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borealalice · 8 months ago

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Valentino finds him crouched against the wall of the motorhome that they share with Honda on the other side, still seething with white hot rage after yelling at Márquez. Screaming at him had done nothing to get the anger out of his system, and then he’d heard Marc telling the press he wasn’t even going to bother discussing Marco’s outburst, and now he’s trying very hard to calm down before he goes to congratulate Pecco. His brother doesn’t deserve that kind of negativity, and right now, Marco wants to kill somebody.

Vale crouches in front of him, one of his big hands finding the curls on the back of Marco’s head. “Ben detto” he murmurs softly. “It’s not your fault, he clearly hasn’t changed at all.”

Marco scrapes his hands over his face, wincing at his nose. “He didn’t even react when I screamed at him. Just stared, and then told someone else to remove me from his motorhome.” His fists clench. “And then he says he’s not going to waste time discussing me! Figlio de puttana!”

Vale ruffles his hair. “I’ve been telling you, he’s a crazy motherfucker. He’ll never learn.”

“Hey!” A voice he doesn’t recognize rings out on the other side of the wall.

“Hey, man, ¿qué pasa?.” That one, he’d know anywhere.

“Classy move out there today, completely sidestepping the questions.” It’s not a driver. Someone from the Honda team, probably.

Márquez snorts. “Bezzecchi is what, 23?” He must be changing out of his leathers. They’ve clearly not realised that there’s someone left on the motorhome next door, because they’re making no effort to lower their voices to avoid being heard through the paper-thin walls.

“24, I think.” Says the other voice. He’s almost 25, actually. He rolls his eyes at Vale. What does it matter that he’s young? He has half a mind to go back in there and yell at him some more. Fuck him. Youth does not mean he’s not legitimate competition, or a good driver.

“Eh, still barely an adult.” Márquez again. “Everybody is a fucking idiot in their twenties, but I’m no longer in my twenties. I know how this circus works now, and what would happen if I said anything personal about him to the press. I don’t mind giving my opinion on what he’s done on the race, or what I think he’s done on the race, but anything beyond that is a no, even if he’s a dickhead.” He pauses. Then adds, softer. “Actually, I don’t think he’s a dickhead. He’s just young, and we have both heard everything he said today before, and we both know they’re not his words. I can’t fault the kid for following a god blindly, I used to do it too.”

The world tilts three degrees on its axis. Valentino’s face goes white as a sheet.

“Look at you. Is this what maturity looks like?”

Márquez’s laugh sounds bitter. “I already said it in my documentary, but I don’t wish what Valentino put me through at 22 on anybody. 22 is a stupid age. You think you’re immortal, but you also think you’ll die if you don’t win this championship. Or not die, but the team will drop you if you stop performing, which is just as bad. There’s always someone behind you waiting to get on your bike, if you can’t stay on it. Your body can recover from almost everything, but the press and the team are already counting down the seconds until it gives out. It's an environment where it’s almost impossible to make good decisions, especially in the middle of a race where you’re going 300km/h, your only thought is that you have to be 1st, and you have 2 milliseconds to see and react to anything.” Something opens on the other side of the wall.

“You must still be angry at him. Especially after everything you heard today.”

There’s no need to clarify who “him” is. It’s clearly not Marco.

Something closes. “I’m not even angry anymore, more like. Disappointed? Disappointed with Valentino, because he was supposed to be my friend but he thought badly enough of me to believe that I’d do all those things he accused me of. Didn’t even let me explain. But also disappointed in myself, because it really is the worst feeling when you are just being yourself and your idol, friend, favourite person” - Marco can’t look at Valentino - “in the world publicly says that makes you a danger for everyone and poison for the sport you have dedicated your life to. And suddenly everybody despises you. You don’t just shrug something like that off, no matter how hard I’ve tried to pretend I have.”

There’s a metallic thunk, like someone dropping a bag on a bench.

“I can only be myself. I’ve never learned to be any other way, and I will never play mind games. I want to keep winning until I physically can’t anymore, and then retire and be done with all of this.”

