he moment we get to our bikes, Tyler's back in teacher mode, which makes things a lot less confusing. My butterflies settle – giving the nerves their chance in the spotlight – while I listen to him talk about transponders.

"Each bike is fitted with one," he explains, pointing to mine. "Every time a rider passes the meter at the finish line, our time is registered to the thousandth of a second."

I nod, but I'm barely even listening. My pounding heart reverberates in my ears, drowning out everything else.

He briefly recounts each color of the flags: green to signify the start of the race, yellow an obstruction, red to stop, blue with a yellow stripe to warn lapped riders to move on over, and white is one lap to go. "Checkered, of course, means the race is over."

I don't bother to tell him I already know this. Having him in teacher mode and not whispering sirenita makes it easier to focus on the race.

After gearing up, we take our positions in the starting gate. According to Tyler, the way the qualifying round works is like this: there are three separate races with thirty riders each – ours being the first – of which the ten fastest riders from each circuit succeed.

"Weird way to do it," I'd mentioned, and he'd grinned in return.

"This is a small town, sirenita. We don't play by the rules."

My breath feels shaky as I stare straight ahead. His voice still plays on a loop in my head, reminding me of what to do. Don't take off too early, or you'll get your front wheel caught in the gate, costing you time. It's somehow distracting and calming all at once.

Somebody says something over the intercom. My heart is pounding, my palms cold and sweaty in my gloves. I can feel the blood pumping wildly in my ears, making it hard to hear. In a moment of panic, my eyes roam the balcony, taking in the hordes of people loudly cheering us on.

Oh god.

I turn to the track. "You can do this," I whisper. "You can do this."

Three.

Two.

One.

The gate drops toward me, and suddenly, we're off. I'm flying forward, front wheel raised several inches off the ground as I career across the uneven dirt. It takes a good few seconds for my brain to switch on, but then the nerves in my stomach suddenly dissipate to nothing, replaced with a dose of adrenaline.

All thirty of us are huddled together, skidding around the corner before straightening out for a longer stretch, where I manage to gain speed. A quick glance to my right shows Tyler beside me, matching my pace. I'm certain he's capable of leaving me behind, but for now, he's not leaving my side. I'm not sure whether it's my competitive streak or the comfort of seeing his bike next to mine, but I shoot like a bullet over the next rolling hill, hitting the ground with a flawless finish that rattles my body.

A quick scan of the horizon tells me all I need to know. There's a mud patch coming up made worse by last night's rainfall, and a couple of riders are caught in the chaos. I see it up ahead and steer to the right, where the mud is relatively flatter.

It's all about knowing what's coming, Dad would say. Don't look at now, be ready for what's next.

With the hum of the bike like music beneath me, I start to feel untouchable. But then a flashy red bike zips past to overtake me, his wheels so close to mine that for a second, I freeze, certain we're about to collide. He almost skims my leg, then darts off down the beaten track, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.

All I can see is dust and debris. I let go of a handlebar to wipe my goggles, nearly crashing into the barrier. With a quick sharp turn, I straighten up and fly round the bend, where I end up dabbing my leg. If Tyler wasn't so preoccupied with riding, he'd kill me for that.

Cheers ring out as we pass a crowd huddled by the barrier. Their encouragement urges me forward, desperate to show these people what I'm made of, so I pick up speed. I pass a few more bikes, rapidly catching up with Tyler, who's charging full throttle ahead.

Another sharp turn. I'm going so fast, a part of me is certain I'm about to fly off, thrown into the air like my dad. I've never needed to push this hard when training with Tyler, but these riders are good. It means the tournament is going to be much harder than I'd thought.

It's not long before the distance between each bike grows wider. I push myself harder, flying over ramps and hitting each turn with an amateur-like recklessness.

The white flag suddenly lifts, and I'm filled with relief. One more round. One more round to make is all worth it. My body is tired, and there's a voice in my head that demands I stop and give my body a break. I grip down harder, drowning it out with the roar of my engine, and push hurtle down the last remaining stretch.

Come on

Come on.

Come on.

The finish line is almost in view. My jacket and trousers are wet with sweat, my fingers blood-white. With one final push, I'm flying across the finish line with several others and skidding to a turbulent stop.

The next few minutes are a blur of fatigue. People hurry over to help us with our bikes before leading us over to the leaderboard. It takes a couple of minutes for our scores to transfer, but then there they are, sitting above us on a big black monitor, deciding our fate.

I scan the list of names, searching for the first ten competitors. Tyler's name is second on the list, which makes my heart jump in excitement. I keep scanning further, further, desperation taking over when I don't see my name. I haven't made it, I'm not heading to the tournament. All of the training was for nothing.

Then, finally, I see it, seventh in the list.

I qualified.

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