Motocross Madness

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “We’ve caught a tough break,” Joe said, frowning. “Both Frank and I are competing in the same heat.”

  “Plus, we’re up against Amber Hawk,” Frank noted, checking their starting papers. “That’ll make it harder to move on.”

  “Don’t worry about Hawk,” Jamal advised. “She has just as much chance to wipe out as anyone else.”

  Joe arched one blond eyebrow at his friend. “Do you really believe Hawk will wipe out, Jamal?”

  Jamal laughed. “No, but it might help you if you believe it,” he said.

  The brothers laughed as well.

  “Remember,” Jamal said, “the top four finishers in each heat move on, scoring more points.”

  “Our strong suit is cross-country,” Frank said. “It’s the most like the riding that Joe and I usually do. If we can just hang on today, maybe we can pull something off tomorrow.”

  “Well, good luck,” Jamal said. “Your race is about to start. I’ll meet you trackside after you’re done.”

  “Sure thing,” Joe said. He and Frank wheeled their bikes out, down to Pitstop Row. There they made the final adjustments to their cycles while the previous heat finished. Surprisingly, Elizabeth Navarro finished first in her group.

  “She must be better at this than she was at the Mixed Freestyle,” Frank said.

  “Actually, she did okay there, too,” Joe replied. “I checked the standings and it looks like she had a strong finish after a shaky start.”

  “Maybe she was just nervous early on,” Frank suggested.

  The brothers fastened their helmets and rode their bikes to the starting line. They took their positions for the start, and waited for the Klaxon to sound and the flag to fall. The course had been toned down from the previous day, with the whoopdedoos resembling very tall speed bumps rather than high ski jumps.

  At the blare of the buzzer the whole pack shot off the line. Amber Hawk took an early lead, but Joe and Frank stayed right behind her.

  They hit the first whoopdedoo and arced over it, trying to control their airtime. “You can’t accelerate when you’re airborne,” they’d once heard Jamal say. Back on the ground quickly, they raced side by side, both brothers hitting the throttle as hard as they dared.

  Hawk landed in front of them, but skidded slightly as she did. The brothers started to catch up to her. Frank and Joe flashed each other a quick grin. The raw power and control aspects of this dirt-track race suited them much better than the Mixed Freestyle had.

  The Hardys roared up the second berm, their tires spitting out dirt behind them.

  Hawk regained control of her bike at the top of the hill, but the brothers caught up to her. They all leaped over the whoopdedoo side by side. The three of them landed simultaneously, with Joe and Frank on the inside lanes.

  Suddenly, Hawk cut to the left, right in front of the Hardys’ machines. Her tires hit a puddle and kicked a spray of mud up into the brothers’ faceplates. She accelerated and darted in front of them.

  Joe and Frank braked hard, barely able to see through the muck. They swerved farther toward the inside of the track as all three racers headed for a spectacular crash.

  8 Wiped Out

  * * *

  Frank and Joe twisted their bikes sideways, trying not to ram into Hawk’s yellow and green motorcycle. Amber flashed past them, her bird insignia a blur in front of their fenders.

  Joe’s back wheel hit a muddy spot and went out from under him. He skidded toward Frank.

  Frank turned the handlebars over hard, causing his blue and white cycle to spin sideways. His back wheel missed Joe’s head by inches as the younger Hardy went down into the dirt.

  Joe skidded to the side of the track and piled into the hay bales stacked on the inside edge. Mud and straw sailed into the air with the impact, and Joe lay still.

  “Joe!” Frank screamed as he fought to control his cycle. He swerved in a crazy S shape, trying not to go down. His bike’s tires refused to purchase on the slick mud.

  The remaining racers whizzed past Frank as he fought for control. In the next second he spotted Joe, lying trackside amid the dust. A chill shot down Frank’s spine as he realized that he was headed right toward his brother.

  The elder Hardy steered into the skid, but that just sent him faster in Joe’s direction. Joe looked up, dazed, and saw Frank’s bike coming at him. Frank laid the bike down, hoping he could stop in time.

