With this portion of the series now in the midst of sequencing, Michael Mosiman now understands what to expect for this particular racing format. He’s now watched the gate fall on three different occasion’s here; and an absolute myriad of racing conditions be placed for the field to enact on. And although the weather of last Sunday was an abnormality, it’s as though for this particular Wednesday night, the field would be graced with rather optimal racing conditions. He would smile under his helmet at that particular thought; knowing that he could let the 250F machine absolutely unravel for the entire world to see. To initiate matters in practice, he would let the raw power of his locomotive unleash, rounding the first turn while shifting through the transmission. Preloading his shock, he would attempt to triple throughout the next bundle of singles; touching down on as few occasions as possible, before the next 180-degree turn. That process would continue for quite sometime, embodying the roots of his racing spirit as he double his way to the finish line. Feeling rather exuberant as the referee would escort him off the raceway, he then caressed the machine to the semi; where his mechanic made a slight few adjustments, prior to letting him venture back onto the racetrack. Once here, he loaded the motorcycle into his respective bracket; clicking the hole-shot device into it’s delicate canister, and then revving the engine to the highest degree. Pushing forward with much of the pack trailing him, he would register second as the green flag would wave. Multiple hued rags would then flash around the circuit; indicating both downed riders, and even the occasional back-marker signal as well. He paid no attention of the sort, leaping back into the starting rhythm section with outright authority. Continuing to circle this course, as it dried out, he would be notified of his position in second; where he would reside. Now the main event was upon him, and he knew that a strong start would be key. Ushering his machine into the confines of the first few circuits, his elbows would be high and wide; almost ricocheting off competitors as if the race were a virtual pinball machine. Managing to stay upright, his line through the whoop section was impeccable; keeping the front end atop the moguls, as if a rock were being skipped across the singles. And regardless of how much the rear-end danced, his vision focused to the foreground. Fifth place was his, ahead of Alex Martin; nestled in the record books, one final time.