by Leigh Hutton
The fourth day started as the others had, with her body so tired it would hardly mould to the bike. Sleeting rain, freezing cold. But the trail was fresh and turned in a new direction, opening up along fast fire roads, with no rocks or holes in sight. Clover made the first two checks on time, and even managed to pass the fastest of the Swedes in one special test.
When she and Kerry took off from Check Point 5 together, roosting out onto a forest road and down a wide ridge, Clover was able to stand on the pegs without assistance, and her spirits rocketed. She actually took the time to enjoy the scenery, for the first time in the race. Kerry, too, seemed impressed, and the girls yelled back and forth about the beauty of the valley below them. The cloud cover had lifted, leaving uninterrupted, pale blue sky, laced with a fine mist. Clover could see all the way to a tiny town, lining the bottom of the valley. At this moment, the crisp air was again welcome to Clover’s wind-chaffed cheeks. The vibration of her bike again thrilling, no longer painful. Sugar, not salt, to her weary muscles and bones.
Kerry revved along beside her, and the girls exchanged a smile and thumbs-up.
This is why I do it, Clover thought, looking from her friend to the serene valley below. This is the magic of Enduro. My heaven.
The afternoon of Day 4, however, saw the doubt return to Clover’s newly enlightened state. Her bike had held up exceptionally well, with just routine maintenance required during each of the afternoon work periods of the first three days. Day 4, however, her pipe was dinged from a crash, the plastics scratched up, and the tyres worn out. The rear tyre, at least, would have to be changed.
Changing tyres could be a tough task, even for the strongest of guys. Ernie had taught Clover a specific technique that involved tyre levers, chisels and a specially constructed machine. She’d practiced more than a dozen times, finally successful the last half dozen. But performing the task under this kind of pressure was a whole other ball game.
Clover was cursing herself for not practicing more, as she knelt on the stiff new rear tyre, pulling with all her might on two long metal tyre levers. She’d managed, with the help of the tyre machine, to get the tyre most of the way on to the rim. But the last bit of the cold rubber was refusing to play.
‘You have got to use the chisels, and take smaller bites,’ Ernie said into her ear.
‘I’m trying!’ Clover yelled, letting her hands fall from the slippery levers, to wipe the sweat from her eyes. It was still freezing, and raining not that she cared, she was so hot from exertion. She could hardly see for the stinging pain and the dirt in her eyes.
‘Here.’ Ernie grabbed a chisel off the work mat and passed it to her. ‘Get this one in first, like I showed you, to keep the bead down.’
Clover snatched the chisel, and tried to wedge it between the tyre and the metal rim, but the blasted thing kept slipping. Sweat poured, unrelenting, into her eyes. Blisters had finally opened on the palms of her hands and edge of her thumbs. Her arms and hands were so sore, they weren’t doing what she thought she was telling them to. All she wanted to do was sit down, maybe spew.
The lever slipped, catching her finger on the rim and gouging a cut. Blood. She cursed and collapsed onto the ground.
‘Just take a deep breath,’ Ernie said.
‘I can’t do it, Dad. It’s too hard!’
‘You’re not serious?’ Ernie knelt down in front of her. ‘You didn’t make it all this way, get through all that crap, to let some silly tyre beat you.’ He hauled her back onto her feet. ‘That’s not my daughter!’
Clover shook her head. ‘I hate this, Dad! I should have just left the old tyre on!’
‘It had no knobs, Clover. All the other girls have changed a few tyres by now. And you’ve still got to get through that ski hill special test at the end of tomorrow and the final motocross on day six. You wouldn’t have even made it out of Parc Ferme with that tyre, it was a road slick. Now ’ He scooped up a chisel and enclosed her hand around it ‘You can do it, Clover. Leslie, how much time?’
‘She’s still got seven minutes!’
‘Do I?’ Clover asked, feeling a wave of relief. ‘I thought I was nearly over my fifteen?’
‘Plenty of time,’ Leslie said, handing her another chisel.
