Atticus Claw tethers himself decisively to the saddle beneath the cone built around the bike hoping it will provide him with the slip stream he requires for perfect aerodynamics. He hopes to conquer the unmapped quarters of the world land speed record.
Sandrine, his girlfriend, a Parisian ventriloquist had whispered in his ear, the first time they rode together.
“Let me put my arms around you, be your seatbelt.” He remembered that intoxicating moment, the growl and leap of acceleration and her body clasped against him, he, her anchor on the exhilarating cliff top ride along the coast on their way to the Côte d’Azure. Surely they could ride out andy storm together. There was no security with her . She was a firework, one minute ablaze with passion the next, sputtered out. But the ghost of her stayed with him,a shadow of regrets. He felt her voice on the wind as a talisman of sorts and took comfort in that small kindness.
The clubs referendum on whether to attempt the land speed record had been a definitive moment in his carer, a chance to examine his commitment to the cause. He knew his interest verged on obsession, many friends had come and gone as their own enthusiasm wained, but for him, the internal combustion engine was the air he breathed, speed was life, and he wanted history to remember him- a slice of the pie with his name on.
He checked the dials one last time, adjusted his goggles, listened for the perfect purr in the throttle. He flexed his grip on the handlebars. This was it. No more preparation. He was ready.The bike surged forward, hungry for destiny, all the flack of a desert salt pan rose up around him, wind and grit and bugs. He trained his eyes on a distant heat haze, fighting to maintain balance on the lunar-like surface, as the crowd cheered, watching the crest form at his back, a wave of salt and dust and exhaust. The world blurred and streaked and he knew his obsession would never be satiated.
Conclusion inevitable.
