Shifting Gears

9. We've All Got Issues

"Weeeellcome, today, folks! And what a beautiful day it is—perfect for the Raven Height's two-thousand-sixteen championship kick-off!" a voice rolled over the speakers. The crowd we were in all started whistling and cheering at that.

"Thank you all for coming today, the results of the qualifying races are up at the Shop, along with a few schedule sheets, if you want to pick some of those babies up. We'll send an update on our website if anything changes, or if a race is rescheduled due to weather, which is highly doubtful in this drought. There's also a list of rules, because we can't let all you angst-ey boys run will-nilly about the place. Please look at those and remember them—some rule-breaking may get you disqualified."

I gave a pointed look at my brother, then jerked my head behind us, where I knew Greyson was standing, listening to the speaker. Clay rolled his eyes. I shook my head, turning back to look at the man on the stand over the heads of the people before us.

"Also, the Fourth of July party! Next week, Monday night, four o'clock here. There will be games, fireworks, and—of course—a lot of food." There was a hearty round of whoops and hollers from the guys in the crowd.

I was excited. I'd never been to one of these parties, though I've heard so much about them from Clay. He's gone ever since he was old enough and able to, and the stories he brings back are wild, reckless, and sound like pure fun. Clay was bringing me along this year, and I couldn't wait.

"Alright, that's just a quick announcement for ya'll—and today is the start of the championship! As always, we start with a day of practices, let you get more acquainted with the track. So make sure you get the schedule for which practices you're in. Good luck on riding to you all, stay safe, and have fun! Now get your butts over to the Shop to get everything!"

An applause went up for the speaker and owner of the track, who went by Uncle Phil. His wife, Aunt Millie, ran the shop. They were a cute old couple, and I loved hanging out with them at the Shop if I had free time. 

"Let's go and beat the crowd," my brother said, turning and ushering his best friend and I out towards the shop. Excitement raced through the air, the prospect of the kickoff making many giddy with happiness. There was a championship like this once every three years, but there's been word that this competition was going to be the best in decades, and more than once had I heard the names "Lawson" and "Ryvers" being mentioned as the cause of it.

"We don't even really need to check the qualifier results," I said as our trio trekked over the dirt road, kicking up dust as we did so. "We know you both got in."

"Yeah, but I just want to see the names," Clay said, a grin on his face.

I smiled, sending my eyes to the sky. "Arrogant, are we?"

He shrugged. "Both Reid and I have worked hard and waited a long time for this. Living it out is like a dream."

We made it to the shop, accompanied by only a few other racers and friends. A large sheet of paper was pinned up to the big billboard by the concessions, a line of names spilling down in dark ink.

A bolt of pride shot through me when I saw "Clayton Lawson" and "Reid Boseth" etched across the paper, the numbers "781" and "58" placed respectively across from the names. I knew what Clay said was true—they had worked and practiced so hard for this.

"Greyson Ryvers - 37" was also printed neatly on the paper, just a few slots down. Someone decided to comment about it, of course.

"Greyson Ryvers is so fast!" the young kid said as he stood shoulder to shoulder with me, talking to his friend as he pointed at the name he just uttered in awe. "He flew across those whoops, taking every triple he could—and he made it look so easy."