The road conformed tight to the curves of the hillside. A solid paved path, a low stone wall the only barrier between the safety of the road and the tumultuous spill over the hillside. In the late evening sunlight the lights from the farmhouses and vineyards that covered the country hills in a blanket glimmered among the twilight darkness of olive and orange groves. The sunflowers faced west, the brilliance of their golden dials fading as they began closing their faces for the night. Somewhere distantly cocks crowed a last song in the late night and further off on the other side of a black inky river the brilliant silver lights of a town shone in reflection against the river-water and thrown a gentle haze into the sky. The lights of traffic along the major highways traveled like the stars plucked from the coal dark sky above as they traversed the motorways into and out of town.

	To the racers, this road was perfect. Empty at night, and perilous enough that it made the heart beat in the chest. The flush of adrenaline would send a man into a powerful high, stronger and more exciting than most drugs to them. The effects of which would become the subject of many poems if any one were so inclined or survived. It sometimes often, in fact often enough that it was not unheard of for one of  the drivers to make a poorly timed turn and crash into the low-lying moss-covered walls and fly head over heals from the seat of their bike to the blunt pulverizing boulders below, or to be tangled and torn in the branches of trees down below. Not even the softness of a meadow or moss-covered earth or tilled soil would protect the upended rider from serious injury if not death. For this reason it was not unsurprising that the police kept an eye on the road, though not always.

	“Noel, the road again is clear!” a man shouted as he thundered down along the road on a cheap four-banger motorcycle. It was not a racing bike by any means but the slow moving chopper that was comfortable in the city and moved at grandmother's speed in the hills outside of town.

	The men at the road-side overlook turned and smiled at him. Here was the collection of racing bikes. Fiber glass rockets on two wheels, their engines large. Their front faces and windshield reached out ahead and molded into the head ornaments of ancient wooden hulks that long ago terrorized the coast but had entered into the realm of folklore from the Kingdom of Brosmon to the north or of the federations and confederations of the Vandwëllerian of the northern border. They were not so much any longer a source of terror, but of inspiration in the popular culture. Ancient dragons, cockrels, and panthers formed great stylistic headpieces to the modern horse. Some were black, others read, some had ancient ducal seals painted onto the saddle bags of the motorbikes. The headlights were the eyes of the ancient beasts, great white gold beams that illuminated the road ahead for just shy of a kilometer ahead.

	“That's good to know.” a tall towering man said with a dark complexion. He sat up off the wall and headed towards a midnight blue and kicked up the chrome stand.

	“We know the rules.” the man on the cheap city-bike said, “Or was one of us new here?”

	“The spit is.” someone said, referring to the small skinny kid glued nervously, but excited to the seat of his bike. It was new, used but new. It was two model years older than many of the racing bikes here and was no doubt a gift. The kid looked no younger than seventeen. The sides of his head were shaved clean and the hair left atop it was still wild and messy from a still young and virgin attachment to the helmet. The brave among many of the racers did not wear a helmet, they knew they had a high risk of dying if they failed and took a spill down the road or even along it, there was not a lot of chances to react if one spilled at the head of the pack for anyone to avoid it. It was blood sport, though everyone wanted to avoid it.

	“Alright than, kid.” the man on the cheap bike said, “Rules are simple, you don't drive off the road, you stick to Monjuer road. Taking any other road from this will take you off the track, you'll end up in San Clemens if you head off down Rouboun, or down to the river if you head the other way. If you do, you might as well go home. If you see anyone crash, you tell us by the end of the race. We'll send someone down to see to the body and call an ambulance if need be, or take them to the hospital ourselves if we have to. No punching or kicking the other riders, we're civilized out here. The finish line is the Treifon scenic overlook, Clements is already there with a blue light. We have a bottle of wine in it for you. Second place buys us all cognac. Are we understood?”

	The youth nodded.

	“Then we're good to go. I'll be taking up the tail.”

	At those words the men began to move to their bikes. Patting the first time on the shoulder an older man in his mid-twenties gave him a brief affirmation and mounted his bike. This man, stepping ahead felt no tension or anxiety. Simply an indifference, a practiced feel for what was about to happen. He had won his bottle of wine, generally always cheap. And he had also bought everyone the round of cognac. He was looking forward more to the celebration at the bar after, where everyone would cheer and celebrate the lack of death or injury on the track that night. Never once in his seven years on the country hill roads had he had to suffer through the injuries or fatalities said to be so common here. The worst he had witnessed was a road rash, when a rider at the finish line jerked his bike too hard to the side in stopping, and was thrown across the gravel peeling the skin of his forearms and scratching his face as he tumbled and slid. That man still wore his scars.

	Mounting his bike he tossed the throttle and revved the engine. It grumbled underneath him, the stammering rumble of the engineering vibrating from his groin through his spine. There was a primitive joy he felt in it, almost sensual as he leaned into the bike and it hummed smoothly into place at the starting line. The scout rider took up a position on the road side, climbing atop a boulder with a snub-nosed revolver in his hands. Raising his hand into the air, the man fired a single blank that lit up the night as shred of burning tissue paper shot forth. The sharp piercing bang of the gun signaled the start, and was soon eclipsed by the roar of the engines as all the racers sped off.

