclosed trailer that looked like it had survived two marriages and at least one hailstorm. No giant race-team graphics. No matching canopy. No collection of crew members wearing identical shirts. Just an M8 Harley, a toolbox, and a guy wearing jeans and a faded jacket.
Jimmy noticed the bike immediately. Everybody did. It wasn’t flashy, which somehow made the loss worse. There is something deeply offensive about being beaten by a motorcycle that doesn’t appear to be trying very hard.
Jimmy pulled the seat while Tyler hovered nearby. “What are you looking for?” “The problem.” Rooster took a drink of coffee. “You found a problem about twenty feet after the start.”
Jimmy ignored him. “He’s spraying.” Erin glanced toward the road. “You saw nitrous?” “No.” “You heard nitrous?” “No.” “You saw a bottle?” “No.” Erin nodded thoughtfully. “Strong case.”
CJ wandered over and leaned against the trailer. “You missed the shift.” “I did not.” “You did.” “I know what a missed shift feels like.” “So do the rest of us. We heard it.”
Jimmy threw a rag onto the seat. The truth was he had missed the shift. Barely. Just enough to bother him, but not enough to explain what had happened. That was the part he couldn’t shake.
Jimmy could lose. He had lost plenty of races, because every racer has. What bothered him was the way the other bike had gone around him. There was no drama, no obvious wheelspin, no big correction and no sound of a motorcycle trying to tear itself apart. It simply went.
Erin had noticed it too. “Did you watch him leave?” she asked CJ. “Yep.” “Bike looked settled.” “Yep.” “Sounded clean.” CJ glanced at her. “Yep.”
Rooster joined them. “You two planning on opening a detective agency?” CJ nodded toward Jimmy. “Already got our first unsolved case.”
Deke finally took pity on him. “Leave it alone tonight.” Jimmy looked up. “There’s something in there.” “There’s always something in there.” “I mean his bike.” Deke shrugged. “Maybe.”
Nobody had gotten a particularly good look at it. The stranger hadn’t been rude. He just hadn’t stayed. He had shaken Jimmy’s hand after the run, said, “Good pass,” loaded the motorcycle and left. No bragging. No explanation. That bothered Jimmy almost as much as losing.
Tyler finally asked the question everybody had been thinking. “Who was he?” Nobody knew.
They started packing for the night. Rooster complained about something Tyler had downloaded to his phone. Erin and CJ argued about whether Jimmy’s bad shift had cost him half a bike or a full one. Jimmy pretended not to listen to either of them.
Then the sound of an engine came from behind the trailers. Everybody turned. The old pickup was coming back.
It rolled slowly toward them and stopped. The driver’s window came down and the stranger leaned across the seat. “Forgot my gloves.” Nobody said anything.
He stepped out, walked to where he had parked earlier, picked up a pair of black gloves from the ground and headed back toward the truck. Jimmy finally spoke. “You coming back next week?”
The stranger stopped. For the first time, he smiled. “Probably.” Jimmy nodded. “What’s your name?” The man opened the truck door. “Cal.”
Then he drove away. Jimmy watched the taillights disappear until CJ came up beside him. “Don’t do it.” “Do what?” “Whatever stupid thing you’re already planning.”
Jimmy smiled. That was the problem. He was already planning it. By Monday morning, half his motorcycle would be on Deke’s shop floor.
