This isn't science fiction.

Witzl commented she doesn't read SF because of the science in it.  Which is a shame, because there's often not that much science, and what is there is usually a gross distortion of real science and is totally bogus.

So I thought I would set about writing a technical story that wouldn't be lost on a non-techie.  For this exercise I chose motorcycling.  I'd appreciate comments from non-bikers to see if their lack of knowledge/enthusiasm for biking were alienated.  Of course, I'd appreciate comments from everyone else too

Paul gunned the throttle as he turned into the main straight, but it was no use. The factory bikes increased their lead, foot by foot, second by second. It wasn’t fair. Their bikes were tuned to perfection, the parts were replaced whenever they were needed, not botched and fixed, and they had unlimited money. If Paul was backed properly, he would be there, up amongst the leaders, instead of languishing back here in fifth place.

Old Man Peters was going to pull the plug. He had said as much just before the race. Brilliant timing. The shop was facing competition from the larger chains, blah blah blah. Tightening belts, blah blah blah. The price was too high. Notice he still drove a Jag, though. If he had spent more money sponsoring the bike, Paul could have made a bit more money on prizes, given the old man more publicity.

With a sudden, sickening jolt Paul realised he had let his concentration slip. His braking point before the first tight bend was zipping by. He jammed on the brakes, sitting up and throwing his weight over to the right. Too late, too fast!

Into the turn and he desperately wanted to brake, but he fought the instinct. Touching the brakes would send him sliding into the verge. Keep the speed constant. Lean the body over as far as possible, to try and keep the bike as upright as possible.

The apex of the bend, and the raised edge scraped his knee-protector. He felt the back wheel twitch, and for a moment the fairing touched the surface. He was almost sick with the certainty of the crash, but then the back wheel stuck to the track again, and he was coming out of the bend, faster than he had ever taken it before.

The knot of bikes in front of him was closer as they braked for the next bend. The leader was out of sight. The others had already settled for a placement, and were competing with each other for second and third places.

A sudden resolve hit him. If this was to be his last race, so be it. His body was flooded with the adrenaline that bend had given him. This was what racing was about. He would push himself to the limit, beyond his limits. If he dropped the bike, what the hell, it was his last race. Better to crash trying than settling for fifth place. He would show him whether the price was too high.

He delayed his braking again, letting his brake point pass by at least half a second, jamming on the brakes, feeling the front fork suspension hitting the bottom of their reach. Then off the brakes and lean, throwing his body over to the inside. Keep the throttle steady, resist the urge to twist the grip down a notch. Curving the bike from the outside of the bend into the apex. Feeling the bike on the point of sliding, losing it’s tenuous grip on the tarmac. Seeing the ground, so much closer, screaming past his head.

For a moment he wondered what it would be like to smash into the ground, feel his leg splinter under the bike, hear his ribs crack on the unforgiving surface. And then he was twisting his right hand, opening the throttle as he came out of the bend, scrabbling back onto the bike as the next left-hander came up. This one was gentler, faster, leading to a short uphill section. No need to brake, just easy on the acceleration until the bend straightened out. He was definitely closer now, closing in on the bunch in front.

As he breasted the rise of the hill he changed up, his front wheel skipping an inch off the ground for an instant as the drive hit the wheels. His engine screamed as he approached the bend into the back straight.

Coming out of the bend he could see that he had gained ground from his last lap, but the factory bikes were at an advantage on the back straight, pulling away with their superior tuning. He would have to do it all on the bends.

Leaving it heart-stoppingly late on the next bend, he came out so close, so close to the outside verge, and there was the chicane up ahead. A sharp left-and-right zig-zag, designed to slow the bikes for the last bend before the straight. The bikes ahead were in file. There was only one line you could take, unless you wanted to end up spread over the bank the other side. The chicane wasn’t about acceleration, it most certainly wasn’t about overtaking. It was about staying on for the next bend.

What the hell!

Paul jerked the throttle grip round so hard he hurt his wrist. He picked out the line, marked by the rubber of the previous laps. Wait, wait…

Now! He grabbed the front brake lever as hard as he could, forcing his foot on the rear brake pedal. He was thrown forward towards the tank as the bike bucked against the inertia, desperately tapping the gear pedal down with his other foot.

Then everything was off, just the throttle grip held steady as he threw himself into the chicane, leaning left then vaulting right over the saddle. Faster, much faster then he had taken it before. Not seeing the line, not thinking about it. Moving on instinct. Driven by the fear of crashing.

