Sunday, September 8 – Race 14: Melbourne, Australia

My hands shake as I pull the leather gloves over my sweaty palms.

My hands never shake before a race. If they did, that would mean I was nervous. And I never get nervous. Not when I first rode a mini-bike that summer before first grade, not when I began competing under a sponsor, not when the California junior championship title was on the line, and certainly not now.

It's excitement. And adrenaline. Definitely not nerves.

I take a deep breath and suppress the urge to vomit into my helmet. Yesterday, I successfully completed a flying lap during the qualifying session to earn a grid spot for today's race. Granted I'll be starting from dead last, but small victories, right? It's not like I expected to take pole position on my first time out with the "big boys" as Diego put it. Asshat. What I wouldn't give to come in ahead of him at least once.

"You okay, Lo?" Dad pats my back.

I nod, not trusting my stomach just yet to open my mouth.

"I'll see you out there then," he adds, leaving me alone in the back of the pit box.

Seb's already up front, ready to jump on his bike as soon as the techs give the signal. He'd kept to himself all morning, staying in his trailer until just a few minutes ago. Even after showing up, he silently handed his cell and headphones to Nando and took his helmet in return.

I was actually surprised by this. Race day is when everyone who's anyone comes to the track, even if they aren't interested in the actual competition. There are plenty of pictures all over the web of the "stars"—like Austin, Diego, and yes, Seb—with local dignitaries, celebrities, and other big wigs taken in the paddock from earlier this season, so it's not like he was always against it. But times change, I guess.

My teammate may now be an iceman, but the energy inside the rest of the garage is unmatched. Everyone has a job to do as they make last minute preparations. Diagnostics are run. Equipment is checked and double-checked. And then every tool, spare part, and storage container is returned to its proper place so it could be easily grabbed when the time came again.

The rumble of the engines, screams from the crowds, and announcements over the loudspeaker are the most hardcore they've been all weekend, and any communication has to be either through wireless headsets or yelled. Sometimes it's more efficient to use hand signals, like the engineer who's now waving me to my bike.

Seb has just rolled out, and I belatedly wish I had taken his advice during free practice more seriously. Suddenly I feel like I've forgotten everything I know about motorcycle racing. The comfort I had with the track layout even during warm-ups this morning has now evaporated, and I want to have my teammate to follow around like during that last session. But he's going to be running his own race up there, starting from second place. I won't even get near him.

Walking those last twenty feet in an awkward, semi-hunched position thanks to the back hump on my leathers, I also feel like all eyes are now on me. But I'd rather have it keep my head from snapping too far back in case of a crash than being able to stand up straight. The stiff, protective material on my elbows and knees also pull my limbs into forty-five degree angles, but once I'm on the bike, everything fits exactly as designed, and the gear feels like a second skin.

Fans with paddock passes dangling on lanyards around their necks are nearby, snapping pictures and taking video that will probably end up on YouTube and Snapchat within minutes. A marshal signals that the course is clear, and I pull out into pit lane.

Luckily, it's like someone pressed re-set on my mind, and instinct—along with years of practice—take over.

Keeping my speed under the thirty-seven miles per hour maximum until I pass the green light at the end, I accelerate to nearly seventy before slowing into the first corner. A wide right, a left, then another left follows as I loop around the track, passing two other bikes and arriving at the spot where we'd shot the jeans' ad just three days earlier. The upcoming right-hand hairpin is the slowest part of the course, momentarily taking me in the opposite direction before the track turns left again. I reach a group of three riders on the back half of the circuit, staying in the pack for the final few corners before the asphalt strip leads into the long straightaway.

About a quarter-mile of the way down, a large billboard promoting Petronas motor oil hangs above the start/finish line. The structure straddles the wide asphalt strip and looms over the people on the starting grid. Technicians, journalists, racing officials, significant others, VIPs, and other random staff are helping, interviewing, or just peeping the racers now taking their spots in their qualifying order.

I stop at a yellow, plastic marker with a black number thirty-two on it in the middle of the eleventh row. After I cut the engine, my crew pulls the rear wheel onto a stand, and I dismount. Hooking my fingers together, I stretch my arms and review the track layout in my head one last time. When shade suddenly blocks out the sun, I turn around. At the back of my Ducati, there's a barely dressed woman holding a sunbrella above me.

