I would like to take this opportunity to Thank
blackrandl1958
, for her generosity, assistance, guidance and wonderful editing. I would also like to say, Thank you so much for the invitation to participate in
this event
.
*****
As always, I held him in my arms and kissed him as he walked out the door. His embrace tight, and his lips moist... His eyes glistened. "I love you, Niki."
"I love you too, Anton. Please be safe."
"Hey... Don't look so sad. I'll be back tomorrow night."
"I know, but I miss you, and I worry about you."
He was gone in a flash, and it was time to get ready for work. Sometimes I hated being married to a pilot. Specially an international one at that. He would be back tomorrow night, but He wouldn't be here tonight, and that's what hurt. So many lonely nights over the last year.
Maybe if he wasn't so handsome, so friendly and outgoing, I wouldn't worry so much. Everybody loved Anton, especially the flight attendants. He was one of those people, you know the type. Ten minutes after walking into a room full of strangers he was everybody's best friend. He knew everybody's name, remembered their partner's names. It was, for want of a better word, his super power.
It wasn't like a weird pretend persona, he wasn't one of those cheesy false people. That's just who he was. He genuinely loved people.
I went off to work myself, and soon the day disappeared in a series of meetings and planning sessions.
I loved my job as much as Anton loved his, but for a whole bunch of different reasons. My role as logistics manager for one of the largest transport firms in the country pushed all the right buttons for me...
My father had been a truck driver his whole life. He drove long haul, and as a kid, I missed him like crazy when he was gone.
It changed once I was old enough. From then, he started taking me with him on some of his jobs. God, I loved those days, sitting in the cab, high up watching Dad flicking through the gears and guiding the big rig. Sixteen gears, and he moved them so easily, so swiftly. Damn, he was a great driver. All those years on the job, and never one single accident.
I felt like we were special, sitting up in that cab, Dad in command, the engine growling.
Me with his radio in hand telling other truckies where we were, what we were doing. I learned all the jargon; I could share traffic info with the best of them. I adored him, and those days were special memories.
Most people referred to me as a tomboy, but it didn't worry me. I loved trucks and mud and tractors. I loved everything mechanical. I was good with machines and useless with people.
I often wondered how two such completely different people as Anton and myself managed to fall in love...
For me it had been instant, one of those old time magical movie moments. Our eyes met across a crowded room, well in this case a dirty oily noisy pit area.
Yep, that's right, pits. I raced motorcycles at the time. I wasn't exactly great, but I finished middle of the pack most times. More importantly, I loved it.
Another thing my father got me into... Although he was more into cruisers than street bikes. Me going racing was all his idea, though.
See, Dad got me into bikes as well. He had a big old Harley Dyna Glide, and he loved to ride. He saw me watching him ride away, the sad pout impossible to hide. If it wasn't bad enough he had been away in the truck. When he returned, he rode off on his bike.
Seeing dad ride off hurt, because it meant there would be no working in the workshop on one of Dad's projects. That was something that I picked up from Dad. I loved working on machinery. Engines, bodywork, suspension, I loved it. I was never happier than when we were working on some machine.
Seeing Dad ride away meant I had to go and amuse myself, or help Mum. Not that I didn't love my mum, because nothing could be further from the truth. It was just vacuuming, or window washing didn't hold the same attraction for me.
My world flipped the day he stared at me from atop his bike, the engine idling roughly. Me glaring sulkily at him. He must have felt guilty, because he asked. "Do you want to come for a ride?"
Did I. "Hell yeah." I almost screamed.
He laughed, then said seriously. "Then you go and ask your mother. If she says yes, then we can go. If she says no, then tough luck. Got it?
Not a chance in hell was Mum agreeing to that. I hated it, but we made a deal, and Dad was adamant, that our word was our bond. He rode off on his ride, and I stalked sulkily around. Staring angrily at my poor mother.
"Don't you give me that look, young lady. It's bad enough you spend all day out in that blasted shed with him all day. Coming in here looking like a miniature grease money. You are not getting on that damned bike."
She caught me later, while Dad was still off riding around. She drew me into her arms. "My love, motorbikes are dangerous machines. People get killed on them...
Dad, thankfully, was on my side, and he tried. I heard the arguments over the next couple of weeks. Luckily for me, Mum finally caved. I don't know what Dad had to give up, but from that day forward, it was me standing beside his bike with my helmet in hand, waiting impatiently.