Then the shallow right into the main straight. Number four had dropped behind the other two by maybe a second. He had been too cautious through the chicane. Ha! He was going to take him. Paul’s exit speed was faster, he was gaining.

But then the superior engine of his rivals told, and they started to pull away on the main straight. To his right in the pits his team was holding up his time on a chalk board, but it was irrelevant now. Taking his opponents ahead of him was all that mattered, and they were pulling away. Paul screamed in frustration. But there were still seven laps to go, and he was closer now than he was for the last lap.

He kept up the pressure. Each bend he rode the line, barely keeping the wheels on the tarmac, feeling the tyres on the point of sliding. Coming out of the bend onto the back straight and he was in the slipstream of number four, tucked down behind him and using his speed to suck him along. This time, he wasn’t able to shake Paul off his tail on the back straight.

The bend at the end of the straight, and still Paul’s front tyre was within a foot of the other’s rear tyre. All in the bends, the bends. No chance on the straights.

His opponent reached his braking point, braked and leant over, following the line left by the others. Paul left it later, throwing the bike over later, taking a sharper line into the bend. His front tyre barely missed number four’s rear tyre as his line brought him to the apex later. But he was travelling faster, on a shallower exit line, aiming for the sweet spot, the outside edge of the track ready for the chicane.

As he reached the edge he was half a bike in front. The other biker had no choice. The lead bike has right of way. He had to slow to avoid Paul, or slide off onto the grass. And braking to avoid Paul meant he was going to be slower on the straight, slower than Paul.

Then the chicane. Again Paul rode it at suicidal speed, throwing the bike about by reflex. The bend into the straight and now the two bikes in front of him, three, four seconds away. Catchable. Beatable. He didn’t bother checking behind him. Behind him was beaten. Ahead of him was all that mattered.

As he flashed past the pits he was vaguely aware in his periphery of his crew jumping up and down. But he didn’t glance their way. He was fixed on the bikes ahead. His prey.

During the next lap Paul screamed after the two bikes in front of him, bearing down like a cheetah on a pair of gazelles, screaming his frustration when they pulled away on straight stretches, roaring in animal hunger as he bore down on them, foot on foot, millisecond on millisecond in the bends.

Entering the main straight again, he was a second from them, no more. Too far to slipstream them, but definitely closer. Definitely catchable. He was going to get them this lap for sure. He knew it.

There was a suit in the pits now. Oh, now the Old Man takes an interest. The biker in front, one of the Hondas, looked behind him on the straight. Then, to Paul’s delight, he took a double take. "Oh yes. I’m here", he thought. "Be afraid."

Through the bends he closed in on them. Coming out of the chicane he was on their tail, slipstreaming, letting them fight the battle against the air. Onto the main straight and he could keep up with them. The Honda driver looked around again. He was scared. He could see his podium position in jeopardy.

Paul could see the crowd standing up. Maybe they were cheering. He couldn’t hear. All he could hear was the scream of the bikes. The roar of the wind. And something else. It was himself, he realised, screaming himself hoarse like a Celtic warrior bearing down on his enemy.

Towards the end of the straight the Honda rider made his move. He flicked out to his right and tried to take the Suzuki on the inside during the approach to the right-hander. Paul kept his line, trying to close the gap between himself and the Suzuki. Braking, Paul again out-braked them, ending up barely an inch from the Suzuki’s rear wheel.

The Honda couldn’t make it. He tried to get in front of the Suzuki, but failed. But Paul had taken his place, he couldn’t get back into the ideal line on the bend. He had to take a sharper line. A slower line. On the apex he was level with Paul. But by the time they had straightened both Paul and the Suzuki were ahead, and going faster. Yes! Gotchya!

Now the Suzuki was his prize, and Paul kept close to him, feeling the heat from his exhaust, coming close to touching his tyre on the bends, sitting in the pocket of stillness caused by the Suzuki’s wake.

It was the bend before the chicane again when Paul took the Suzuki, just like he had the other bike. Same move, then lose him on the chicane.

The straight, and this time Paul afforded himself a look at the pits. The chalk board was bouncing around as the crew jumped and hugged each other. Fastest lap of the race. That was him?

Then the ultimate prize. He had to take down the leader. But he was way ahead, several seconds. And only four laps to do it in. Damn it. He had to try.