“Are you going to set up your own training academy?” Suggests the other man, timidly.

There’s a meaningful pause.

“I don’t know if you’ve seen the documentary, but only two drivers came to see me before I got the surgery. A surgery that involved re-breaking my arm on several points and rotating the bone. There was a chance I might never come back to motogp, and most people didn’t care, not even my own teammate. And even younger drivers like Bezzecchi clearly believe everything that has been said of me, after all these years and after riding with me. I don’t think I will have any kind of legacy other than a number of championships and a bad reputation for my riding style. And a lot of scars and metal in my body. I don't think mentoring will ever be a possibility. I don’t think I want to teach anyone how to ride like me, when this is what it gets you.”

Marco can feel his own face drain of blood. There’s no emotion to Márquez's voice. He’s clearly thought this over plenty. It sounds practised, rehearsed, and utterly sincere.

“You still said very nice things about Rossi in a recent video, even after all of this.”

“I told the truth.” Comes Márquez’s response. “They ask what I think about him as a driver, and that has never changed. He’s the best. Always the best.”

He sounds as certain as anything. The sky is blue, the sun is yellow, and Valentino Rossi is still the best ever MotoGP driver in Marc Márquez’s world.

Valentino’s face is doing something so raw that Marco feels filthy when he hazards a look. He averts his eyes again.

“As I said, I’m not even mad. I would be happy if he decided to stop hating me one of these days. I still like Valentino. I think what he’s done with the academy is great, the way he’s basically adopted those kids. I try not to think much about him other than that.”

He sounds wistful, Marco realises, like part of him wishes he could have been one more of them at the ranch. Like part of him envies that they got that with Vale.

“Except when one of said kids goes to your motorhome to yell at you.”

Marc snorts again. “Hm, maybe he should have taught them better manners, that’s true. But he’s Valentino Rossi. We wouldn’t like him half as much if he had manners.” And with that, the voices finally fade, Márquez clearly done changing. And then it’s just him and Valentino, still crouched on the floor on the other side of the wall.

Valentino looks ill. Properly green, and Marco understands, because he’s feeling queasy himself when he thinks of everything he’d yelled at Marc only hours earlier, everything he has said about him loud enough for everyone to hear.

Valentino has approximately eight years of that.

God help them both.

#I have been on my Rosquez feelings so I had to engineer a situation where Valentino has no choice but to confront his sins head on #and then grapple with the realization of how much irreparable damage he’s dealt Marc #marc/vale #rosquez #realistically would Marc ever bare himself like this? Absolutely not #but let’s pretend that Bezz yelling at him in Valencia caused a weak moment and the jagged edge was visible for a millisecond

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pawnshopbleus · 5 months ago

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These Are the Days

Abby Anderson x Fem!Reader High School AU

One - The Hallway

For the summary, warnings, and more please visit here

Previous Chapter

The human body is extraordinary. It does so many things like waking you up two hours before your alarm is set. It’s five o’clock in the morning and the last thing you want to be is up. This gives you way too much time to overthink your first day of school.

The outfit you planned out the night before is thrown over your desk chair. It’s something simple and plain. You don’t want to draw too much attention to yourself. Your usual wardrobe would cause you to stick out like a sore thumb.

You close your eyes and pray that your body lets you go back to sleep but after ten minutes of tossing and turning you knew that it was a lost cause. You reach over and turn on the lamp on your night stand. It takes your eyes a few seconds to adjust to the change in lighting but when they finally do, you sigh. Of course this had to happen to you. Your usual ten hours of sleep is reduced to eight.

You can hear the rustle of your parents getting ready for work. They are usually out of the house before you wake up and back home long after you’ve gone to sleep. When you were little, you only saw them for a split second in the day when they came to pick you up from school. In middle school they gave you a bike and expected you to learn how to ride it on your own. It’s been just you and your bike ever since.

You kill time by watching a movie on your laptop. It’s some new romcom that recently came out. Rom Coms are some of your favorite movies to watch because they move something within you. They make up for the lack of love and support in your life.