A new world had opened up... Motorcycles... I absolutely loved it. Gee, I got him in so much trouble screaming at him to go faster. Always pushing him; I knew he couldn't say no to me. Sitting on the back of his bike, my arms around his waist, the wind in our faces, the motor growling, the sound of the tarmac beneath the wheels, God I loved everything about it, the heat from the engine, the smell of petrol.
I had a new passion, and that burned bright. Speed, god I loved it.
Dad helped me when I brought my first bike. First things first. He helped me convince Mum. He helped me rebuild the blown motor. Showed me how to lap valves, how to set timing, how to install high performance pistons, fit brake shoes, bleed brakes. I did feel sorry for him because he had to give up riding. Every weekend now was helping me with the bike.
Not that he complained or said anything. Secretly, he loved teaching me, passing on his knowledge. I was his surrogate son.
That was a chilly period in our home. Mum was not happy. She made Dad pay, oh boy, did she.
I loved the speed, the craziness of it, the thrill, the excitement. The feeling of being on the edge, the machine verging on being out of control, the tyres sliding, no room for error.
After I lost my license for the second time, it was Pop who said. "If you want to keep your flaming license, you have got to stop racing around like a dipshit on public roads."
"What are you suggesting, Pop?"
"I think you should go racing. Get it out of your system, at least on the race track the traffic is all going in the same direction."
My mother had a fit when she found out. I don't think Dad was getting any loving for the next three months...
That assumption might have been on the lighter side, because after he volunteered to spend a lot of his time with me in the shed working on my new track bike.
Racing... what can I say... I had a new love...
Of course it meant racing in the same fields as men. There wasn't a separate class for women.
I loved the fact I was the only girl racing. It was me against the boys. It's a weird thing. They hated having to race against a girl. It seemed to me they were insulted by the fact I was allowed to compete against them.
They hated it more when I started to beat some of them. The sulky bastards wouldn't talk to me. I was supposed to accept it, take it like a good sport. They, on the other hand, they were like spoiled brats. Getting their arses kicked by a girl hurt their fragile little man ego's. It was my introduction to the fragile male ego.
I wasn't a great racer, but I was super competitive. I hated to lose. I soon got a reputation for being crazy. Nobody wanted to go into the hairpin with me on the inside. Win it or bin it, that was my philosophy.
After several crashes, Dad took me aside. "Sweetheart, can you take it a little easier please? Your mother, has only just forgiven me for getting you involved. Every crash you have puts me back on the sofa."
We both laughed at his joke.
It was in the pits at Ruapuna where I met Anton. He was working as pit crew for a mate. Their area was right beside mine. I noticed him staring as I worked on my bike. The GSXR 600 was nearing the end of its life. That meant lots of breakdowns, and lots of repairs, and it certainly wasn't competitive.
I was leaning over the bike, helping Dad fit a new muffler. I'd binned her in the sweeper, pushing to hard as usual. One of the regular riders, Daniel, who I detested because of his petulant stupidity about being beaten by me. Anyway, he had a new bike, it was fast, and it pissed me off even more. Knowing that he was going to finish in front of me, just because he had more money to spend, pissed me right off.
We had battled for the whole race; we were in seventh or eight depending on who left their braking the latest. On three separate laps I almost lost it, pushing way too hard. His bike was faster, so if I was going to beat the smarmy pretentious knob head, it had to be under brakes. I lined up my planned overtaking manoeuvre, putting my front wheel up the inside of his a couple of times. I wanted him to know I was coming in the hope he would get nervous and leave the door open.
Two hundred kilometres an hour, down to sixty at the hairpin, meant that was my one shot. I left it to the last lap, knowing that even if I did get past, he would have the speed to get me on the short straightaway to the finish line.
The six pot calipers squealed, as I left my braking till way past the marker. The rear wheel chirped as it lifted of the ground. The front suspension compressed to the max.
He heard me coming, and panicked, running wide, and I dived up the inside, my knee the only thing holding the GSXR up. Unfortunately, although my plan was good, my execution terrible. I was in way too hot, of course, I lost the front end, and as it let go, it slid into Daniel's bike, taking him out as well.
Yeah, it was a cheap shot, but I did smile. At least his new bike didn't look so flashy now, and he wasn't going to beat me.
