A light hearted look at the Valencia race and going on ............ written by a fan - found https://archiveofourown.org/works/5134661
Deep in the jungles of South America lay the city of Valencia. It was once again selected as the final circuit for the MotoGP final, 2015. The championship had been a bumpy ride, and many lives had been lost on the road to Valencia, although that is a bit of an exaggeration as everyone was still alive. The sun rose gently at first, but then quickly over the city on the crispy cream morning of the race.
Rossi was strolling around the streets looking for some breakfast. There were tons of cafés and street vendors bustling around the place, so he strolled front-first in to a Burger King. As he was queueing, a little jerk in an red cap cut in front of him. Rossi tapped him on the shoulder, and as he turned around Rossi was aghasp to see the face of Marc Marquez staring back at him. "Shut it, Valenti-NO," said Marquez.
"Don't-a be-a a ....-a," replied Rossi, trying to be diplomatic, "and-a .... off".
Diplomacy had failed. Marquez lunged a headbutt directly at Rossi's fist, which connected right on his eye. "Everyone, this man just sissy-punched me in the eye! Cheater!"
The crowd in the Burger King gasped. Collectively they dropped hundreds of fries on the floor. Suddenly a tiny, gentle man with a heart of gold appeared. "Please be leaving alone both of you," he said, mustering his strongest little voice.
"Dani," Valentino whispered, caressing his face, "I'm-a sorry. Marquez, why-a you no go first in the-a queue?"
Marquez pouted. "I don't care about the queue, jerk. I hate you. You've kicked my bike, Stanley, to death. I will never forgive you."
It was true. Rossi had kicked the crap out of Marquez's bike and in a self-destructive seizure it had given up on life. The damage was just too severe and after Sepang the bike was melted down and made in to a memorial which read "In memory of Stanley." Rossi had mixed feeling about his behavior, because Italians are deep unlike their pizzas which are thin and crispy.
"Hey-a Marquez, why-a your bike have-a boys name?"
Marquez turned so red it seemed like his hat disappeared from existence and merged in to his head so he actually looked like a satan. He ran out, shouldering his way through Pedrosa. "Hey-a," yelled Rossi, "watch-a out! Dani has-a hollow bones!"
* * *
Finally it was race o'clock. An emergency pre-race meeting had been called, with all the riders in attendance apart from Maverick Viñales because he is literally too cool for that. Marquez sat at the front pretending to cry, and turned around to glare at Rossi. He had put heavy make-up on his eye to make it look like a black eye, but I think he had used gothy black lipstick. Whatever it was, it looked terrible and unconvincing to me, and also I shouldn't be narrating this in first person: sorry.
"We have gathered you here to issue more penalty points for Valentino Rossi", said the Ultimate Ruler of MotoGP, Shigeru Miyamoto. "Due to a morning burger-strike on poor victim Marquez, you now have an additional 8 points, so start from the back of the grid."
"Hey-a, what?" protested Rossi, "it's-a bad-a fake! Even-a the narrator-a isn't convinced-a by this!"
"Silence!" screamed Miyamoto, "20 more points! You are now limited to a 200cc bike!"
"What-a the ....!" Rossi egged.
"1000 points! You are now not allowed an engine!"
Rossi opened his mouth but Miyamoto ....-blocked him, "one more word and you start hands handcuffed behind your back and blindfolded!"
Rossi held his tongue, but not literally because then his precious hands would get all sticky with saliva and then he wouldn't be able to grip the bike later on during the race. You have to know these things to be a MotoGP expert.
* * *
At the starting grid, Rossi sighed. He had a nice little BMX bike, it was even in his yellow colors. He could see all the riders in front of him. Baz turned around and shouted "Valentino! I'll let you through!", but Rossi just sighed and turned his hemlet round for a bit to cover his face and escape for a while.
