Compete

Your hands on the handlebars. Your fingers on the throttle. And both eyes on the road ahead. Make Life a Ride.

Starting grid

When people see me they don't think of motorcycle racing first.

When people see me they don't think of motorcycle racing first.

But motorsport is not a question of appearance or gender. You don't care if you're the fastest male or the fastest female if you're the fastest. So it's not important what other people think of me. For me, only the races are important, and the next race is always the most important. I always have the throttle in my grip and the start light in my eye. Then the rest of the world ceases to exist.

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Ideal line

Red. Don't blink.

Red. Don't blink.

Red. Blinking is the enemy. Red. Blinking is the split second when the winner gets separated from the losers. The lights go out. With every ounce of strength within me and all the power beneath me, I pull away and roar my will into the wind. Shift. The world becomes a shaky streak that rolls by left and right. Shift. The only thing that still exists is the asphalt beneath my soles and the spectral voice of time, which whispers its savage mockery deep into my helmet: tick tock. Tick tock.

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Chequered flag

Right corner. Braking makes me faster. Left.

Right corner. Braking makes me faster. Left.

I feel the racing line on the asphalt. Right. I am on it. Left. It is within me. Right. We are one. Left. The straight opens up. Now's my chance. Shift. There's the finish line. Tick tock. I can hardly wait until next time. Shift.

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