  At the last instant, Joe dove aside. Frank and his motorcycle brushed past him and skidded to a stop against the remaining hay bales.

  Angry and covered with mud, Joe leaped to his feet.

  “Are you okay?” Frank asked, picking up his bike.

  But Joe had already hopped back onto his cycle. “Let’s go!” he cried. He gunned his bike’s throttle and rejoined the race.

  The crowd in the grandstand roared their approval as Frank did the same.

  The two of them rocketed around the next berm, but they had fallen far behind the rest of the pack.

  “Keep at it!” Frank shouted into his helmet mike. “There’s still a long way to go.”

  “We can catch up,” Joe agreed. “I won’t let Hawk beat us after what she did!”

  They pressed forward as fast as they dared. Over the next few laps they made up much of the ground they’d lost. One by one, the brothers passed the other racers. But no matter how hard they tried, neither Hardy could catch up to Amber Hawk.

  She crossed the finish line a good ten seconds ahead of Frank, who barely edged out Joe for second place. The two of them skidded their bikes to a stop at the edge of Pitstop Row.

  Hawk wasn’t waiting around to congratulate them. She waved perfunctorily to the crowd, then quickly headed back to her private garage bay.

  Joe grumbled, “We could have finished first if it wasn’t for her!”

  “We’re lucky to have finished at all,” Frank replied. “These heats are tough, and placing in the top four is pretty good. We’ve made it through to the next round, and that’s what really matters. How do you feel?”

  Joe examined his mud-covered armor and battered bike. “I feel okay,” he said. “The cycle seems good to go, too—aside from the mud.”

  “We can wash it down before our next run,” Frank said.

  “You might want to wash yourselves down, too!” jibed a friendly voice.

  The brothers turned as Jamal walked toward them. “Unless you don’t care that no one knows it’s you under all that mud,” he continued. “Personally, when I win a race, I want the whole world to know it’s Jamal Hawkins.” He smiled, even though he was still covered with mud.

  “You still look like the Amazing Muck Man to me,” Joe said.

  “I was just on my way back to the garage to change,” Jamal replied. “I cleaned the bike up first. But I promised you guys I’d meet you trackside. How long until your next heat?”

  “We’re going to check right now,” Frank said.

  “Okay,” Jamal said. “I’m on in a few minutes. Try to catch my next race, if you can. I’ve got to go clean up.”

  “See you soon,” Joe said.

  The brothers wheeled their bikes to the postrace information pavilion while Jamal went back to get his motorcycle and change armor.

  Much to the Hardys’ relief, their second heats didn’t include each other.

  “I understand now why all those Hayday girls aren’t competing,” Joe said. “Racing against your family is tough.”

  “We may still have to face each other in the finals,” Frank said.

  “I’ll see you guys there,” Jules Kendallson said, butting in. He stepped out of a crowd of racers gathered trackside to watch the heats the Hardys weren’t participating in. “I saw you race,” he said. “Nice recovery. You two are pretty quick.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Joe said. Noting that Kendall-son’s armor was clean, he added, “Good luck in your first heat.”

  Kendallson nodded and popped his black and green helmet onto his shaggy head. “Catch you in t
he finals.” He pushed his green and black motorcycle toward the track and quickly disappeared into the throng of contestants.

  As he left, Elizabeth Navarro pushed her yellow and white bike in the brothers’ direction. “Fraternizing with the enemy?” she asked.

  “Enemy?” Frank replied.

  “You know,” Elizabeth said, “the competition.”

  “Oh, you mean Kendallson?” Joe said.

  “What was he trying to do?” she asked. “Psych you out?”

  “No,” Frank said. “He was just wishing us luck in the upcoming heats.”

  Elizabeth frowned and crinkled her nose. “That’s odd,” she said. “He hasn’t been very nice to me.”

  “Maybe that’s because you’re ahead of him in the standings,” Joe suggested. “Frank and I are in the middle of the pack, but you’ve been doing pretty well for yourself. He’s probably jealous.”

  She blushed slightly. “Maybe. I’ve worked hard to get where I am,” she said. “I’ve been riding a motorbike nearly all my life.”

