It's all relative

Prologue

He was running so fast his lungs burnt. It sounded like they were snapping at his heels. Concentrating on the fence in the distance he pushed his faltering legs to their peak. Once he was over that fence he was clear he had hidden his bike there. Ignoring the voices clawing the air trying to reach his ears he pushed the pain down and carried on. Finally he had his foot in the first link in the fence. He fought back bile as his spent body fought to haul him up; fingers and feet desperately clawing for purchase. A small groan of relief left his body as his hand touched the apex. It was to be short lived as a hand grabbed his ankle and worked its way up to pull at his leg. He growled and kicked out with his other leg; he felt it connect with something and the other hand was snapped away. With one last push of adrenaline he hauled his body over and landed awkwardly on the other side. Cursing and rubbing his twisted ankle he was spurred on by the baying goons trying to get over the fence and after his blood. Checking he still had his prize in his pocket he rummaged for his keys as he got to his feet. With one last look behind him satisfied that the burly men wouldn’t make it over he half ran and half limped to his motorbike.

Pulling on his helmet he smiled with satisfaction; he had achieved his goal. He had beaten the son of a bitch and there was nothing he could do about it. The bike roared into life and the victor sped into the night.