Cafe Racer


I knew this guy once who hit The Ton. I never knew his real name but all of us called him Limit. He rode a BSA Goldstar 500 and when he shifted into fifth he hit it. I knew it and Sandy knew it and old Barnes knew it when he flew by over the cobblestone and little pebbles shot out from under his tires. Limit killed his engine and we all ran up to him and celebrated. We were having a good time that night celebrating, dancing and cheering and such but the real joy was in Limit’s eyes and you could see it the way they got real small and lines crunched together in the corners. We never were close but that night, boy did Limit kiss all of us. He was so damned happy and none of us could blame him cause we all knew he did it, too, and we were damned happy to be witnesses. God damn can you imagine being on that bike? But I guess you get so happy you stop thinking, sometimes. So Limit got on his bike after champagne and some really stark brandy and I think even tequila that old Barnes brought over from South America and he got on his BSA and took off and I guess the corner spun him ‘round like a blender and he looked like cleaved meat afterwards. Boy that hit Sandy hard. She might as well’ve been on that bike with him, way it left her. None of us were there to witness it but we saw pictures. Got one on me now, actually, but I don’t look at it often I just have it so I can take it out and show people when I tell them bout it so they know I’m not lying. I miss Limit but I suppose it’s why I’m here now doing what I’m doing so really it’s lucky for me.

prompt: cafe


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