Far in the distance he could see the other competitors, except he couldn't because his helmet was still backwards. But if it wasn't, he would be able to see Pedrosa, up front and proud. Lorenzo was there, still with his blinders on so he didn't zoom off. Marquez was probably getting his hair combed by his dad. This was a big day for everyone, the organizers had even hung a huge sign which said "MotoGP 2015 Final Extravagina" and there were streamers and doopers and all sorts of exciting things to get the crowd riled up.
Deep in his heart, Rossi began to feel a bubbling sensation, much like an aortic jacuzzi. "I can't-a let championship number-a ten slip away," he said, his voice still muffled inside his back-to-front helmet. All the random confused people who wander around in a panic before the race cleared off the track and all that remained were the riders. Rossi adjusted his helmet the correct way around, putting an end to that contrived plot element. He waited for the lights to go on, then off.
In an instant, he was off. His legs were a blur, and the salty smell of exploding rubber shot out behind him. By the first corner he was already up to 15th place. A BMX bike can turn on a dime, even at 250 km/h. He could overtake effortlessly, almost like he wasn't there, like a ghost or someone who didn't turn up. It wasn't so different from the regular MotoGP. Rossi's legs were getting the workout of their life, but he could handle it.
After the first lap Rossi showed no sign of slowing down. In fact, he was going faster and was already up to 10th place. On the second lap, he clocked the track record. There was no stopping him. Every lap he gained a place up until 5th. At that point, the rider ahead of him was Marc Marquez, who was coasting along at a leisurely pace waiting for Rossi to catch up.
Rossi knew what he had to do: He had to overtake Marquez and also try not to kick his bike in half. He pedalled as hard as he could and started to overtake, and that's when he became nervous. It was too easy. He turned to look at Marquez to see if he was going to pull any naughty tricks, and just as he turned his head he saw Marquez pulling out a ball and chain from a holster on his back. As he pulled it out, the spiked ball on the end ignited on fire.
"There is nothing," yellled Marquez, swinging the weapon around his head, "NOTHING in the rules about not using one of these."
Rossi ducked the first swing, and the burning spiked ball of death whooshed over his head and singed the top of his helmet. Marquez flipped it round to come back for another swing and Rossi had no choice but to slam on the brakes. Marquez turned his head to see Rossi behind him, but when he looked he didn't see anyone. In a fluster, Marquez had completely lost track of Rossi, until he realised that Rossi had pulled a fast one and zoomed round the other side of him and was now speeding out in front.
As Rossi zoomed away, he gave Marquez the finger with both hands, and then just stuck up all his fingers as if that was somehow more offensive. He was now in 4th, with eight laps to go.
* * *
Up ahead on the track, a dangerous situation was about to unfold that was so dangerous and terrifying and sad, that if you are of a sensitive nature you might want to skip a few paragraphs. A small turtle named Innocent Charles had crawled on to the track in search of revenge. Revenge for his fallen father, Garry The Seagull, who had been mercilessly slain by Iannone only a few weeks before.
Innocent Charles stood in middle of the track as Iannone approached. He looked him clean in the eye and said "you killed my father, monster! Now we must joust!"
Iannone didn't know what to say, but for some reason he decided to say "I think you were adopted". The look of disbelief and horror in Innocent Charles's eyes cut to his heart. He couldn't do anything, he had no choice but to collide with Innocent Charles at maximum speed, which is Iannone's favorite speed. Iannone was knocked out of the race, and Innocent Charles was blasted into a million pieces. Later in that week, Iannone would erect a memorial for Innocent Charles and Garry the Seagull, so at least their memory will live on through the generations.
Rossi came up the track next, and the confused panicking people hadn't had time to get the vacuum cleaner out and clean up the track. Hundreds of tiny turtle fragments were scattered everywhere, as sharp as caltrops, which historically were made out of turtle fragments. Rossi did his best to avoid them, but sadly he went bumpity-bump right over one. His front tyre blew out and deflated. He immediately began to lose speed.