‘Right.’ Seven minutes to go, Clover thought. You can do this! She wiped her eyes, and repositioned herself on the machine. ‘You’re right, Dad, I’m gonna make this tyre my bitch!’
THIRTY-SIX
The final special test of Day 5 stretched up in front of Clover like a scene from the most horrifying horror movie she’d ever forced herself to watch. She was tempted to close her eyes as she would’ve at the movies, as the wind and freezing rain ravaged her muddied, bleeding face through the front of her helmet, but she knew closing her eyes wouldn’t do any good. The rider-littered ski hill would still be there when she opened them.
Clover glanced at the timing officials, who were huddled together under a quick shade beside the narrow start platform and the three ambulances, one already being loaded with a ‘casualty’, the other two ready to cart the unlucky away. Clover quickly diverted her attention to the starting lights on the pole in front of her. Still red. In less than thirty seconds the light would go green, as Kerry had just taken off. Clover had let Kerry start the test first after the pair had arrived simultaneously. They’d had to work together to get their bikes through a tough, rocky creek section of trail, a section that had really pushed Clover past the point of exhaustion, frighteningly close to hitting the wall.
If Clover had thought she was spent after the first four days of the race, she was truly exhausted now, drenched from the pouring rain, shivering, her saturated jersey and pants clinging to her frozen skin. She hadn’t had time at any of the controls to find her jacket, and now she wished she’d made the time. It was all she could do just to keep her protesting body from curling into the foetal position and toppling off the bike. And then there was this ski hill. A hill from hell, which, when she’d walked it pre-event, had looked quite nice. It hadn’t been raining then, with slivers of sun sneaking through the clouds. The hill rose up in steep steps, and had been green and lovely, scattered with wild flowers. Now, she was relieved that the rain was falling in sheets and the cloud was so low and dark that she couldn’t see past the first step in the hill. The hill from hell looked impassable, that was for sure. Riders were strewn on every defined line. Water ran in muddy rivers, washing bikes and riders down with its fast-moving current. People screamed, bikes screamed, bogged up to their seats. Steam rose from the fallen bikes, the faces of their riders bright red with strain, veins popping in their foreheads and necks. The red bunting defining the course had been buried or washed away, riders now taking any line possible in desperate attempts to reach the summit.
Clover had no idea where she would go once the light went green. She couldn’t see Kerry, who had swung out wide and miraculously found an unoccupied rut that had carried her up and through the cloud, to the next step in the steep hill. This rut, however, was now a raging river.
Clover searched the hill, frantic for an idea, some light to guide her which way to go. But all was slick mud. The entire hill was a swamp of stuck bikes, riders swearing some now trying to ride the wave back down, calling it quits.
There was no hope, she couldn’t help but think, before using her last remaining ounce of strength to will the light to go green, so she could at least move, as she feared she was about to lose the ability to remain on her bike. But the light stayed red.
It’s too long, Clover thought, feeling her heart sink. The timers must be giving us longer, probably a minute … hoping the track will clear. The thought nearly made her laugh out loud, and then a fit of hysteria gripped her chest, and it became hard to breathe. Darkness fell over her mind and, in an instant, it was as if the wind became the icy breath of a black-faced, Enduro Grim Reaper. Getting closer. Closing in on her and her mud-filled and spluttering WR250F, ready to bring his scythe down on her dream of finishing t
his race.
Clover didn’t see the start light change to yellow she was gasping for air, freaking out that this was it. But the green light came, cutting through her moment of despair, bringing hope. It was time to go, time to hit this up and try her best to make it to the top.
Clover took a deep breath, to get oxygen into her panting lungs, and willed her blistered hands to release the clutch and twist the throttle, to propel her forward. But her fingers were frozen to the bars, screaming in pain, longing for a warm bath and ointment and gauze.
She forced her chest to steady her breathing, shook her lifeless shoulders to dislodge the Grim Reaper’s cold hands, told herself that she hadn’t come this far, dragged her bike over this many logs and pushed it up this many hills, to quit now. There wasn’t much left to go, just this one test, and then a road ride back to Parc Ferme. Tomorrow wouldn’t be a problem just an easy trail ride and a few laps around a flat grass track for the final motocross event.