Before you know it, two hours have passed by and your alarm goes off. You rub your tired eyes and finally leave the comfort of your bed. Your new room has a bathroom in it. The cold tile floors shock your bare feet but they soon get used to the temperature.

You observe yourself in the mirror. Your tired eyes and tangled hair are just a reflection of how you feel inside. It’s only the first day but you are already want to give up. You can already feel the monotony tiring you out.

Maybe you can join a club or two and make some new friends. It seems like everyone back home already forgot about you even though you left a week ago. Your best friend of six years left you on delivered for two days before making up an excuse as to why she didn’t respond fast enough.

You splash your face with some cold water and try to think about something else. There was no use in thinking about that right now when there’s another pressing issue at hand.

Lakeview high school is about a twenty minute walk and a six minute bike ride away from your house. The crisp morning air nips at your skin as you zip through your neighborhood. It’s a beautiful morning but you’d rather a car hit you than admit it.

Jeeps, Teslas, Toyotas, Subarus, BMWs, Ford trucks, and one Honda fill up the parking lot. Those cars confirm your fears; this is a rich kid school. Your parents are very well off so you’ve grown up around rich kids. From your experience, they’re all spoiled little brats who whine when things don’t go their way. Thankfully, you’re parents never really gave a fuck so they didn’t spoil you. That allowed you to appreciate the things you have.

You dismount your bike and lock it up.

Lakeview looks like the school from the Breakfast Club. Everything is inside. Growing up in California, you got used to going to outside schools. No lockers, no roofs in the hallways, and wide open spaces greeted you every time you went to school. Everything inside of one big building? Now that, that was different.

Blue and yellow lockers line the walls of the hallway. Students lean on them as they chat with their friends, no doubt talking about what they got up to over the summer. People fist bump each other as they walked down the hallway and couples suck on eachothers faces with no shame. You ogle at the people walking with the confidence you wished you had right now. It looked like a scene out of some cult classic high school movie.

You take out the folded up paper that has your schedule on it and glare at it. Homeroom: Room 702. It would have been lovely to know where room 702 is but with multiple staircases going all over the place and no signs in sight, this started to feel less like public school and more like an agoraphobic person's personal hell.

You take a deep breath and walk up to the nearest person. Their blue shirt catches your eye. It’s one of the colors that doesn’t hurt your eyes. You tap them on the shoulder and when they turn around, they look at you as if you just sprouted two heads.

“Hi, umm, sorry to bother you but do you know where Room 702 is?” you ask, your voice shaking slightly.

The person points in front of them and then walks away. You gulp and stare in front of you, confused. No one has ever told you that you come off intimidating so that person's demeanor really confuses you.

“What the fuck?” you mutter under your breath and lean against the wall of lockers. You close your eyes and hold the bridge of your nose. You feel exhausted and you haven’t even done anything really strenuous.

“Excuse me,” someone says, “you’re leaning against my locker.”

You open your eyes and catapult yourself off the wall. “I’m so sorry,” you apologize.

The person in front of you looks eerily familiar. Her honey blonde hair is thrown up in a pony tail but you remember it flowing beautifully in the summer breeze. This time you have a chance to make out the color of her eyes. Her blue eyes remind you of the ocean. They remind you of home.

“Hey, aren’t you new?” she asks, her hand reaching out to shake yours.

You nod and accept the handshake. “Yeah. I just moved here from California.”

“Cool. I could tell by your accent. It’s very…valley girl! I’m Abby, by the way.” And then she tilts her head and scrunches her eyebrows together, “are you a senior?”

You nod again and introduce yourself. Your name flows through her mouth like honey. Only then do you realize that the two of you are still shaking hands. You break the handshake and chuckle a bit.

“Sorry, I’m a little nervous. I don’t know where my homeroom is and some kid in a blue shirt looked at me like I just grew two heads.”

Abby takes a look at your schedule. “I’m headed towards Room 702 if you want me to walk you over.”

“Please,” you practically beg her. Your body relaxes when she offers to walk you to class.

