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Lately B has been trying to teach Ryder the “line.”

The line is the ideal position on a race track a driver uses to approach a curve and straightaways. B explains it to Ryder with sketches, with gestures, with toy cars, and finally, with time on the track. It seems to me mastery of this skill is 50% instinct and 50% skill.

Back in the day, B used to race motocross. He describes the feeling of racing as an adrenaline rush unlike anything other than free-falling. Grit, speed, a screaming motor — and for poetic justice, wind in his hair — these are the feelings racing stirs up. While Ryder practices the line, sometimes he lifts his right hand off the wheel to feel the wind. Sometimes I also watch him pound the gas tank, as he explains, “to go faster.”

ryder smoothie

I don’t know what to make of this sport. When I dreamed up Ryder, I imagined an intellectual — a boy writing haikus with his spaghettios, and a tennis racket on his other hand. I imagined explaining “lines” of poetic verse, not the other.

This version is clearly B’s.

Oh, and I adore him! I adore him just the same