"What's wrong with you, loser?" said Marquez, pulling up next to him, "can't see because you're crying so hard about a dead chicken?"
It was rare for Marquez to get chickens and turtles confused, he was usually very accurate in telling the difference. Rossi had to think fast. He popped a wheel and disconnected his front wheel, still whilst peddling at 250km/h. He pulled out the inner tube, and quickly found the damaged area. Leaning over, he forced his fingers into the track and peeled up a large lump of molten rubber from the surface. He placed it cleanly over the damaged tyre and held it aloft so it would quickly cool and harden together in the wind. He blew in to the valve to re-inflate the tyre, all whilst still popping a wheelie and peddling at 250km/h and also steering.
He turned to look Marquez in the eye. "I-a would-a ask you-a to help-a inflate this," he quipped, "but-a you suck."
In a fit of rage, Marquez swung his ball and chain clean into Rossi's face. Rossi had no time or ability to dodge, as he was currently doing about four impossible things. The flaming ball cleanly connected with his helmet and he was immediately sent airborne. He fell off, and over the turbulence of sliding over the dirt next to the track he saw the crumpled remains of his bike smashing in to some tyres near some confused, panicking people, and he saw Marquez zooming away round the corner.
Marquez laughed to himself like the Count from Sesame Street. He took pleasure in knowing he was so far up Race Direction's buttcakes that Rossi would probably be penalized for what just happened. He set his bike to really fast mode, and decided to catch up with Lorenzo and whoever else was ahead. He leaned back to relax, thinking the last two laps would be an easy ride.
As he relaxed, he felt a tap on his shoulder. A zap of panic went down his spine directly into his bowels. He turned his head slowly, but he already knew who it was. Behind him, and to the side a little, Rossi was running at full pelt matching Marquez's speed. "You-a thought-a I need-a the motorbike to go-a fast?" said Rossi, "I need-a the motorbike to go-a slow!"
Rossi delivered a boot to the head right in Marquez's neck. Marquez crumpled and went flying off the bike, tumbling through the air and landed in the crowd smouldering. Rossi jumped on Marquez's bike and set it to really, really fast mode.
Over the next two laps he approached Lorenzo, but sadly Lorenzo was too far ahead. When the chessboard flag was raised, Rossi was just behind Lorenzo.
* * *
After the victory lap, they returned to parc ferme. Lorenzo was dazed, and the bright flashing lights and crowds made him dizzy. Shigeru Miyamoto arrived to clear up the confusion.
"First of all," Miyamoto said, "355,000 penalty points for Valentino Rossi for his awful attitude and disrespect. 566 bonus championship points to Marquez, making him the overall winner."
"Hah!" said Lorenzo, failing to understand any of that. "I won the race!"
Suddenly a tiny person, so small and gentle and lovely that it's almost impossible, piped up. "I won the race," he said, "I finish about ten minutes ago. Why nobody notices me?"
Rossi kneeled down to speak to him. "Dani-a, you-a are the-a best of us."
"I actually finish first in every race this season," he complained, "nobody notice me."
Shigeru Miyamoto turned to face him. "Who's this guy?" he asked.
"I'm Dani Pedrosa," said Dani Pedrosa.
Miyamoto shrugged his shoulders. "Never heard of you. Do you want to be a motorbike racer when you grow up?"
Dani looked crestfallen, which is pertinent because he actually has a crest. "Ey-a, come on," said Rossi, ruffling Pedrosa's hair and feathers, "let's-a forget about-a this ....-show. It's all-a ratings-a game now. They-a no care-a about who wins-a or who-a loses."
Dani smiled. He knew that Rossi would always have a golden convergence point in his heart for him.
Rossi held Pedrosa's hand, "let's-a go back-a to my ranch, I can-a have a beer, you can-a have-a a juice, we can-a race until the sun sets."
They walked off into the distance.
