Magnolia, other than mumbling a quick “Why is she here?” I hold my breath, afraid he’ll tell me it’s over since I didn’t refer to his precious Titan as a he . But the old man only waves toward the truck and retrieves a thermos of coffee from the hood. I sigh with relief and Magnolia and I jog to get in.
When we’re safely inside, Rags gets behind the wheel and says gruffly, “It’s Wednesday. The sponsor race is this Sunday. No more messing around when we get there, understood?”
“Understood,” Magnolia says.
I smile at her, and then look back to Rags. “I understand.”
With a slight nod of his head, we travel toward Barney’s house. It’s a quicker trip than it was the day before, and when we arrive, Barney is already outside his house. His eyes move immediately to Magnolia’s empty hands, and the man deflates.
“Next time,” she says. “I promise.”
Barney shrugs. “You can’t go gettin’ a man’s hopes up. You bring muffins one morning and there’s a certain amount of expectation after that.”
The Titan prances when it sees Rags approaching. In anticipation of riding, I wore jeans and my favorite lime-green sneakers, and I’m hoping my preparation isn’t for nothing. Rags opens the Titan’s engine flap, glances inside at the parts within, and closes it. Then he pats the Titan on the neck and scowls at me. “Today, you ride.”
Goose bumps rise on my arms.
Rags strides toward his truck and withdraws the larger of the two bags. Inside is a standard black leather saddle I’ve seen other jockeys use. He walks toward the Titan and then tosses it over the creature’s back.
“With a real horse, we’d put a saddle blanket down first so the leather wouldn’t rub. No need for that here.” He grabs a knob-like thing at the front of the saddle. “The saddlehorn is typically used to mount, dismount, and to keep from falling off if the horse ever bucks. Since you have the handlebars on the dash, you won’t need it for stability. But you’ll still use it to mount.” Rags holds up the stirrups that fall on either side of the Titan’s middle. “You’ll use these to mount and dismount, but also to lean forward and backward depending on the track. If you’re going downhill, lean backward to take weight off the Titan’s front legs. If you’re going uphill, lean forward. This’ll help him maintain top speed during the race.”
I know most of what he’s telling me, but I don’t interrupt. And when he says it’s time to mount, I decide this is my reward for being attentive and patient.
“One foot in the stirrup. Always mount him from the left side.” Rags stands ready to help me. “That goes back to ancient times when soldiers holstered their swords on the left. They mounted on this side so they didn’t accidentally sit on their swords.”
“Is that true?” Magnolia asks.
“All Titans are designed to tolerate being mounted from that side because of that,” Barney answers her. “We liked the idea of keeping to tradition.”
I look at Rags, impressed that these two had a hand in minor details that are still in place for Titan 3.0s. Rags gestures for me to go ahead, and my heart flutters as I slip my foot into the stirrup, grab on to the saddle horn, and pull in a breath. The machine turns its head and gives me a good, curious sniff like a real horse might do. It’s startling, but I remind myself it’s only an artificial response to mimic emotions. Not real ones.
I return to the moment. A moment I’ve thought about since I was twelve years old. Since I first heard about the track being constructed and glimpsed those steels gods being rolled into the forest.
I ease my foot into the stirrup and stretch until my hands find the saddle horn. Pulling in a deep breath, praying I don’t make a fool of myself through mounting alone, I hoist myself up.
My opposite leg swings over the top, and every nerve ending in my body fires at once. I’m on a Titan. I’m sitting in a
When we’re safely inside, Rags gets behind the wheel and says gruffly, “It’s Wednesday. The sponsor race is this Sunday. No more messing around when we get there, understood?”
“Understood,” Magnolia says.
I smile at her, and then look back to Rags. “I understand.”
With a slight nod of his head, we travel toward Barney’s house. It’s a quicker trip than it was the day before, and when we arrive, Barney is already outside his house. His eyes move immediately to Magnolia’s empty hands, and the man deflates.
“Next time,” she says. “I promise.”
Barney shrugs. “You can’t go gettin’ a man’s hopes up. You bring muffins one morning and there’s a certain amount of expectation after that.”
The Titan prances when it sees Rags approaching. In anticipation of riding, I wore jeans and my favorite lime-green sneakers, and I’m hoping my preparation isn’t for nothing. Rags opens the Titan’s engine flap, glances inside at the parts within, and closes it. Then he pats the Titan on the neck and scowls at me. “Today, you ride.”
Goose bumps rise on my arms.
Rags strides toward his truck and withdraws the larger of the two bags. Inside is a standard black leather saddle I’ve seen other jockeys use. He walks toward the Titan and then tosses it over the creature’s back.
“With a real horse, we’d put a saddle blanket down first so the leather wouldn’t rub. No need for that here.” He grabs a knob-like thing at the front of the saddle. “The saddlehorn is typically used to mount, dismount, and to keep from falling off if the horse ever bucks. Since you have the handlebars on the dash, you won’t need it for stability. But you’ll still use it to mount.” Rags holds up the stirrups that fall on either side of the Titan’s middle. “You’ll use these to mount and dismount, but also to lean forward and backward depending on the track. If you’re going downhill, lean backward to take weight off the Titan’s front legs. If you’re going uphill, lean forward. This’ll help him maintain top speed during the race.”
I know most of what he’s telling me, but I don’t interrupt. And when he says it’s time to mount, I decide this is my reward for being attentive and patient.
“One foot in the stirrup. Always mount him from the left side.” Rags stands ready to help me. “That goes back to ancient times when soldiers holstered their swords on the left. They mounted on this side so they didn’t accidentally sit on their swords.”
“Is that true?” Magnolia asks.
“All Titans are designed to tolerate being mounted from that side because of that,” Barney answers her. “We liked the idea of keeping to tradition.”
I look at Rags, impressed that these two had a hand in minor details that are still in place for Titan 3.0s. Rags gestures for me to go ahead, and my heart flutters as I slip my foot into the stirrup, grab on to the saddle horn, and pull in a breath. The machine turns its head and gives me a good, curious sniff like a real horse might do. It’s startling, but I remind myself it’s only an artificial response to mimic emotions. Not real ones.
I return to the moment. A moment I’ve thought about since I was twelve years old. Since I first heard about the track being constructed and glimpsed those steels gods being rolled into the forest.
I ease my foot into the stirrup and stretch until my hands find the saddle horn. Pulling in a deep breath, praying I don’t make a fool of myself through mounting alone, I hoist myself up.
My opposite leg swings over the top, and every nerve ending in my body fires at once. I’m on a Titan. I’m sitting in a
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