	The twenty-something sped off with the head of the pack. He leaned low, squinting to look passed the windshield as the warm night air rushed passed his head, stinging his eyes and filling his ears with not just the sound of motorbikes but of the rush of the air as he accelerated through. As he rushed along the road, leaning into each turn. The combination of acceleration and the momentum into each turn provided a sensation like flying, he felt himself pulled ever which way as he went. The faster he went too, the shorter the beam of his headlights appeared shorter. Only the red tail-lights of the bikes ahead retained any consistency.

	Winning wasn't necessarily the objective here. Not any more. He had won enough that he didn't see the point. He was in it for the thrill, something to do on a weekend. He had proved himself a man early, riding aggressive. But since retired from it. Now he kept up with the flock. If he went any further than third everyone else was riding weak. He just no longer cared. Beyond that it was a competition over who would or would not be buying cognac and he would rather surrender that obligation.

	Ahead the familiar blue light of the finish line shone in the darkness. The sun had fully set and now the world was cloaked in darkness. The finishing light shone like a lone star plucked from the empty sky and put on Earth, and all bikers were headed towards it. He saw it, but did not gaze on it. He glanced up at it on the distant rise and returned his attention to the road. He looked in the side-view mirror and saw someone riding too close on his tail, he could not see whose bike it was. Even racing, he felt uncomfortable with the man so close and edged aside as if it to make a pass into the third place position, as if caught in the draft of the leading bikes. As he abandoned his place the following bike filled in the empty spot and the two raced along side-by side, tightly hugging the curves. He looked at the new rider in the side of his vision. He had a helmet on, he was the new rider. He could have gunned the bike faster, but held his position and kept pace with the new comer, matching him tire-to-tire as they held the line.

	A quick glance to the side of the helmeted new comer told the man he wanted to try and pass. He eased up, giving him an opening the virgin took cautiously and went on ahead. The man took his old position.

	He finished the race fourth, and with a skid slid across the sand of the scenic overlook and joined in the fanning spread of riders as they came to rest at the end of the track. There was cheers from the first bike as he hollered in pride for having won. The second place winner got laughter, and the man stepped forward to congratulation the young driver for a race well done. For him, he was happy enough to have gotten fourth. He didn't need to prove perfection.

	“Nice race.” the man said, walking up to the youth with an hand outreached.

	“Oh, uh. Thank you, moseur.” the young boy said, “Um, if I may. What is your name?”

	“Hox. Hox Lisseur.” the man said.

	“Alec, DeCrase.” the young boy said,  taking the handshake, “Were you the one that let me pass?”

	Hox nodded, “I don't have any reason to win.” he said.

	“Oh? Really? I thought that's why people, ah- race?” he sounded nervous. But his voice also rattled and stressed in excitement. Hox knew that feeling. The racing heart, the strong thudding of adrenaline. The post-race jitters had to be making him feel as high as a kite by now.

	Hox laughed, smiling, “At a certain point it stops mattering. Besides, what is there to win but the cheapest wine there is.”

	As the last racer's settled in they began to gather around the winner offering their congratulations, and jokingly hailing the second place man. There was casual, jovial offerings of remorse for his positions. An expression shared mutually. In the night some put out their requests for their favorite cognac. Baron Dè Moore's, Montrôusè, San Tôui.

	In the celebration the race's proprietor caught up. His bike the loudest and the slowest of the group. But he was in no race to win. Catching up he shouted, “Who won?”

	“Sebastian!” one in the crowd declared.

	“And who was second?” the proprietor asked

	“Carli!” someone else shouted.

	“Well then, I like a good Trifaulgur.” the proprietor said, laughing, “Seems we all owe ourselves a round on Carli's expense and a bottle for Sebastian. Are we in for celebration at the Red Crayfish?”

	There were cheers and celebrations. Everyone began mounting their bikes. Hox though, did not intend to go. Waiting idly at his bike, he watched the bulk of the others leave, Alec among them. The proprietor remained. “Are you joining us tonight, master Hox?” he asked.

	Hox starred off down the night road after the riders and shook his head. “No, I don't think so.” he said. The man with the blue light joined them.

	“If I didn't know better I'd say you're coming passed your prime.” he said, jokingly.

	Hox laughed with him, “Sure I am.”

	The man with the blue light scoffed, “Pitash. You can do well, I know that much. How about you try winning the next one. I would love to buy you a celebratory bottle.”

	“Will it be San Grisio?” Hox asked.

	“Don't play around, it'll be Blue Foot as always.”

	“I wouldn't give that to my cat.” Hox commented.

	“Well it's good enough for the winner.” the man with the blue light commented, thumbing Hox on the shoulder and walking to the four banger.

	“Well if you're not coming I'm tell Carli to save some cognac from tonight.” the proprietor said, “I'll come over to your flat sometime tomorrow and leave it for you.”

	“I appreciate the gesture.” Hox said.

	“What are your hours, tomorrow?” the proprietor said, turning away.

	“I don't know. It could go either way. Call me before you do drop anything else. If all else I'll tell you where to meet me.”

	“I'll go with that. Love to life, my friend.” he said, with a final salute and rode away, with the man with the blue light.