The two of you walk side by side down the hallways and up the stairs. A few twists and turns around the school and you’re standing in front of Room 702. The door is open and you can see that there’s only one more seat left, yours.

You turn to Abby and thank her, sincerity laced in your voice.

“It’s no problem really. If you ever need anything, stop by the softball pitch. That’s where I am most of the time. It’s nice meeting you,” she says before she turns and walks down the hallway.

You walk into the class and sit down in the only available seat. The two people beside you were engaged in conversation before you sat down so you felt bad about breaking them up. You chew on your lip, ready for them to scoff or curse you out, but it never comes.

“Are you new?” the girl next to you asks.

“Yeah, I am. Sorry, by the way, for interrupting your conversation.”

“Oh, please. You did nothing of the sort. I got tired of him a while ago. I’m Dina and the guy next to you is Jesse.” She flashes a million dollar smile and all of a sudden, you don’t feel scared anymore. You are going to be okay.

“How did you know I was new?”

“It's a pretty small school. Everyone has pretty much gone to the same school since elementary. It’s pretty rare that we get new kids,” Jesse says.

“And because you’re wearing shorts in September. No one here wears shorts unless it’s the middle of July,” Dina adds.

So much for ‘fitting in,’ you think to yourself.

Dina can sense your discomfort. “Don’t worry. It’s bold! I like bold.”

After the teacher, Miss. Woods, introduced herself as a first year teacher, you felt good knowing that you weren’t the only new person here. She sat down at her desk and said that for the rest of the class they could just talk about anything.

You learned that Dina was the co-captain on the cheerleading team and Jesse was on the wrestling team. They both did phenomenal in school on top of being able to manage athletics, clubs, and partying. Everyone you’ve met so far has been kind and gratuitous so maybe the universe wasn’t out to get you.

At lunch, Dina and Jesse invite you to sit with them. They are joined by Dina’s girlfriend, Ellie, also a member of the softball team.

“So, wait. You left California and came here?” Ellie asked, perplexed at how someone would leave the dream state.

“I didn’t have much of a choice but I guess Washington is cool. Temperature wise at least.” You mutter the last part under your breath.

“Well, you’ve met the right people because some kids at this school can be total assholes,” Ellie looks up, “speaking of.”

You follow Ellie’s line of sight and see Abby joined by the guy that was driving the truck. His varsity jacket is thrown over his shoulder in some display of faux coolness as he holds Abby’s hand. Something inside of you twitches with distaste. They don’t look right together, but who are you to judge? You’ve only had one conversation with her. It’s not like you know them or their relationship.

Abby and the guy sit down at the now silent table. He looks you up and down and asks, “who’s the new kid?”

You introduce yourself but this time it’s with a lot less enthusiasm than when you introduced yourself to Ellie, Dina, Jesse, and Abby.

“I’m Owen, captain of the football team and the coach's son. Pretty sure you’ve heard of me already.”

You nod your head, not wanting to embarrass him. The truth is that you haven’t heard of him from anyone. You can tell from this very short interaction that he exudes arrogance and everything that you hate. Not to mention the fact that he smells like dirt and cigarettes.

Lunch flys by, thankfully and now you’re sitting at a table in your history class. History is by far one of your favorite subjects. It’s not too hard but the material is complex enough to keep your brain satisfied and occupied.

You sit there, clicking your pen mindlessly as you wait for someone to sit next to you. The warning bell rings and the chair next to you scrapes against the tiled floor. Abby flops down in the seat and sighs.

“I had to run here from the parking lot. Owen made me go get something from his car,” Abby says out of breath.

“Why didn’t you tell him to do it himself?” “Enough about him,” Abby dismisses any further questions about her boyfriend and redirects the conversation, “how’s your first day been so far.”

You can manage a “Pretty go-” before you’re cut off by the sound of the final bell.

The teacher walks in and closes the door behind him. He’s tall, taller than the average man and he’s wearing a blue and white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The black watch on his wrist beeps and his thick fingers go to turn it off. Something about him makes you feel safe and protected, like you can trust him with anything.

