#goldengulchmx

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.

The garage smelled like oil, dust, and determination. Morning light cut through the haze, catching on every golden curve of Wells’ bike. The maple leaf emblem on the tank gleamed like fire, a symbol of Wells' Canadian pride, forged and polished in sweat.

Wells crouched low, wrench in hand, tightening a stubborn bolt. His gold-and-black gear shimmered faintly under the work light—black boots firm on the floor, visor hanging off the handlebar beside him. Every click of the wrench echoed the rhythm of his heartbeat. The Golden Gulch was coming, and he was not showing up half-ready.

He wiped his forearm across his brow, leaving a streak of grease. “Perfect,” he muttered. Then, with a grin, “Almost.”

He flipped the switch. The engine roared, low and alive, like it knew what was at stake. The vibration filled the garage, rattling every golden memory he’d ever built. Wells let it run a moment longer, listening, feeling. This wasn’t just a machine. This was his battle gear.

He shut the engine down, pulled off one glove, and reached for his phone.

“Yo, Jibril,” he said when the line picked up. “You busy?”

“Depends,” came the voice on the other end. “You about to drag me into something again?”

Wells chuckled. “Golden Gulch is coming up. Thought you’d wanna get some laps in.”

A beat. Then Jibril’s laugh. “You serious? Bro, I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Of course you were,” Wells said, smirking as he slid his helmet on. “Meet me at the dunes in twenty. Bring the thunder.”

The line clicked off. The garage door rolled open, spilling sunlight across the concrete floor.

Wells fired up the bike again, engine growling like it was ready to run the world. He revved twice, leaned forward, and grinned.

Golden Gulch was waiting. And Wells 58 was ready to ride. 🏁✨