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JUSTINBRAYTON
of play. His mechanic would praise him for his
efforts, relaying the message with a slapping of the pit board and waving of the towel. Putting a
bit of reassurance throughout the mind of both he and team, he was now ready to go for the
heat races. As the laps began to accumulate,
his intensity would only continue to heighten,
as he lead would grow as well; both heart rate and breathing would become more rapid, yet
his composure and remembrance of the work he’d done forecasted a wave of tranquility over him. Hoping to continue pulling from Chad
Reed, his machine would be exerting all types of power throughout the confines of this stadium. Truly firing on all cylinders, it was a matter of bringing the bike to the finish line. He would feel secure about his placement for the main event, knowing that his win was no fluke, and come to the line ready for battle. As he would try his best to dodge as many pellets as possible, the field would begin to spray dirt in a machine-gun like manner. Ducking his visor down the start straight, he would stay within striking distance of Dean Wilson. Although neck and neck, you could see that he was breaking his competition, piece by piece, with a totality of strong laps being glued together. In an all out dash to the finish line, he was scrubbing every face possible, knowing that each millisecond was of precious value. With the checkered flag becoming an actuality, rather than a mirage, he would register seventh on the final lap, knowing he placed his best effort forward.
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