The sweat drips into my eyes, the salt stinging. Once again I pull my upper arm across my brow, the already-damp T-shirt sponging away the moisture. Then I dip the paint brush back into the bucket and return to applying the back-and-forth strokes against the side of the barn. It's not hard.
The new paint is a deep, rich blood red, contrasting sharply with the faded, yet-to-be-painted section. Even knowing it will lose a hint of its sheen once it dries, it pleases me. It's just a little darker than the Ducati 1198SP that sits in the shade inside this very same barn, just a few feet away. Parked in a row on the concrete slab along with the other three bikes. The thought makes me smile.
An hour later the side of the barn is finished. There is still one more to be done, but I judge that one side is sufficient for today. I can finish the other next weekend.
It takes only a few minutes to stow the ladder and put away the gear. After cleaning the brushes I turn the hose on myself, reveling in the shock of its coldness.
Walking back to the house, the kitchen is filled with the smells of a slow-cooking Sunday dinner. Ginny is at the stove. I pull a glass of ice water.
"How long before we eat?"
Ginny pauses. "Probably an hour. Maybe a little longer."
I gaze out the window, contemplating.
"Okay," I finally say, finishing the glass, "I think I'm going to go run a few quick laps."
"Don't be too long," Ginny says. "And be careful."
Back at the barn, it takes me only a moment to strap on the back protector and shrug into the Dainese leather suit. Pulling on my helmet, I turn to the bikes. I'd really like to take the SP, but the fresh tires I put on last weekend are supposed to be for the upcoming track day at Mid-Ohio. After debating for a moment, I swing a leg over the S 1000 RR. It still has plenty of gas from last Sunday's ride up on the Parkway with John and Kevin.
Motoring slowly down the hundred yards of gravel road, I glance up and see Mark, the farmer who owns the land adjacent to me, on his tractor. He waves and I lift my hand in return. A little further and the gravel turns onto the hard-paved macadam. Just past the small, hand-painted sign that says "Hughes International Raceway." I do a quick figure-eight on the small, rectangular section of pavement that serves as the "pit" and then head out onto the track proper.
Just over a mile long, the course is simply a fifteen-foot wide swath of pavement laid down in my lower pasture. At eight turns and some modest elevation change it's far from the most technical track I've ever been on. But it's mine and only two hundred yards from my front door. I can run it whenever I want.
The BMW spools quickly. I hold to little more than a brisk street pace for the first half-dozen laps. Even that is enough to drop me instantly into that place where it's all smooth and automatic. One of the benefits that comes with utter intimacy.
With heat in the tires I lift my consciousness for a moment, surveying everything. Then I squeeze the throttle, bringing the edge. Making everything harden.
But not too much. I'm terribly aware that there are no corner workers here. No ambulance. No quick response should something go awry. The line is drawn thin, but not too thin.
Still, it's enough. The BMW flows through the turns with a studied grace. And as I exit the last turn onto the short section past the pit, I think of how incredibly lucky I am.