  “Did your dad get you into it?” Frank asked. “We heard he used to ride a bit.”

  “Mostly I developed the interest on my own,” she said. “My dad’s been helpful . . . sometimes. Other times . . .” She sighed. “It’s like he’s living out his dreams through me.”

  Frank nodded. “That happens between a lot of parents and kids.”

  Elizabeth sighed. “That doesn’t make it any easier,” she said. “I think my dad wants me to win this particular race more than I want to win it myself. He even upgraded my motorcycle.”

  “It’s a beautiful bike,” Frank said, admiring the sleek white and yellow machine.

  “Not that I don’t want to win,” Elizabeth said. Her blue eyes became steely at the thought. “I intend to beat everyone on the course—including both of you. I’m right behind your friend in the standings.”

  “You mean Jamal?” Joe asked. He checked his updates sheet. “So you are. Good luck with that.”

  “You don’t really mean that,” she scoffed.

  Frank and Joe laughed. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to have Jamal taken down a peg or two,” Joe said. “His confidence is a bit much! Good luck.”

  “Good luck to you, too,” she said. “See you.” With that, she wheeled her bike toward the track.

  “Do you think she has a chance?” Joe asked.

  “That’s just what I’ve been wondering,” said an older man’s voice. Asa Goldberg pushed out of the crowd toward the Hardys. He stepped carefully between the muddy ruts beside the course so as not to soil his nice leather shoes. “The betting line on Navarro is pretty active.”

  “People are betting on this race?” Frank said.

  “In Vegas, they bet on anything,” Goldberg said. “I have people out there who wire me the odds. I can’t decide who I want to back. The line’s pretty good on you boys, too.”

  “Is that ethical for a sponsor?” Joe asked.

  Goldberg shrugged. “I don’t see why not. It doesn’t change the money I’m putting up for the competition,” he said. “Besides, having a stake in a race can make watching it more interesting.”

  “I thought the thrill of the competition was enough,” Joe said.

  “Maybe if you’re actually in the race,” Goldberg said. “But for folks like me, this benefit is a lot of standing around and glad-handing.”

  “I’m sure the Fernandezes can find some work for you if you want to volunteer,” Frank said.

  Goldberg gave a look of mock horror. “And get my hands dirty?” he asked, examining his fingernails. “I got out of that game a long time ago. If you don’t mind, I’ll leave the muddy work to you volunteers.”

  “Thanks,” Joe said, not really meaning it.

  “Well, I gotta be checking out the rest of the competition,” Goldberg said. “Y’all race good now, y’hear?”

  “We will,” Frank said. Goldberg ducked back into the crowd once more.

  “What do you think?” Joe asked after he’d gone. “Will he be betting on us?”

  “I doubt it,” Frank said. “We didn’t give him any info to go on. Hey, there’s Jamal.”

  Their friend, smartly dressed in new clean black and red armor, was pushing his motorcycle toward the track starting line. He had his helmet on and looked ready to go.

  “Hey, Jamal!” Joe said, waving.

  Jamal nodded in their direction, but kept going.

  “He must have his game face on,” Joe said.

  “Let’s watch the start of his race,” Frank said, “before we start prepping for our next heat.”

  “Good idea,” Joe said. The two of them pushed their motorcycles trackside, where they had a good view of the starting line. Jamal pulled his red and black bike up with the rest of the racers. Elizabeth Navarro was in the pack along with a half-dozen other riders.

  The starter gave the signal, and all of the bikes roared off the line. Jamal got off to a good start. He took the jumps cautiously and accelerated smoothly over the whole course. He’d soon built up a decent lead on the rest of the field.

  “Go, Jamal, go!” the brothers shouted as their friend’s bike whipped past.

  On the second lap, Jamal began having trouble.

  He slipped on three whoopdedoos and took several turns too wide. The other racers began to catch up.

  Elizabeth Navarro challenged him on the third lap. This seemed to make Jamal nervous. His slips became more frequent, and he nearly went down twice. Near the big U-turn, his tires almost brushed the hay-bale crash walls.

