remember what Magnolia said.
I lean forward, wrap my arms around my steel horse, and whisper, “Let’s do this, Padlock. Not to win. Not to place. But to remember this moment as the time we ran with the Titans. Because you are a Titan. And tonight, I am a rider.”
Padlock kicks the front of the stall with aggravation, eager to put my words into action, or so I’d like to believe. I breathe evenly, letting my fear slip away. In its place is wonder for this machine I’ve mounted. I gather his hair between my fingers, and rub the place behind his ears. Then I grab the left joystick and place my right hand above the turbo button.
A man runs toward the starting gate and the crowd cheers. He motions to another man, who has a gun pointed at the moon. They share a hand signal, and I fill my lungs.
The starting light flicks on.
Red .
The stalls shake from the steel horses, but my own horse, Padlock, settles.
Yellow.
Yellow.
Yellow .
The first man approaches the starting gate and places his hands on something I can’t see. A mile and a half. Not long enough to win. But long enough to be remembered.
“You ready, Padlock?” I yell, the moment working me into a state of madness.
The horse snorts once, loudly, but keeps his eyes steady on the track. Steady. So eerily steady with his red, apocalyptic eyes and his black-as-death coat. It’s like he’s waited for this moment for years, gathering dust in a work shed instead of fulfilling his purpose.
My blood burns. My eyes sting. I feel like my body will spontaneously combust.
But Padlock is calm, stoic.
Until the starting gate slides away, that is.
Until the gun fires through the magnetic air.
Until I push that magic black button and grab on to the handlebars and scream into the night.
That’s when my Titan explodes beneath me like a volcano.
Dormant for too long.
Awake at last.
The ground quakes as forty-two steel horses lurch from the starting gates onto the dirt track. They run close together, a school of fish swarming in the presence of a great white. But that’s not accurate. Because we are the shark. We are the thing with teeth and jaws and the instinct to eat everything in our path.
And what’s in our path is a straightaway of possibility.
The first chance to gain a lead.
Padlock thunders beneath me, his neck jerking up and down, my left hand pushing the gas bar higher, feeling the clicks between my heels when my horse changes gears. For a moment, we are caught in the center of the storm, a swirling, tumultuous tornado of steel wrapping around our bodies.
I flirt with the gas yet again, and expect us to break ahead of the pack. It doesn’t seem possible that we wouldn’t pull ahead while going this fast. But the other jockeys are taking advantage of the straight stretch of dirt too. And though my Titan feels invincible, he doesn’t seem to have the engine they do.
In a matter of seconds, the horses barrel past on either side. The last one’s thigh grazes Padlock’s front legs and sparks fly. When the jockey glances back, I realize it wasn’t a mistake. Even if the jockey’s eyes weren’t shaded by the helmet, I know that backward look was a metaphorical middle finger waving in the wind.
My chest aches when I realize that we’re in last place. It happened so quickly. The very first stretch. But what did I expect, really?
To win, I’ll admit now.
Against all odds and reasoning, I expected to win because I needed it so badly.
Remembering that need now, I grit my teeth and latch on to the gas handle. The first turn is rapidly approaching, and the other Titans are already easing off the throttle for a graceful, smooth transition. But I can’t do graceful. And I can’t slow down. Not if I want a chance at finishing any place but last.
“Ready, Padlock?” I yell. “Ready?”
My Titan’s eyes burn brighter against the dirt, and I swear his speed accelerates a fraction though I’ve yet to push the accelerator. When I do, though—the
I lean forward, wrap my arms around my steel horse, and whisper, “Let’s do this, Padlock. Not to win. Not to place. But to remember this moment as the time we ran with the Titans. Because you are a Titan. And tonight, I am a rider.”
Padlock kicks the front of the stall with aggravation, eager to put my words into action, or so I’d like to believe. I breathe evenly, letting my fear slip away. In its place is wonder for this machine I’ve mounted. I gather his hair between my fingers, and rub the place behind his ears. Then I grab the left joystick and place my right hand above the turbo button.
A man runs toward the starting gate and the crowd cheers. He motions to another man, who has a gun pointed at the moon. They share a hand signal, and I fill my lungs.
The starting light flicks on.
Red .
The stalls shake from the steel horses, but my own horse, Padlock, settles.
Yellow.
Yellow.
Yellow .
The first man approaches the starting gate and places his hands on something I can’t see. A mile and a half. Not long enough to win. But long enough to be remembered.
“You ready, Padlock?” I yell, the moment working me into a state of madness.
The horse snorts once, loudly, but keeps his eyes steady on the track. Steady. So eerily steady with his red, apocalyptic eyes and his black-as-death coat. It’s like he’s waited for this moment for years, gathering dust in a work shed instead of fulfilling his purpose.
My blood burns. My eyes sting. I feel like my body will spontaneously combust.
But Padlock is calm, stoic.
Until the starting gate slides away, that is.
Until the gun fires through the magnetic air.
Until I push that magic black button and grab on to the handlebars and scream into the night.
That’s when my Titan explodes beneath me like a volcano.
Dormant for too long.
Awake at last.
The ground quakes as forty-two steel horses lurch from the starting gates onto the dirt track. They run close together, a school of fish swarming in the presence of a great white. But that’s not accurate. Because we are the shark. We are the thing with teeth and jaws and the instinct to eat everything in our path.
And what’s in our path is a straightaway of possibility.
The first chance to gain a lead.
Padlock thunders beneath me, his neck jerking up and down, my left hand pushing the gas bar higher, feeling the clicks between my heels when my horse changes gears. For a moment, we are caught in the center of the storm, a swirling, tumultuous tornado of steel wrapping around our bodies.
I flirt with the gas yet again, and expect us to break ahead of the pack. It doesn’t seem possible that we wouldn’t pull ahead while going this fast. But the other jockeys are taking advantage of the straight stretch of dirt too. And though my Titan feels invincible, he doesn’t seem to have the engine they do.
In a matter of seconds, the horses barrel past on either side. The last one’s thigh grazes Padlock’s front legs and sparks fly. When the jockey glances back, I realize it wasn’t a mistake. Even if the jockey’s eyes weren’t shaded by the helmet, I know that backward look was a metaphorical middle finger waving in the wind.
My chest aches when I realize that we’re in last place. It happened so quickly. The very first stretch. But what did I expect, really?
To win, I’ll admit now.
Against all odds and reasoning, I expected to win because I needed it so badly.
Remembering that need now, I grit my teeth and latch on to the gas handle. The first turn is rapidly approaching, and the other Titans are already easing off the throttle for a graceful, smooth transition. But I can’t do graceful. And I can’t slow down. Not if I want a chance at finishing any place but last.
“Ready, Padlock?” I yell. “Ready?”
My Titan’s eyes burn brighter against the dirt, and I swear his speed accelerates a fraction though I’ve yet to push the accelerator. When I do, though—the
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