Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 1: Lauren (2 of 2)

Traffic gets worse the closer we get, but the all-access passes Celia fishes out of her purse apply to parking, too. We take a reserved—and nearly empty—lane to get inside the gates, head past the overflowing general admission lots, and pull into a drop-off by the main entrance. I jump out as soon as the car comes to a stop.

The A/C inside the Land Cruiser had been on full blast, but now I'm sweating again so I pull off my hoodie. As I'm tying it around my waist, the sweet roar of a high performance bike catches my ear. I turn as the Japanese monster—with an engine displacement at least five times greater than what I ride—rolls up.

I don't think I'll unsee the image any time soon.

To each his own, but the paintjob is a horrendously tacky zebra-stripe, which would be cringe-worthy enough by itself. What really gets my attention is the chick sitting on the back. With her arms wrapped around the driver—to his credit, dressed semi-decently in jeans, leather jacket, gloves and boots—she's not only less protected (I guess she doesn't mind road-rash), but an unfortunate victim of fashion.

She's the one wearing a floral print baby doll dress over neon-pink leggings and platform sandals, but I'm the one getting secondhand embarrassment from looking at her. If I didn't already know that most biker bunnies preferred appearances to utility, I'd bet it was her first time on a motorcycle. When she removes her helmet and immediately checks her hair and makeup in the rear view mirror, I have to suppress a giggle. Called it.

The bike is parked on the grass median where yellow fluorescent vest-wearing attendants have been directing the massive amount of two-wheeled overflow traffic, but the rider is having trouble putting the Suzuki on the kickstand. The soil is probably excessively soft since the machine is leaning too far over, and the poor guy looks increasingly frustrated. There's a simple hack any regular rider knows—which means he's probably a newbie—so I grab an empty plastic water bottle off the top of a nearby trash can and head over to help.

I've already crushed the half-liter container by the time I get to them. "Here. Use this," I say, holding it out, but he's either too surprised or too confused to know what to do with it. Crouching down, I place the piece between the metal stand and the soft lawn.

"Okay?" I ask, and as I stand, I give them a thumbs-up in case they don't speak English.

He carefully leans the bike onto the kickstand and pushes down on the handlebars to test its sturdiness. The flattened disc holds up perfectly, creating a solid surface to prevent the leg from sinking into the ground and tipping over.

"Cool," he says with a grin. "Thanks."

I nod and wave good-bye. "No problem."

"You ride?" he calls to me after I've already turned.

I smile and glance over my shoulder. Man, if you only knew. "Yeah. A little."

"Are you coming?" Dad yells from the other side. With luggage at his feet and my backpack on his shoulder, he's tapping his wristwatch in the universal sign for 'get your ass in gear because we're going to be late.' I know it well.

I run to his side and take my bag. Celia is a couple of steps ahead of us again as we follow signs to the central welcome area. There are people everywhere. The energy is unbelievable, and everything—and everyone—is covered in branded merchandise: hats, shirts, backpacks, flags, you name it. The piped-in techno music gets louder as we reach the inside gates where huge billboards on either side greet visitors to the Sepang International Circuit. An announcer with a cool British accent interrupts the bass beats to boast of the day's attendance: a record-setting seventy-three thousand spectators. Holy crap, that's a lot of people.