Wearing fuck-me heels with spandex booty shorts and a crop top in Cadmium Racing colors, the supermodel-looking, super skinny, and super busty chick looks pretty much like every other umbrella girl next to each motorcycle. And that's the problem.

I walk over to her and tilt my head up—she's over six feet tall in those stilettos—before yelling out of my helmet. "Excuse me, but you're not supposed to be here."

The smile drops from her face—I'm pretty sure her extensive umbrella-holding training didn't cover what to do in this situation—and she looks around for help. Alain, one of my techs, steps in.

"What is the problem?" He pulls his headset away from his ear as he addresses me.

"No problem, just a misunderstanding," I say.

"What's going on?" Dad joins us.

"I was just telling her that she's not needed," I say. "You always take care of my shade, so I figured you'd take over."

"The five minute warning just went up." Nicola appears, rounding out our growing party of confusion. "Why aren't you getting in your zone or whatever?"

Dad puts up his hand. "Give us a sec." Turning me away from her, he continues, "You know I may not be at every race due to work, and this type of promotion is standard here, so why not just let her do her job?"

He has a point, but this is the first time I've had a proper umbrella girl and it just feels weird. "What are people going to think?" I ask, trying to wrap my head around the idea.

"They'll think you're just like any of the guys," Dad says.

So I'm going to have to sacrifice my individuality for equality? Hell no. "But I'm not just one of the guys," I whine, falling down the slippery slope of letting something so trivial distract me from what I'm really here for.

Dad glances back at the scantily clad woman, now posing for pictures with two very happy looking men. "All right. If it's that important, I'll resume my usual duties for the next race," he says.

The shame I've felt while watching these women on TV used as nothing but eye-candy gnaws at me, and I know this is a hill I'm willing to metaphorically die on. "The next race? Can't you just take the thing from her now?" I ask.

"There's literally just a minute until we have to clear the grid," Nicola says. "She's an official brolly dolly. Couldn't you just ignore—?"

"Fine. I'm ignoring," I cut her off, unable to deal with a lecture on top of everything else.

I get back in the saddle just as the non-essential personnel start to clear out.

"Good luck, kid." Dad pats the gas tank and gives me a thumbs-up before he follows Nicola and the umbrella girl off the grid.

My crew is the last to go. Tomas removes the stand and Alain engages the auto-starter under the rear wheel. Taking the last pieces of equipment and running off track, they make it seconds before a marshal releases the riders in the front rows for the sighting lap.

I put my bike into gear and push off, trailing the rest of the pack as they make their way around the track at near race speed. My mind quickly clears. Skill, practice, and instincts take over any hesitation and second-guesses. Clutch in, change gear, accelerate. Release the throttle, brake, downshift, and repeat, as necessary.

After about a minute and a half, we're back on the grid and the crowd in the grandstands melts into the background. The engines scream as all thirty-two racers rev their throttles. When every machine is in its proper spot and the safety car pulls up behind, the marshal in the rear will run across with a green flag. We don't see this. All eyes are on the other marshal up front, who'll run across with a red flag.

Waves of heat bounce off the asphalt from the one hundred degree track, creating a mirage-like glare around the bikes ahead of me. My teammate is up there in second position, ten rows up, but right now, I couldn't care less about what he's doing. We run our own races. For the next twenty-three laps, it's just me, the bike and whoever is directly ahead of me.

As the first of the four red lights on the starting signal turns on, I put my machine into first gear, keep a hold on the clutch and blip the engine. The second, third, and fourth light turn red. The ground shakes from the escalating engine noise, and when the lights go out, we're off.

I get a good start, gaining two places even before my right foot is back on the peg. Now all I have to do is hold this position, then keep trudging forward. Accelerating from zero to one-twenty before the end of the straight, this is the closest I'll ever get to feeling like flying while still keeping contact with the ground. Even if that contact is just through a narrow strip of vulcanized rubber spinning at over one hundred miles per hour.

Going into turn one, I downshift and let the engine braking limit my speed. For better or worse, this is going to be the fastest thirty-some odd minutes of my life.