Saturday, 13 August 2011

#SampleSunday: My first attempt

To my readers: Where would you, my reader, like this story to go next?
As I’m open to suggestions… and is there anything specific missing?


There is no room for error. But I have a choice. I can hook my motorbike into the bend and nail this corner. Or, the twist of this turn can mug me. Then I’ll slide down the tarmac on my arse. I wince at the prospect. This is no soft option. My knee is so close to the surface as I allow my bike to run back out close to the edge of the kerb. Heart pounding. Adrenalin pumping. I tuck my body in low. The engine clamped firm between my thighs screams. Vibrates through my slender frame.

Pitting my wits against this road. Pitting myself against this machine. Pitting my machine against this surface.

I adore the way my body feels as I find the slip stream. And open her up. In the blink of an eye the tarmac vanishes beneath these tyres. I fly. Exhilarated. Bike well balanced. I blip the throttle. Faster. And faster. Racing for the hell of it. I focus. My bike leans left, knee down, I drive it deeper down on the brakes. Run through the bend, then hang wide. Take the corner real quick. I love to do this.

I get a rush as I gamble. Pick up speed. I stand the bike up and push it harder. Go for it. Race my heart out. I’m riding the wheels right out from under me. The knot in my stomach, tauter than a fisted ball, tightens. It’s one of the greatest feelings I know.

Another inside turn excites me, elevates my good mood. Addictive. Irresistible. The bike comes upright. I take my foot off the peg. Playing devils advocate I dodge in and out as I charge past cars, and race up the steep incline, find a space, tuck myself in tight and make the next turn. Then tear down the hill into a harsh left hander.

The hedgerow flies passed me blurring in a haze of smudged greenery. Trying to get on the turn quicker, faster than I should. My thighs tingle, I try to ignore this sensation. Shake myself free. Feeling loose the Ducate whines. I test my nerve. Flick the bike through a double right hander. It responds, twitches. Brakes off. I fly. Lick my lips. Savour the salt. Dicing with death. It’s dangerous but I’m buzzing, I feel so alive.

Off the brakes, another tough left hander. On the brakes, then open her up as the straight opens before me, beckons me on. Throttle fully open I speed into the danger zone. I spot the police car too late. Crap. I jam on the brakes. The back tyre convulses as I loose speed in rapid quick time and come to an abrupt stop.

Sitting upright in the saddle. I release the handle bars. Clutch the bike tight between my thighs and punch the air in anger. But maybe I can get away with it again? Will he be okay? Change his mind when I take off my helmet? Perhaps the last thing this officer expects… is me.

When I take off my lid, I flick my locks, loosen the mane, and allow it to fall casually across my shoulders. Smile. A big broad flashy grin. I usually get a look of surprise, followed by a quick nod of approval. Then I have to react fast. Bat my long lashes and perhaps unzip my jacket real slow, flash some cleavage? Look up from under my fluttering eyelashes again? It might work. Buy myself a get out of jail card so to speak…

I wait, hold my breath, and then breathe out slow because I recognise the officer walking towards me. I dip my head and smile, a quite smirk of relief. This should be fun.

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