DELIVERY DASH

Ping, new order. "320" flashes on my screen, and the needle in my head hits the red. Into the night on my pink-plate 125cc scooter. For the money? Nope. My rival is the ETA. Watch me crush it.

Green light. I weave through the jam, every throttle twist sending a rush up my spine. Second by second I beat the clock, grinning in my helmet. Nothing feels this good.

The counter stops me cold. Kitchen's swamped; my lead melts away. Guys lean in: "Hey, what's your name?" I dress cute, so I'm on the menu? Sorry, sweetie, smiles aren't on the order. In my head, I've already turned the next corner.

Bag in hand, I'm out the door. At the drop-off: "You're late!" I bow and smile. "So sorry!" Truth is, I set a record. I hand it over, bag empty, heart light. I ride off, front wheel up, and finally breathe.

Delivery's done, but my time attack isn't. Blurry eyes? Just the wind. I'm hooked on every thousandth I shave off. This is what alive feels like. Can you keep up? Then scream with me.