He walks to the front of the class to introduce himself. “Good afternoon, seniors. Welcome to your last first day of public school. My name is Mr. Miller and I’ll be your history teacher for the next year.”

He takes out a stack of papers from his black leather messenger bag and begins to pass them out. “This is the syllabus. Look over it with your parents and make sure to get their signature. If you turn it back in to me by Friday you can receive extra credit.”

You’ve become a master at forging your parents signature so you can have it back to him by the end of the day if he isn’t a narc.

Before you know it, your first day at Lakeview is over and you're back on your bike riding down the streets of your neighborhood. It’s more lively today than it was when you got here. There are dogs barking, joggers running past you, cars honking at you to get out of the way, and children playing in their front yards.

You come to a halt when you realize that there’s been a car following you ever since you left school. The window rolls down and you are met with the smell of dirt and cigarettes. “Need a ride?” Owen lifts his eyebrow.

“No thanks. I live right here.” You curse yourself for basically doxing yourself to someone you definitely don’t want knowing where you live.

“Oh, nice house. I live down the street so if you ever need anything don’t be afraid to ask. Any friend of Abby’s is a friend of mine.” He winks and then drives off.

You scrunch up your face in disgust and drop your bike off in the driveway. No one’s going to steal your bike because everyone around here has enough money to buy ten.

You're greeted by the sound of silence when you enter your house. You hang your backpack and keys up by the door and flop down on the couch. Your parents haven’t gone grocery shopping yet so you order a large pizza for yourself and watch TV until you fall asleep on the couch.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @soupycloud

If you'd like to join the tag list, send me a PM me and you'll be added.

Thank you all for reading. 🌻

#abby anderson tlou2 #abby anderson fanfic #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson x reader #abby the last of us #abby x reader #abby tlou #abby anderson #ellie the last of us #joel miller #dina tlou #jesse tlou #owen tlou #the last of us #the last of us part 2 #the last of us fic #lesbian

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bikefuckersoftheworldunite · 5 months ago

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If you ever wondered why Valentino Rossi nicknamed himself 'Rossifumi' in his long- haired, fairing-banging days in the smaller classes then you need look no further than Norifumi Abe's now-legendary stint at the front of his debut grand prix at Suzuka in 1994.

Fresh from winning his national championship, Abe was catapulted into the international spotlight with a wild-card ride that drew gasps from racing fans around the world. At just 18-years of age, the Japanese rider seemed completely at ease mixing it with two riders who had won 34 500cc grands prix and a world championship between them at that time.

Not only was there a new name but a new style to admire too. Much of Abe's riding under braking was done perched precariously over the front of the motorcycle, his midriff arched upright over the fuel tank as he laid the bike on its side. The long, flowing hair protruding from the multi- coloured Shoei added to the image of a rider who held a blithe disregard for the reputations in front of him.

Valentino on watching Suzuka 1994: Abe had long straight hair and even when he was standing still, he looked like a great character. But most of all, he rode like a madman. He was absolutely fearless….I got up every morning at 7 a.m. to watch the replays of that race in Suzuka. Every single morning, for two whole months.

Abe quit Honda several months later and went on to race twice that season - at Brno and Laguna Seca - in Marlboro Team Roberts colours as a replacement for Daryl Beattie. He finished a more than credible sixth both times. He was grand prix racing's next big thing. More than adept on a 500, Abe proved to be a more than capable podium runner, finishing inside the top three 17 times in the next eleven years. Suzuka would continue to be a happy hunting ground for Abe. He went on to claim two of his three grand prix wins at the track.

Abe’s first 500cc win came at his home GP in Suzuka, 1996.

"I was lucky to have raced against Norick. We fought several times. In 2001 we fought for victory in Jerez. I have unique memories of Norick. I am indebted to him, because he contributed a lot to my enthusiasm and my motivations”.