The next lap was a whirl of near crashes, as Paul pushed the bike beyond what was safe. Twice he wobbled on the bends as the suspension heated up, became less viscous and less forgiving to the punishment of harsh braking. Once he was sure he had lost it as the rear tyre momentarily locked going into the bend, treating the fans to a billow of grey smoke. But each time instinct saved him, and his rage at the lead bike forced him on, faster, more reckless, till he had the leader in his sights. Two laps to go, and he was barely two seconds behind. He might not be able to get him now, but he was going to give him a run for his money. It wasn’t going to be the walkover he might have thought.

During the penultimate lap the leader kept looking back over his shoulder. After each bend, at the end of the straight, there would be the glance. And there would be Paul, hunting him down, not giving him a moments rest.

The back straight, right-hander and then the chicane. Paul was a second behind him, 50 yards at these speeds. He saw the anxious glance back as he aimed for the approach line. He saw the slight delay in braking, the wobble that took him slightly off the line. He saw his right knee hit the raised concrete of the inside curve. The bike slid on it’s right side, dragging the rider by his trapped right leg. Then it hit the curb on the other side, flipping the bike over, snapping the rider over like a whip, slamming him so hard onto the grass that he bounced.

And then Paul was braking, zipping through the chicane, passing the still tumbling bike and rider, into the last bend.

And he was in the lead. He was first! Elation filled Paul as he lay on the tank, throttle grip twisted full open. One more lap and he would lift that cup for the first time. He glanced back, and as suddenly as the joy had hit him, it left. There, a couple of seconds behind him, were the others, pursuing him. Trying to take his trophy from him.

He was filled with a sick dread. For so many laps he had a target in front of him, a prey to hunt down. Now he was being hunted. He knew he had to push himself. If he rode like he had in the previous few laps, he would easily win. But if he rode like that, he might drop the bike, just like he had witnessed. Had he, filled with fear, pushed himself too hard when the trophy was probably still going to be his anyway?

The first bend was approaching and now Paul was filled with indecision. Should he push himself, scream round, risk falling to the pack behind? Or should he play it safe, coast round, and hope that they couldn’t catch him? He knew it should be somewhere in between, but where to draw the line?

He felt sick. He was sure he was going to throw up. Not the best thing to do in a full-face helmet. He took the first bend cautiously. Too cautiously. "Come on. Wake up" he cursed himself, gunning the throttle. The other bends he took more aggressively, but nearly vomited at every twitch, every near miss. On the back straight he risked another glance. They were close. Far too close. Were they going to catch him?

Round the bend, and there was the chicane. But there were the marshals too. They were holding up the yellow flags. Yes! Salvation. Oh thank you, marshals. Yellow. Hazard. Slow down. No overtaking. He was safe

Paul slowed and took the chicane at a more reasonable pace. On the far side there was a ring of marshals around the still body. Policemen were at the crowd edge, notebooks in hand.

Paul flicked the throttle open, took the bend and passed the line half a second before the next bike. He throttled down, 60 miles an hour seeming a crawl along the main straight. He punched the air, acknowledging the crowd. The Suzuki pulled up alongside him, the rider shaking Paul’s hand, then fell back for Paul’s lap of honour.

Paul flipped up the visor, wiping at his eyes. Big girly! He had better stop crying by the time he got back to the pits, or the boys would have a field day.

As he made the slow progression round, people were applauding. Now he could hear the roar. They didn’t know who the hell he was, he knew. But there they were, giving him a standing ovation anyway. Yes. This was what it was all about.

He pulled a couple of wheelies on the back straight, entertaining his new, instant fan base, then turned into the approach for the chicane. The crowd here was silent. As he approached the crash site he could see a woman being held by two marshals. She was fighting to get past them. Her face was distorted into an inhuman mask of grief. The body was still on the ground. A couple of St John’s men were kneeling by him, but they didn’t seem to be doing anything. Paul suddenly knew that there was nothing that they could do for him.

He slowed, almost to a stop, but the marshals waved him on. Stopping would be a hazard.

Numb, he rode round and into the pits. The boys grabbed him, took the bike and hauled him off. They were holding him, jumping up and down like little kids. Paul reached for his helmet strap, but then realised his gloves were still on. Somebody took his gloves for him. Someone else released the strap, taking his helmet off. All around there was laughter and shouting.

Through the melee Old Man Peters forced himself to Paul’s side and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Leading him aside for a moment he pumped Paul’s hand.

"Well, on that performance I think we can safely say we’ll be sponsoring you again next season."

Paul looked into his cheerful, grinning face.

"No. The price is too high."