Clover gritted her chattering teeth and forced her hands into action. The front wheel of her 250 lifted off the ground, the still-new back tyre spinning furiously in the deep, water-filled rut. Wet clumps of muddy roost were flying from the back wheel as she shot forward towards the first incline of the slope. She hit the hill straight, at full revs, hoping this was the best way to go. She heard a faint cheer, probably from the timing officials as there were no spectators in sight and she was off. Her eyes fixed on the wall of fog, her mind blocking out everything else.
She shifted to second gear and pulled herself forward as the bike started to climb. Up into third gear, and she was surprised at the traction, even under the river of water. Probably a good thing Ernie had insisted on that new rear tyre. At full throttle now, and the back end started to switch from side to side, losing its footing. But she still broke through the fog, and let out a sigh of relief.
One step down, just a few more to go! Clover thought. C’mon, Clover Canada, you can do it!
She scanned the next step in the hill, looking for a space between the bogged bikes. But it was completely blocked with riders cursing in various languages, reefing on the handlebars of their bikes to try and dislodge them from the deep ruts, their feet slipping in the torrent, some sliding back down to the bottom of the hill. A few spectators and supporters had shimmied down and were pulling at the fronts of bikes, helping the riders to get unstuck.
Clover narrowed her eyes as she spotted ‘TREASURE’ on the back of the jersey of a mud-stained, bogged rider. Kerry. If she could just get past her, she would be in second place. The super-fast French girl, Naidene Roux, was still in front after Day 4, with Kerry in second, Clover third. There was even a chance slim, Clover realised, but possible that Madame Roux wouldn’t make it up this hill. She could well be one of these stuck riders, or might have even come to grief in the tough trail section where Clover and Kerry had passed a lot of people, without the energy to register each one. Suddenly, Clover was no longer thinking about just finishing this race. Now, she was imagining herself on top of the podium. The new Women’s Enduro World Champion. Her dream, a reality.
She gave it a fist-full of throttle, but had to let off, and duck to the side as a rider in front of her accelerated too aggressively, trying to power past Kerry’s parked bike. His back tyre had apparently found the only spot of pure traction on the hill, powering forward. The steep incline must’ve caused the front end to rise into the air, sending the unprepared rider off the back of his bike. He fell, screaming, past Clover, his body armour clipping her arm. His bike flipped down the hill after him.
She only just managed to avoid being taken out herself.
Clover’s heart beat deafeningly, her breaths short and shallow, as she frantically searched for a possible line. There was nothing in the middle, all chaos and more of the same on the right-hand side. But there was one area where no riders struggled, off to the far left of the hill, on the very edge of the dense tree line. It looked smooth, just a single water rut. It was maybe enough to get her to the top.
Clover released the clutch and eased the throttle on, careful not to make the same mistake as the rider who’d nearly flipped his bike into her. She edged across the hill, carefully, as if she were riding on ice. The water was rushing down with such force, the ground beneath her so slick and muddy, that she had to summon every fibre of muscle, every ounce of power to keep control over her motorcycle, and keep her tyres from being washed out from under her.
Finally, at the rut on the outside, just an arm’s length from the tree line, Clover turned the bars to the right, let her weight sink into the back of the bike to help her back tyre get traction, and squeezed the throttle harder. The back end slipped, as if it would just keep on going. She gasped with fright this might be it but the back end bit. She rammed on the throttle, threw her weight forward, willing the little bike to soar up the rut and to the final steps in the hill. Vibration shook her body as the back tyre spun like mad, hitting the sides of the rut, the loud wail of the labouring engine echoing around the mountains.
She wasn’t sure where she was, and cursed herself for taking her goggles off, but the rain had made it impossible to see with them on. She was still blinking when the ski lodge at the top of the hill came into view. The rut was doing its job, her bike climbing like a champion.