IN MEMORY OF GARRY THE SEAGULL, INNOCENT CHARLES AND STANLEY THE BIKE
Deep in the jungles of South America lay the city of Valencia. It was once again selected as the final circuit for the MotoGP final, 2015. The championship had been a bumpy ride, and many lives had been lost on the road to Valencia, although that is a bit of an exaggeration as everyone was still alive. The sun rose gently at first, but then quickly over the city on the crispy cream morning of the race.
Rossi was strolling around the streets looking for some breakfast. There were tons of cafés and street vendors bustling around the place, so he strolled front-first in to a Burger King. As he was queueing, a little jerk in an red cap cut in front of him. Rossi tapped him on the shoulder, and as he turned around Rossi was aghasp to see the face of Marc Marquez staring back at him. "Shut it, Valenti-NO," said Marquez.
"Don't-a be-a a ....-a," replied Rossi, trying to be diplomatic, "and-a .... off".
Diplomacy had failed. Marquez lunged a headbutt directly at Rossi's fist, which connected right on his eye. "Everyone, this man just sissy-punched me in the eye! Cheater!"
The crowd in the Burger King gasped. Collectively they dropped hundreds of fries on the floor. Suddenly a tiny, gentle man with a heart of gold appeared. "Please be leaving alone both of you," he said, mustering his strongest little voice.
"Dani," Valentino whispered, caressing his face, "I'm-a sorry. Marquez, why-a you no go first in the-a queue?"
Marquez pouted. "I don't care about the queue, jerk. I hate you. You've kicked my bike, Stanley, to death. I will never forgive you."
It was true. Rossi had kicked the crap out of Marquez's bike and in a self-destructive seizure it had given up on life. The damage was just too severe and after Sepang the bike was melted down and made in to a memorial which read "In memory of Stanley." Rossi had mixed feeling about his behavior, because Italians are deep unlike their pizzas which are thin and crispy.
"Hey-a Marquez, why-a your bike have-a boys name?"
Marquez turned so red it seemed like his hat disappeared from existence and merged in to his head so he actually looked like a satan. He ran out, shouldering his way through Pedrosa. "Hey-a," yelled Rossi, "watch-a out! Dani has-a hollow bones!"
* * *
Finally it was race o'clock. An emergency pre-race meeting had been called, with all the riders in attendance apart from Maverick Viñales because he is literally too cool for that. Marquez sat at the front pretending to cry, and turned around to glare at Rossi. He had put heavy make-up on his eye to make it look like a black eye, but I think he had used gothy black lipstick. Whatever it was, it looked terrible and unconvincing to me, and also I shouldn't be narrating this in first person: sorry.
"We have gathered you here to issue more penalty points for Valentino Rossi", said the Ultimate Ruler of MotoGP, Shigeru Miyamoto. "Due to a morning burger-strike on poor victim Marquez, you now have an additional 8 points, so start from the back of the grid."
"Hey-a, what?" protested Rossi, "it's-a bad-a fake! Even-a the narrator-a isn't convinced-a by this!"
"Silence!" screamed Miyamoto, "20 more points! You are now limited to a 200cc bike!"
"What-a the ....!" Rossi egged.
"1000 points! You are now not allowed an engine!"
Rossi opened his mouth but Miyamoto ....-blocked him, "one more word and you start hands handcuffed behind your back and blindfolded!"
Rossi held his tongue, but not literally because then his precious hands would get all sticky with saliva and then he wouldn't be able to grip the bike later on during the race. You have to know these things to be a MotoGP expert.
* * *
At the starting grid, Rossi sighed. He had a nice little BMX bike, it was even in his yellow colors. He could see all the riders in front of him. Baz turned around and shouted "Valentino! I'll let you through!", but Rossi just sighed and turned his hemlet round for a bit to cover his face and escape for a while.
