As Vincent Valentine pulled into the pits, you could tell just by looking at him that this had been
As Vincent Valentine pulled into the pits, you could tell just by looking at him that this had been a grueling race. His dirt bike was plastered with so much brown, wet, sticky mud that you couldn’t even read the number plates. His boots, resting comfortably on the foot pegs, were a mess of muddy brown dirt, bright white plastic and black buckles. His riding pants were soaked and covered with mud on the front, while the back remained a brilliant white and blue. His chest protector seemed to have kept most of the mud off of his blue and white jersey, although his sleeves had turned the same swampy brown color as his bike. His goggles hung looped over the handlebars of his bike, dripping the ooze it had saved from Chad’s eyes. His helmet, still on his head, was a greasy smeary brown, save for the thin line of white and blue where his goggle strap had been. Although his body looked beaten, his eyes, peering through the helmet, seemed relaxed and happy. He had just won a very long and very tiring race.
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