Rossi finishes: "I was and am one of Norick's biggest fans. I still have a photo with his autograph. His race and his appearance at Suzuka in 1994 motivated me a lot. After this race, I really wanted to become a motorcycle racer". [x]

#motogp #norifumi abe #vr46 #valentino rossi #rossifumi

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 2 months ago

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(photo: Ken Kesey, New York City, November 1985, by Allen Ginsberg)

* * *

The late great Merry Prankster Ken Kesey was born on this day 1935 in La Junta Colorado. Probably best known for is novel “One Flew over The Cuckoo’s Nest,” it was his legendary Acid Test parties down the SF peninsula in La Honda with the house band The Warlocks which he and fellow pranksters hosted after their return from the cross country trip on their dayglo painted school bus called “Furthur” (popularized in Tom Wolfe’s Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test), that solidly launched the psychedelic 60s. The Warlocks in short order would change their name to the Grateful Dead...

Ken Kesey on Allen Ginsberg:

“Back in (19)66 or (19)67, we took the bus up to Berkeley for Vietnam Day. The day before the big rally, the Hell’s Angels said they were going to protest Vietnam Day by pounding the shit out of the protestors, and they were serious. Since we kind of knew the Angels, we went over to Oakland, to Sonny Barger‘s house. Ginsberg went with us, right into the lion’s mouth with his little cymbals. Ching, ching ching. And he just kept talking and being his usual absorbing self. Finally they said, “OK, OK, We’re not going to beat up the protesters’. When he left, one of the Angels, Terry the Tramp, says, “That queer little kike ought to ride a bike. From then on, he had a pass around the Angels. They had let all the other Angels know. “He’s a dude worth helping out”. They were absolutely impressed by him and his courage.”

#Ken Kesey #Grateful Dead #history #hippie history #Hell's Angels #Allen Ginsberg #One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest #Tom Wolf #Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test #the psychedelic 60s

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pertamax7 · 3 months ago

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BOS Moge Honda Touring Sulawesi Journey

BOS Moge Honda Touring Sulawesi Journey ., salam pertamax7.com, BOS Moge Honda Touring Sulawesi Journey Link ponsel pintar ( di sini ) Salam Moge Mania Ada info resmi dari Makassar – Honda Big BOS (Big Bike Owner Society) kembali melakukan touring Sulawesi Journey 2 bagi pecinta motor big bike Honda. Kali ini, jalur yang dipilih jauh lebih menantang dan mempesona karena menghadirkan…

#Big Bike Owner Society #Honda Big Bike Owner Society #Moge Honda Touring

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onlyhappyvibes · 3 months ago

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youtube

#gas #just kidding garage #trees #out doors #big red #Honda #vintage Honda #Atc #Honda big red #trail #trail ride #baja heat #baja warrior #baja mini bike #youtube channel #youtube #like comment subscribe #garage channel #gas powered

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moonshynecybin · 8 months ago

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short fic! once again maïna got me.... her original post here, this one's like 800 words about marc hitching a ride from vale back to the pits... nebulously established relationship they are being very sweet !

“Are you trying to kill me?” Is what Vale says when Marc trots up to where he’s spectating on the side of the track, camped out like a king in some shady place where the crowds can’t get to him. He’s on his feet, hands on his hips and a frown on his face beneath his hat and sunglasses, staring Marc down as he approaches. He’s worried—he usually is, when Marc’s on the bike— but the crash wasn’t terrible, just a slide into the gravel. He shouldn’t be too mad.

Marc brushes some dust off of the ass of his leathers. The marshals are bustling around them, righting his bike and wheeling it past him and Vale. There’s no sense of urgency though, it’s too late in the session— that’s FP1 done for Marc, now he just needs to get back to the pits. Luckily, he knows a guy.

He flicks a gloved finger at Vale’s cheek, and Vale catches it, brings it to his mouth to kiss his hand, sweet and playful, a moment of connection just for them, letting Marc know he’s not actually mad. Marc can’t help but grin under his helmet.

“I’m okay.” He reassures, keeping his voice low, tilting his head a little. “I saw how lonely you were out here and just wanted to say hi.” He’s joking, but if he had to pick a place to crash, next to Vale isn’t the worst place in the world.