Far in the distance he could see the other competitors, except he couldn't because his helmet was still backwards. But if it wasn't, he would be able to see Pedrosa, up front and proud. Lorenzo was there, still with his blinders on so he didn't zoom off. Marquez was probably getting his hair combed by his dad. This was a big day for everyone, the organizers had even hung a huge sign which said "MotoGP 2015 Final Extravagina" and there were streamers and doopers and all sorts of exciting things to get the crowd riled up.
Deep in his heart, Rossi began to feel a bubbling sensation, much like an aortic jacuzzi. "I can't-a let championship number-a ten slip away," he said, his voice still muffled inside his back-to-front helmet. All the random confused people who wander around in a panic before the race cleared off the track and all that remained were the riders. Rossi adjusted his helmet the correct way around, putting an end to that contrived plot element. He waited for the lights to go on, then off.
In an instant, he was off. His legs were a blur, and the salty smell of exploding rubber shot out behind him. By the first corner he was already up to 15th place. A BMX bike can turn on a dime, even at 250 km/h. He could overtake effortlessly, almost like he wasn't there, like a ghost or someone who didn't turn up. It wasn't so different from the regular MotoGP. Rossi's legs were getting the workout of their life, but he could handle it.
After the first lap Rossi showed no sign of slowing down. In fact, he was going faster and was already up to 10th place. On the second lap, he clocked the track record. There was no stopping him. Every lap he gained a place up until 5th. At that point, the rider ahead of him was Marc Marquez, who was coasting along at a leisurely pace waiting for Rossi to catch up.
Rossi knew what he had to do: He had to overtake Marquez and also try not to kick his bike in half. He pedalled as hard as he could and started to overtake, and that's when he became nervous. It was too easy. He turned to look at Marquez to see if he was going to pull any naughty tricks, and just as he turned his head he saw Marquez pulling out a ball and chain from a holster on his back. As he pulled it out, the spiked ball on the end ignited on fire.
"There is nothing," yellled Marquez, swinging the weapon around his head, "NOTHING in the rules about not using one of these."
Rossi ducked the first swing, and the burning spiked ball of death whooshed over his head and singed the top of his helmet. Marquez flipped it round to come back for another swing and Rossi had no choice but to slam on the brakes. Marquez turned his head to see Rossi behind him, but when he looked he didn't see anyone. In a fluster, Marquez had completely lost track of Rossi, until he realised that Rossi had pulled a fast one and zoomed round the other side of him and was now speeding out in front.
As Rossi zoomed away, he gave Marquez the finger with both hands, and then just stuck up all his fingers as if that was somehow more offensive. He was now in 4th, with eight laps to go.
* * *
Up ahead on the track, a dangerous situation was about to unfold that was so dangerous and terrifying and sad, that if you are of a sensitive nature you might want to skip a few paragraphs. A small turtle named Innocent Charles had crawled on to the track in search of revenge. Revenge for his fallen father, Garry The Seagull, who had been mercilessly slain by Iannone only a few weeks before.
Innocent Charles stood in middle of the track as Iannone approached. He looked him clean in the eye and said "you killed my father, monster! Now we must joust!"
Iannone didn't know what to say, but for some reason he decided to say "I think you were adopted". The look of disbelief and horror in Innocent Charles's eyes cut to his heart. He couldn't do anything, he had no choice but to collide with Innocent Charles at maximum speed, which is Iannone's favorite speed. Iannone was knocked out of the race, and Innocent Charles was blasted into a million pieces. Later in that week, Iannone would erect a memorial for Innocent Charles and Garry the Seagull, so at least their memory will live on through the generations.
Rossi came up the track next, and the confused panicking people hadn't had time to get the vacuum cleaner out and clean up the track. Hundreds of tiny turtle fragments were scattered everywhere, as sharp as caltrops, which historically were made out of turtle fragments. Rossi did his best to avoid them, but sadly he went bumpity-bump right over one. His front tyre blew out and deflated. He immediately began to lose speed.
"What's wrong with you, loser?" said Marquez, pulling up next to him, "can't see because you're crying so hard about a dead chicken?"