  “I can’t stand to watch anymore,” Joe said. “Too intense! I’m going back to the garage to get ready.”

  Frank shook his head. “I don’t know what’s up with Jamal. He seemed to have it together for the first lap, but now he’s falling apart.”

  Navarro took the lead, with Jamal well back in the pack.

  “I won’t give up on him,” Frank said. “Win or lose, I’ll see the race through to the end.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Joe said. “Cheer him on for me. I’ll see you back in the tune-up bay.”

  Frank nodded as Joe pushed his bike away from the track and back toward the row of small metal garages.

  Joe felt disappointed that Jamal wasn’t doing better. He’d hoped that all of them might secure a place in the motocross finals later that day. He let out a long sigh as he unlocked their unit and slid the folding metal door up into the ceiling.

  As he did so, a muffled sound caught his attention.

  Joe looked around. The small bay was dark all the way to the door that led to the connecting corridor in back. Something near the workbench in the rear corner caught his attention As he drew closer, he saw it was a person lying on the floor.

  Joe propped up his bike, picked up a nearby tire wrench as a makeshift weapon, then moved cautiously toward the back corner.

  Suddenly he recognized the figure lying there. “Jamal!”

  9 Off Course

  * * *

  Jamal was lying on the floor in his underwear, bound and gagged like a victim in an old-time gangster movie.

  Joe raced forward and knelt by his friend’s side. He quickly untied the struggling teen and removed his gag. “Jamal, what happened?” he asked.

  “I was changing, and somebody hit me from behind,” Jamal said. He pointed to a rising welt on the back of his skull. “The next thing I knew, I was tied up and lying on the garage floor.” He rubbed his head. “Why would anyone do a thing like that?”

  “Someone wearing your armor is competing on the track, right this instant,” Joe said, putting two and two together.

  “Someone is pretending to be me and is racing in my heat?” Jamal replied. He tried to get to his feet but staggered a little. Joe helped him up. “We’ve got to catch that guy!” Jamal said.

  “We will,” Joe said. “You okay?” Jamal nodded. “Then let’s go. Hop onto the back of my bike.”

  Joe leaped into the saddle of his motorcycle and fired up the
engine. Jamal pulled on a pair of sweatpants and hopped on behind him.

  The two of them raced back to where Joe had left Frank. The elder Hardy did a double-take when he saw Jamal on the back of Joe’s bike.

  “If you’re here,” Frank said, “who’s that riding your bike?”

  “An imposter,” Joe said. He swiftly angled his motorcycle toward the track.

  “Joe, no!” Frank said, laying a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We have to tell the track officials,” he said. “They can handle this.”

  “Right!” Jamal said. “I’ll get the Fernandezes to stop the race. Riding the bike through the crowd would be dangerous. You two wait here.” He hopped off Joe’s bike, took a deep breath, and sprinted through the gathered racers toward the nearby Officials’ Pavilion.

  Meanwhile, Joe and Frank kept their eyes on the culprit. The imposter raced around the track, near the rear of the pack of riders.

  “You think he’s dogging it deliberately?” Frank asked. “He seemed to have the talent to do better, at first.”

  “I can’t believe that we didn’t notice it wasn’t Jamal riding that bike!” Joe said angrily.

  “I’m not surprised,” Frank said. “With the body armor and helmet, it could be just about anyone on Jamal’s cycle.”

  Joe scanned the racers competing in the heat. “You’re right,” he said. “From a distance, the armor and helmet cover up a lot of differences. You need the colors on the bikes and uniforms to tell the riders apart.”

  “That’s why the fake Jamal only waved to us, rather than come over before the race,” Frank said.

  “I thought that was odd at the time,” Joe said.

  Frank mounted his bike and did a quick check of its systems.

  “What are you doing?” Joe asked.

  “Getting ready. Just in case,” Frank said.

  Jamal sprinted back and took a moment to catch his breath. Then he said, “They’re going to put out the yellow flag, then stop the race and take custody of the imposter. The police are getting ready.”