“Not funny,” Vale lets go of his hand to wave a finger in his face, eyebrows jumping, and Marc laughs, big and loud.

“No, it isn’t. I wanted P1.” It’s a bad joke— most of his are— but Vale smiles at him anyway, eyes crinkling behind his sunglasses.

“P2 for you, I think, if you’re done trying to kill yourself.” Vale gestures at the scooter behind him. “You need a lift?

“You offering?”

“I mean you can walk, but that would be less fun for both of us, I think.” Vale says, swinging a leg over the scooter and rummaging for the keys.

“The Valentino Rossi taxi service.” Marc says, climbing onto the back as Vale buckles on his helmet. He leans forward until the enamel of their helmets makes contact, an affectionate bump. He decides to settle his hands on the familiar, narrow space of Vale’s hips, glove catching on the fabric of his shirt.

“For you? I charge double.”

“I can afford it, my husband’s rich.” Marc says, and is rewarded with a bark of a laugh from Valentino and an affectionate slap to his thigh as the ignition catches and they start to move.

Vale pulls away from the track and starts to maneuver towards the pits, scooter rumbling along. Marc closes his eyes, enjoying the ride and the solid weight of Vale in front of him, the way he can lean on him a little, torsos pressed tight. It’s not often he can loosen his control during a race weekend, and it’s nice to not have to focus for a few minutes— to let Vale unwind Marc in that way only he knows how. They don’t get too much alone time on days like these, and Marc lets himself get warm— basking between the sun on his back and the stretch of Valentino in front of him.

It’s over too soon.

“Thanks for the ride,” He says, when Vale slows to a stop in front of Honda’s pit area. He pulls of his helmet.

“Yeah— you be safe, eh?” Vale says, catching Marc’s elbow when he clambers off the scooter. Vale lifts a hand to thumb at Marc’s cheek, and Marc has to lean down to kiss him, soft and sweet, lingering. It’s not the best time for it —he has to get back to his box, there are probably thousands of cameras pointed at them right now, and he has about eight different ideas for the bike setup to iron out with Santi— but right now he doesn’t care. He kisses Vale again, hand on the column of his neck.

“I love you,” He says when he pulls back— he really does have things to do. He grabs his helmet and starts to move away. Vale smacks him on the ass as he goes.

“If you crash again, I will not drive you back next time!” Vale calls as Marc winds his way towards the Honda garage.

“Yes, you will!” Marc calls back, not even turning around. He’s grinning as he ducks around the corner.

And it’s true. It’s something he knows for certain— knowledge that’s sewed itself into his bones— as factual and immutable as the sky being blue, as the sun rising in the morning. If he falls, Vale will be there to catch him.

It’s as simple as that.

#motogp #callie speaks #rosquez #my fic #QUESTION: is the use of ‘give you a ride?’ very american here bc i know i irish people made fun of me for that

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anitalianfrie · 7 months ago

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5 questions to... Enea Bastianini

Moto Sprint, 15.05.2013

Born in: Rimini Age: 15 years old What he won: 9 titles between Minimoto, MiniGP and Trofei Honda What is he racing in this year: Rookies Cup

1 First season on the "adult's" bikes, after years between minibikes and MiniGP and you've already got interesting results A fourth place in the Italian Moto3 championship, where i race on a Honda. But the best came with the Rookies Cup. It didn't go well in Austin, I even fell in the first race. But I made up for it in Jerez: i got third in the first race and won the following one. I feel good with the KTM and the satisfaction of winning in a Championship raced alongside MotoGP is... too big

2 You can finally see your idols in real life To be honest the rider I like more out of everyone doesn't race anymore. It was Casey Stoner, I adored his way of riding the bike and I especially loved when he won races starting as fast as lighting, getting in front of everyone and going on like this to the end of the race. I know that everybody prefers it when there's fighting on track, but I go against the current. Now I get enchanted watching Marquez.

