I am a Runner.

The bank is steep and the walls are far past the white that once told of contact. Those absent stripes are a comfort to the wheel-man I have become; never burdened by the signifying marks of contact. All I know is grey ground, heat vapor, and the image of cages hanging above a line they tell me is checkered.

Sympathy has the necessary pass to reside in my mind. Thankfully, Runners and “Patrons” aren’t permitted to meet; glimpses of souls imprisoned above the track are the only handshakes allowed. If not for numbered placards adorning the cage walls I wouldn’t know which soul my pedal was set to defend.

Since “The Fall” and my recruitment, I had seen 40 races, 18 wins, countless laps, and 3 losses. They make us watch the losses with the crowd; it’s what the shabby masses really show up for at the track.

I have no taste for the flavor of the end of a life; the sentence handed down when tires fail. I only taste fumes and the freedom that will come with a pair of victories.

No more running.