White Lion Rising

Chapter 2

Lleónart kicked the bike up from fourth to fifth to sixth gear on the straightaway after the ninth corner, hitting two hundred and seventy-two kilometers per hour before briskly shifting down to brake into corner ten.

"Brake deeper into corner ten," Xavi, the CX GP Motorcycle crew chief, urged in Catalan with his deep, raspy voice. "Damn it–brake deep!" Xavi shouted as Lleó hit the first and then the second apex on the corner. "Son of a bitch, in and out. Keep it wide. Good–that's it!" he nervously scratched the mole beneath his brown right eye and then rubbed his dry, rough fingers against the facial stubble along his right cheek. "You know what to do on eleven–and in-and-out on corners twelve-thirteen." His eyes squinted at the center screen suspended above him at the team's pit box entrance, and he watched the aerial images of the riders approaching the next corner.

Lleó passed corners eleven, twelve, and thirteen, and gear shifted from third to fourth, to fifth, and back again to fourth and third gear, reducing speed to one hundred and seventy-one kilometers per hour on the nearly right-angle curve of corner fourteen. At corner fifteen, he downshifted to second gear and then up to third and fourth gear, punching the bike up to two hundred and twelve kilometers on corner sixteen.

Now, on the front straightaway, he shifted up to sixth gear. He spotted his team's digital signboard reading "+0" and "1" and sped through the Grid at seventh gear, reaching three hundred and nineteen kilometers per hour. In an instant, he saw from the corner of his right eye his pit box where members of his team were either analyzing the lap times, corner speeds, engine temperature, rpm, and gear position data streaming from his bike's computer to the screens that hung above the entrance to the garage or watching a live video feed of the MotoGP World Championship Montmeló Circuit race. "He's still on my ass."

"Two laps to go," Xavi informed. "This is it–the moment of truth." He adjusted his noise-canceling, dual-muff radio headset.

A sudden rush of anxiety overcame Lleó at the prospect of being minutes away from winning the championship and claiming the first victory for the Federation of Catalan City-States on the twenty-fifth-year anniversary of their independence and the twentieth anniversary of the completion of the Sagrada Familía basilica.

"Your heart rate is climbing, Lleó. Stay focused," Xavi said. "Race what's before you–forget the Terracotta Kid."

Lleó shifted to fourth and third gear and sped through the chicane of corners one and two at a speed of one hundred and eighty-eight kilometers before shifting up to fifth gear, reaching two hundred and thirty-five kilometers per hour for corner five.

"That's it, keep it wide," Xavi commented.

"He's not taking the bait," Lleó said, referring to the Chinese pilot behind him.

"And he won't. He's going to use your tailwind for this lap. He's going to make you do all the work."

"Shit!"

"Focus," he instructed in Catalan. "It's all you now."

Now headed toward corner four, he downshifted from sixth to third gear, seeing on his visor the G-force holographic gauge reading - 2.2 as he hit one hundred and fifty kilometers per hour.

"You need to carry better corner speed. You must hit two-five-nine," Xavi stressed as he scratched the mole beneath his eye again. "Take it down from fourth to second gear on five and keep it wide."

Lleó ran through corners six, seven, and eight and took the bike to fifth gear on the straightaway leading to corner nine. His speed gauge read 246 km/h before immediately descending to 230 km/h and then up again on the next straightaway to 272 km/h.