It was rare for Marquez to get chickens and turtles confused, he was usually very accurate in telling the difference. Rossi had to think fast. He popped a wheel and disconnected his front wheel, still whilst peddling at 250km/h. He pulled out the inner tube, and quickly found the damaged area. Leaning over, he forced his fingers into the track and peeled up a large lump of molten rubber from the surface. He placed it cleanly over the damaged tyre and held it aloft so it would quickly cool and harden together in the wind. He blew in to the valve to re-inflate the tyre, all whilst still popping a wheelie and peddling at 250km/h and also steering.
He turned to look Marquez in the eye. "I-a would-a ask you-a to help-a inflate this," he quipped, "but-a you suck."
In a fit of rage, Marquez swung his ball and chain clean into Rossi's face. Rossi had no time or ability to dodge, as he was currently doing about four impossible things. The flaming ball cleanly connected with his helmet and he was immediately sent airborne. He fell off, and over the turbulence of sliding over the dirt next to the track he saw the crumpled remains of his bike smashing in to some tyres near some confused, panicking people, and he saw Marquez zooming away round the corner.
Marquez laughed to himself like the Count from Sesame Street. He took pleasure in knowing he was so far up Race Direction's buttcakes that Rossi would probably be penalized for what just happened. He set his bike to really fast mode, and decided to catch up with Lorenzo and whoever else was ahead. He leaned back to relax, thinking the last two laps would be an easy ride.
As he relaxed, he felt a tap on his shoulder. A zap of panic went down his spine directly into his bowels. He turned his head slowly, but he already knew who it was. Behind him, and to the side a little, Rossi was running at full pelt matching Marquez's speed. "You-a thought-a I need-a the motorbike to go-a fast?" said Rossi, "I need-a the motorbike to go-a slow!"
Rossi delivered a boot to the head right in Marquez's neck. Marquez crumpled and went flying off the bike, tumbling through the air and landed in the crowd smouldering. Rossi jumped on Marquez's bike and set it to really, really fast mode.
Over the next two laps he approached Lorenzo, but sadly Lorenzo was too far ahead. When the chessboard flag was raised, Rossi was just behind Lorenzo.
* * *
After the victory lap, they returned to parc ferme. Lorenzo was dazed, and the bright flashing lights and crowds made him dizzy. Shigeru Miyamoto arrived to clear up the confusion.
"First of all," Miyamoto said, "355,000 penalty points for Valentino Rossi for his awful attitude and disrespect. 566 bonus championship points to Marquez, making him the overall winner."
"Hah!" said Lorenzo, failing to understand any of that. "I won the race!"
Suddenly a tiny person, so small and gentle and lovely that it's almost impossible, piped up. "I won the race," he said, "I finish about ten minutes ago. Why nobody notices me?"
Rossi kneeled down to speak to him. "Dani-a, you-a are the-a best of us."
"I actually finish first in every race this season," he complained, "nobody notice me."
Shigeru Miyamoto turned to face him. "Who's this guy?" he asked.
"I'm Dani Pedrosa," said Dani Pedrosa.
Miyamoto shrugged his shoulders. "Never heard of you. Do you want to be a motorbike racer when you grow up?"
Dani looked crestfallen, which is pertinent because he actually has a crest. "Ey-a, come on," said Rossi, ruffling Pedrosa's hair and feathers, "let's-a forget about-a this ....-show. It's all-a ratings-a game now. They-a no care-a about who wins-a or who-a loses."
Dani smiled. He knew that Rossi would always have a golden convergence point in his heart for him.
Rossi held Pedrosa's hand, "let's-a go back-a to my ranch, I can-a have a beer, you can-a have-a a juice, we can-a race until the sun sets."
They walked off into the distance.
IN MEMORY OF GARRY THE SEAGULL, INNOCENT CHARLES AND STANLEY THE BIKE