3 You obviously daydream of following his steps Obviously. What rider wouldn't dream of racing in MotoGP? But you need to go step by step. The Rookies Cup is a gret display window, but the transition to the MotoGP World Championships is only granted to the winner. And there are great riders here...

4 Your biography says that you were already on a motorbike when you were three years and three months old I had training wheels, but they got them of quite early. Bikes don't allow half measures: either you like them a lot or... you do some other sport. I was lucky to have a father who really loved two wheels, but who didn't have the means to race. He passed his passion to me, without ever forcing me. I chose, even when I was young, to race. And it's a pity they don't allow me to get my hands on the engines, in the box, because I would really like to get the bike set on my own.

5 Did you chose the right school? Yes, a mechanical school, where we learn everything about engines. This is my true passion. Last year I used to go to a different school, and I didn't feel well there. I even failed that year. But all it took for everything to get fixed was changing school, following my true inclinations

#shout out to baby enea for posting this on his twitter WHOOO #motogp #enea bastianini #my translations

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f1rewalk3r · 8 months ago

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since apparently this is what i’m known for: What Motorcycle I think each member of the PRT ENE would ride:

Armsmaster: Canonically rides a “souped up motorcycle.” obviously this means tinkertech in the parahumans world, but in the biker world this means egregious, stupid custom. so i’m giving him a fat tire Harley Davidson VROD. an ugly bike with an ego for a silly man with an ego

now what do you get when you cross the most reliable, unkillable dual sport of all time with a diesel engine? you get the Kawasaki KLR-650 HDT, the M1030-M1, a finicky monster used by the US military. perfect for the unkillable Miss Militia, a connoisseur of finicky military equipment. it can go anywhere and use anything for fuel, but it was literally designed to run on jet fuel.

Velocity’s a speedster right? so obviously he’s gonna get an ultra fast liter bike, super sport, 200hp, etc. WRONG. you fucking idiot. you fucking moron. personally i don’t subscribe to grimdumb f(c?)anon that he perceives real time when he’s speeding. that’s stupid cape design imo. he can go fast as his heart desires with his power. yknow what he can’t do with his power? rip up the fucking motorcross track, doing flips and jumps and shit. radical, man. so he gets a two-stoke ripper, the Yamaha YZ-250.

Battery, on the other hand, is a girlboss who needs to get stress relief via a supersport liter bike. she’s dealing with assault all day, can you blame her? so she’s getting the Honda CBR1000RR-Fireblade. liquid cooled, 999cc, inline four, with a top speed of 190mph it really doesn’t get much faster than this, folks.

now if you take the dual sport Kawasaki, give it the suspension of the Yamaha motorcross, but the tires and street performance of the supersport, you get the Supermotard class of bikes. the crackhead hooligans of the bike community, these are the bikes that are doing wheelies in residential areas, jumping over that grassy hill near your office building, and squealing around corners as the back end slips out. can you tell i have a favorite type of bike. now, who’s our resident crackhead of the protectorate? why, Assault, of course! So he’s getting the king of supermotos (and the bike i will probably be purchasing in may), a Suzuki DRZ-400SM

loud, annoying, and entitled Triumph gets the Harley Davidson Softtail, the bike of choice for obnoxious wannabe hell’s angels, the bike of choice for your balding 50yr old dad, or for the kid who wants so badly to be relevant and accepted amongst the boomers he calls friends. idk where Triumph fits into this its kinda just a vibe yk he’s a nepo baby, he gets a harley

and finally. the perfect bike for those with mobility issues/those concerned about safety due to preexisting medical conditions, Director Piggot gets a Harley Davidson Trike and she fucking slays on it, understand? girl power.

i forgot dauntless because he’s boring so he gets a boring adventure bike for boring losers. BMW F650GS. fuck you dauntless you dont even get a fun big BMW you get the heavy underpowered one. go to hell 🖕

#wormblr #parahumans #shitpost #kinda?#brockton bay #prt ene #motorcycle analysis #wildbow #worm web serial #colin armsmaster #miss militia #velocity #triumph #director piggot #emily piggot #assault and battery

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