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helmet to protect their identity, steps to the table. They hand Shep the entry fee. He carefully counts the cash then gives me a nod. I offer a fish bowl with twenty five dog tags inside. Each has a number embossed on it. The rider selects a tag and hands it to me. I write the number on a whiteboard with a start time before handing the tag back to the rider.
     
    At 12:45, Shep calls all the riders together. Loudly and slowly, he counts the money and places it in a box. He attaches three padlocks to the box and hands a key to each of the armed men. He pockets the third.
     
    As men and women begin to arrange the bikes, the night is full of the sound of shrieking, highly tuned engines. Shep puts his headphone on and picks up a clipboard with a light and stopwatch on it. I don my headphones.
     
    “Charlie. Shep. You copy?” I hear in my headphones.
     
    “Copy Shep,” Charlie’s voice comes back.
     
    “What’s your position?” Shep asks.
     
    “23.”
     
    Shep quickly scans the list. “Good news buddy. You’re last.”
     
    “Roger that,” Charlie says, his voice cool.
     
    Shep leans over and speaks into my ear. “At least we’ll know what we have to do to win.”
     
    I nod, but say nothing.
     
    At exactly one am, the first rider is sent off in a shriek of sound and light, the powerful headlamp of the motorcycle splitting the night.
     
    Every two minutes another bike is sent wailing into the night. I become so excited that I can’t stand still, shifting from foot to foot.
     
    Shep and I are on the common frequency, listening to the times being called back from the finish line. Shep marks the times on the clipboard. All the times, so far, are in the low eight minute range. Then, a time is called back that makes my heart sink. 7:55:146. I remembered the 7:56 track record, the fastest Charlie has ever gone. My blood runs cold.
     
    “Fuck,” Shep mutters.
     
    “Tell him,” I say.
     
    “No. He doesn’t want to know.”
     
    “Tell him!” I say firmly.
     
    When Shep makes no move, I key my mic. “Charlie. This is Claire.”
     
    “What is it Claire,” Charlie’s annoyed voice comes back.
     
    “Charlie. Number thirteen just turned in a 7:55:146,” I say. “I just want to tell you that…I’m proud of you. Mom and Dad would be proud of you. I want you to go out there and kick his fucking ass!”
     
    Charlie is quite for a moment, then chuckles. “Understood.”
     
    Shep and I wait as the rest of the riders have their go. When Charlie rolls to the line, it is clear the 7:55 time is going to be the one to beat. The minute Charlie rockets away, the bike up in a small wheelie, Shep starts the clock running. For the first two minutes nothing is said, then Charlie’s voice. “Corkscrew.”
     
    “Even,” Shep says.
     
    “Possum,” Charlie says a moment later.
     
    “Up one.”
     
    “Bridge.”
     
    “Even,” Shep says, looking at me. “He’s not fast enough.”
     
    Before I can think of anything to say, “Slider,” Charlie’s voice says.
     
    “Down one,” Shep replies again. “He’s not going to make it. He’s almost a full second behind the leader.”
     
    “Tell him,” I say quietly.
     
    “I just did,” Shep says in annoyance.
     
    “Charlie,” I say quietly, keying the mic again. “You’re losing. You’re going to have to push.” I click the mic off, having nothing else to say.
     
    I see Shep suddenly fidget. “He missed a call.”
     
    “He’s fine,” I say.
     
    I see there are three more marks on Shep’s paper, places where he has been filling in times. Shep fills none of them in. We watch as the stopwatch passes 7:55. Shep stops the watch and we wait. “Rider 23…7:54:997,” the timer’s voice squawks in our ears.
     
    Shep and I look at each other in stunned silence. I smile and take the clipboard. I drop it to the ground before molding myself to Shep as we kiss.
     
    Shep and I have just broken our kiss when a bike rolls to a stop. Shep and I