Golden Gear-Up Locker lights burn like sunrise on metal. Ezan zips into a gold/black race jacket, leather hugging shoulders cut by leg day. Gloves flex. Boots click. He lifts the #1 lid, smirks at his reflection, and taps the visor once, command acknowledged.

Fueling the Machine Tank open, funnel steady. Brotein Boost Fuel pours like liquid brass. “Clean fuel. Clean laps.” Chain oiled. Sprockets checked. Tire pressure dialed to desert bite. He logs the settings on a slate: gearing, sag, throttle map, golden math for golden dirt.

The Emir of the Dirt Track Out on the Golden Gulch course, next to the manicured calm of the golf greens, the air tastes like clay and victory. Flags snap. Ezan straddles the bike, hips square, chest up. “I own corners; corners don’t own me.”

Practice Run Warm lap. Rhythm section. He floats the whoops, stands tall over the pegs, breath smooth. Triple cleared. On the back straight he learns the wind, then cuts throttle to coast and listen, engine note, chain song, knobby chatter. Data absorbed. Lines chosen.

Pit Stop Ritual Back to the tent: bolts torqued, levers aligned, fresh tape on grips. A long pull of pre-race shake; a short prayer to speed. He texts the crew: Persona racing: Ezan. Bike: MX450. Prep: complete. Helmet on. Mind empty. Body ready.

Golden Gulch, Ready He rolls to staging with the other entrants, Golden bros and invited outsiders, forty slots up for grabs. He nods instead of talking, eyes on the gate, fingers drumming the bar to a silent countdown. Qualifier first; showtime always.

The Final Look Camera close. Visor down. Golden eyes narrow behind the shield. “Service. Strength. Shine,” he says to nobody and everybody. Throttle blips. Dirt jumps. The Emir is locked in.