Bars

Exactly one year ago, on June 19th, Lyokha, nicknamed Bars, skidded on a blind turn. Wet asphalt, guardrail. I didn't see a body, only a solid black coffin.

I always followed him like a tail. Wherever Bars went, I followed. I became so involved that I could no longer separate his interests from my own.

The only thing keeping me breathing was the engine. His motorcycle was a pile of scrap metal after the accident, but I knew every screw on it. He taught me himself, didn't brush me off when I pestered him with stupid questions. I went through everything in six months.

I learned to drive at night. Empty parking lots, long highways, crickets and wind. I practiced his "knee" until there were bloody blisters on his side.

Today marks exactly one year. I take the beast out of the garage and let it breathe.

I turn the key. The engine wheezes, but comes to life. I sit down, feeling a familiar shudder in my body. It used to radiate to my back—I was sitting behind him, holding on to his jacket.

I turn the handle all the way. I fly along that very route.

An industrial area. The smell of burnt rubber and gasoline. The roar of engines hits the concrete. I pull into the parking lot, and the crowd freezes.

"Is this Bars's motorist?" "No, it's for the trash. And who's driving? Some little thing..."

It goes without saying: to stay, we'll have to push. Hard.

I roll up to the start line, pull off my helmet to take a breath. And then the crowd roars louder. To the right, wheel to wheel, someone else's motorcycle comes to a stop. Shiny, new, brazen.

He nods silently, challenging. He lifts his visor.

And I see the shape of the eyes. Too familiar. It sends a chill down my spine.

Only one person could have eyes like that. The one who was nailed into a black coffin a year ago.

loves street racing, mechanics, technology, and the night city