Free The Courier's New Bicycle by Kim Westwood

hours keeping folk safe in their beds.
    We arrive at the racetrack start, a giant roundabout at the junction of Reserve and Wharf. The rivals are already parked around the circle, their spectators gathered in the middle on makeshift risers to watch the duels and cheer on their favourites. Anwar and I survey the moonlit scene, each souped-up ride attracting its own knot of torch-carrying groupies.
    The energy here is primal, supercharged: the pungent smells of rubber and exhaust cutting through the cold night air, and the crowd getting off on their own potent mix of adrenaline and hormones. I can understand the attraction, even though engines aren’t my thing — they’re far moreInez’s passion. If she didn’t cherish every perfect part of her restored ’58 FC, she’d probably be down here on the full moon burning rubber with the best of them.
    On first look, the drag-racing fraternity is an eclectic mix of dress codes. The racers themselves favour motocross clothing stitched with a multitude of defunct brand names, while their groupies appear to divide along rather old-fashioned lines — the butch and the femme; although it would be a mistake to assume only one sex is being represented within those categories. Briefly I wonder where I’d fit in, until I catch sight of the ‘ghetto’ set in baggy clothes with caps and hoodies.
    Anwar and I agree to approach the groups separately. I’m a bit sorry, because to witness this unassuming and neatly suited man at work is quite something: his natural equanimity, matched with genuine interest, manages to persuade even the most reticent to divulge what they know. It’s a gift, and I keep hoping some of it will eventually rub off on me.
    He heads to the group gathered at a piece of grotesquery that could once have been a Volkswagen Beetle but now looks more like its mutilated offspring, while I make for the closest knot of spectator femmes.
    Aware of my approach, they tacitly ignore me until I’m in their midst. I introduce myself, and they eye me with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. I can see they’re wondering how to categorise me. I feel the irony: always the ‘other’, even here.
    The first to introduce herself is ‘Tits’. I’m not sure I’ve heard right. I keep my eyes on hers.
    â€˜Titania,’ she explains. ‘Like in Shakespeare. And that’s my boyfriend, Squid, over there, who your friend’s talkin to right now.’
    Following Titania’s lead, the rest offer limp hands to hold briefly, the baubles on their fingers like beads on abacuses. The friendliest of them totters expertly on a pair of platform shoes. Goth in her use of lipstick and eyeliner, she has safety pins stuck through each eyebrow, her nose, her bottom lip. I get the feeling the trail doesn’t end there. She tells me her name is Lola.
    I explain what Anwar and I are looking for, and one by one they shake spiked and lacquered hairdos.
    â€˜Talk to my boyfriend, Skinny,’ says Lola. ‘He knows everything about everything.’
    She points across the road to a figure getting out of a matt-black speedster, most of its engine sitting on its bonnet. A truly brave act would be to drive that through suburbia. As for his name, this is no urban-slang irony. Skinny really is skinny. He swaggers over and horizontals his index and middle fingers at me in a drag-racer’s salute.
    I ask him what I asked the group, and he replies emphatically. ‘No way, bro, not here. And I’d know, cos I shittin well own these bad streets.’
    Skinny blows smoke out of more orifices than his car’s rear end, but he’s likeable with it. Beneath the macho veneer, I detect a brittleness that makes me sure his girlfriend is the stronger, emotionally, of the pair.
    Lola gives his hand a little squeeze. ‘Got a hello for yourbest babe?’ she asks, and he tips her back with a flourish and kisses her the