Every arena a different ride. Every lap a fight.
Each track is its own place in Norway, at its own time of year: a mountain mine with a crest jump that flies you down a long landing hill, an old copper mine where the track loops over itself on a bridge and dives through a slag heap, a harbour in the rain with a bridge you jump off, white dunes under the midnight sun, a mud bowl at the edge of a spruce forest with a creek to cross, a summer gravel pit full of jumps, and an ice hall where the dirt is trucked in onto the rink.
The trucks feel heavy and alive. They squat when you floor it, dive when you brake, lean out of the turns and bounce on their springs after every landing. Wet mud flies in clods, dry dust rolls up behind you, water sprays sideways out of the puddles, and every scrape along the wall throws a rain of sparks.
