No more tests. No more Grandparents yapping in his ear. No more girls, with their deceptive language and weird expressions. Just him and the road. Nothing but the purr of the engine, the hum of the tires, and the moans of the frigid wind against his rain-spattered helmet.
He could see his favorite turn up ahead, and accelerated. Faster, faster: he could taste the adrenaline pounding through his vains as he started to turn, as he started to laugh, as he started to fly, as he started to hydroplane. No, no no! He frantically tried to win control of his bike as it fishtailed.
The birds stopped chirping: the trees moved without sound as the asphalt beckoned to him with savage accuracy. He screamed as his leg was grated against the painted lines – a smear of cherry on burnt toast. The terrible screeches of his metal baby filled his ears: Sparks from the road assaulted his neck and lips; and he was thrown, tumbling, through the saturated underbrush, his hand catching a street sign – ‘Slow: Dangerous when wet’