The open road expanded across the darkness like a blanket thrown over an empty bed, the edges blurred with color tucked into the corners of his visor. The tear away stitching of broken white lines pulled him into the light, suddenly caught in a waterfall current of flashing color slides, carried on two wheels, the symphony of emotion rising like the sun. He was the shadow of a hawk, skimming the ground to the warmth of a single French horn, the crescendo about to be met in one continuous series of explosions. The velocity was tremendous, with double lanes merging into a one way track, the warning signs changing into numbered markers on each appearing curve as he passed his competition. His anger was lifted, riding the motorcycle as fast as he could go, the welling up of countless frustrations set free. His spirit was held here, right hand on the throttle, racing against the world.
The green flag dropped and with it went the chalk talk, the diagrams and the questioning. Someone was trying to beat you, to hold you back, to make you less and undermine your value. If you thought about what you were doing now, carefully planning your strategy, you were too late and going too slow and you would lose. What you intended had to be prearranged and repeated, emotions under control, your effort immediate, all encompassing and fixated, the welled up energy stretched thin across the pavement, flowing determination.
Walker was transformed, returning with the directed purpose he had held in reserve, lapping half the field and winning, the stopwatch conclusive, less than half a second away from the class course record. Two crashes took place, thankfully without injury, while others tried to catch him. He got a graduation certificate and a print out of the race with an official stamp, verifying the elapsed time. The owner of the school came over and shook his hand and inquired if he might be interested in joining his road racing team. He said no, but thank you for asking. I have my own.