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ELI TOMAC
450 SX / 1ST
IMAGE / LANNAN WORDS / MATTINGLY DESIGN / MOTOPLAYGROUND
>> This city was founded on the notion of a fictional winged creature; something that centuries and centuries ago, seemed to be of only myth’s and proverbs. Throughout the wilderness of numerous Arab nations, this bird would be burned to the ashes, only to rise again and continue to cycle through the fountain of youth for a period of time. It’s a wise tale that’s past the tale of time, and a symbol of rebirth. To refill, and replenish, something that many riders in the 450 di- vision set to do, based on their winning ways of the past. All of these competitors have won at some point in their career, and Phoenix, of all places, could be the start of a lengthened streak of victory. Eli Tomac took this notion to the core, configuring mind, body, and spirit. Everything appeared to be in sync from the moment he imprinted his tire tread on the track for practice. Really letting the 450 eat, the rear sprocket was truly being put to good use, spinning and as fast as she could go, adventuring through the third and fourth gears of the transmission. His lines on the outer rims of the bowl turns, were as if he were walking a tightrope. Shifting his weight just to the latter edge of the seat, he was smashing the rear shock to the stadium floor, only to be propelled through the rhythm section adjacent to the start stretch. Glancing up at the Monster Energy scoring tower, he was reassured that his times were sufficient, heading in to the night festivities. Once the jubilation of opening ceremonies had subsided, he and machine rocketed out of the gate, looking to secure a bid for the main event. Fighting at the front of
the field, his lap times were nearing the top of the sheet on timing and scoring; his mechanic synchronizing the towel wave and holding of the pitboard. Blitzing the whoops on the right side, his time made up here would be imminent in his position as frontrunner; battling with the likes of Ken Roczen and Justin Barcia he would end up taking third place, looking forward the big show. As the gate would fall, the pack would stampede into the opening bend. Clouds of chaos and smoke were looming all around, but with his helmet and goggle, his ventilation system al- lowed a sigh of relief, emerging in the front of the field. Launching to the rafters of the stadium, he was soaring over the triple-triple just before the finish, eyeing the lead. With the win in his sights, this race was his to lose; he had Barcia and Roczen around and trailing, yet remaining calm under pressure. Hopping through the rhythm section one last time, he knew he’d done it; a win for the record books, and it couldn’t have tasted any sweeter.
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GRITMOTO • JANUARY 28, 2018