Clover pulled on the handlebars with all her remaining strength, twisted the throttle with all her might the hill from hell was steep, trying to drag her off backwards. At least she could see a little now the fog had cleared. Just two more steps in the hill and, amazingly, her rut was clear. No bikes to stop her, no more obstacles, except for the mud and the incline, to keep her from victory.
A determined roar ripped from her chest. She dropped her foot on her gear lever, changing back to first, let go of the clutch entirely and twisted the throttle as far as it would go. Her motor sang and she and the bike became one, hitting the bottom of the next rise and roosting all the way to the top.
Water flicked off the front wheel, coating her face, as she sped along the flat before the final rise. All in front of her was white, but she could feel the rut, feel her bike beneath her as it powered forward, onto the final incline of the hill, like a tram on its track. So close. The screams of the crowd rang out from the top.
It took Clover several seconds to realise her bike had stopped.
Water was no longer flinging off the front tyre. Her body was still, no jolting as the back end ricocheted off the sides of the trough.
Her mind clicked into top gear as she tried to lift her feet off the foot pegs, to get them to the ground so she could paddle with her legs to reach the top. But her feet were stuck, encased, along with most of her bike, in a muddy bog at the crest of the last step in the hill.
Clover looked up desperately, tears stinging her eyeballs along with the grit and dirt flung at her by this wretched hill. She tore at the handlebars, then rammed her torso against the handlebar pad with all her strength, holding the throttle pinned. Her 250 shrieked with frustration, but the back end couldn’t budge.
She let out a loud cry as she gave one last, almighty pull of her legs. Her feet sucked out of the mud. She fell forward, hearing the crack as the peak of her helmet connected with her handlebars. Her ears rang from the force of the blow. She clutched the sides of her helmet, willing the pain and the noise to stop. Tears streamed down her face, biting at the cuts on her cheeks made by branches that had whipped her on the trail.
Clover jumped off her bike, but immediately had to grab the seat to avoid being washed back down the hill. She dug the steel toes of her boots into the mud, dropping forward onto her knees, grabbing the holes in her bike’s side plates, to try and pull the back end out.
No movement. Just sounds of suction as the hill stubbornly kept its hold.
Clover cried out, pulled again, her lower back going into a spasm from the exertion.
Each heave only produced the shuching sound, like the hill was laughing at her. Having taken her bike prisoner, it w
as now taunting her.
Clover pulled, pulled, until she knew another effort would cause her to collapse and fall back down the hill. She tilted her head back, cursing at the sky. Her heart shattered into tiny pieces, to be washed down with the rain. Her legs crumpled, and her head hit the hill. Thick water ran over her face. She needed to cough or she would choke. But she didn’t care.
The Grim Reaper’s icy hands closed around her throat.
She had no more fight. She had given her all and now it was over; her dreams swallowed whole. It was her own stupid fault, she told herself, for being dumb enough to think she could finish this race. She should have stayed in Silvertown, stayed with Dallas, where she was safe, warm, and part of a world so many girls yearned for. She’d been stupid and naive. And the hill from hell would ensure that she would pay.
Clover coughed, to save her lungs from drowning, as she heard a voice. The voice told her to take heed, that all hope was not lost.
And then she heard him.
‘You right, mate?’
This deep, Australian voice chimed with salvation. It must be a dream, I’m hearing voices in my head … I must be dead.
‘Oh!’ The man sounded alarmed, concerned. ‘You’re a chick!’
Strong, warm hands grabbed her under each arm.
She was rising.
Clover spat clumps of mud from her mouth, gasping for air. When her feet met ground, she kicked hard to secure her foothold, flung her arms out to the side to steady her frame. The voice had moved in front of her and as Clover registered its owner, she froze, mesmerised, by his eyes.
Ryder Black smiled at her with such force it hit her like a crashing ocean wave. It was as if his cheeks were actually shining, his whole face joining in. Her limbs regained their power as his eyes, so full of life held her captive. The mud drained from her brain and the pieces of her heart returned to her from the depths of the hill and welded themselves back together.
