Steven pulled into the Westchase training facility at nine twenty-eight, parked along the side of the lot, and walked through the entrance with the Arai tucked under his arm.
The classroom was already filling up when he stepped inside. A long rectangular space with folding chairs arranged in rows, a projector screen at the front, and an instructor standing beside it with the particular composed patience of someone who had run this session many times and was ready to run it again.
Steven found a seat toward the middle and settled in as the instructor called the room to attention.
The morning session ran for three hours. It covered the fundamentals — hazard perception, braking theory, counter-steering, the physics of what happened to a motorcycle under load and how the rider's inputs affected all of it. The instructor moved through it without rushing, pausing to check understanding and answering questions without condescension.
