Adrenalin Rush

by Steve Reeder

  I hadn’t bothered to let Mark know I was coming to visit his adopted Lone Star State. Even if I couldn’t find him then the trip would still be worthwhile to me, because I had never visited the USA before.

  Mark Forrest was an old army buddy of mine from South Africa. Years ago we had both been conscripted into the South African Defence Force as eighteen-year-old boys. I didn’t know his home address, only that he lived somewhere in the Dallas area.

  As it turned out he was easy enough to track down.

  I stopped on the outskirts of Dallas, and finding an Internet café, I searched for him through the World Wide Web.

  Mark was a computer programmer by trade, and I knew I would find him on the internet. The Google search engine found his email address within seconds, and asked if I would like to contact him. Which of course I did. The search engine pointed the way to a message facility, and sat patiently waiting for me to type something. So I did. Leaving him an email asking him to call me at the hotel I had booked into, I roamed around the city for two hours. It was not unlike Johannesburg really, certainly the restaurants were the same mixtures of American junk food outlets and steak houses offering you everything except a decent steak. Then again maybe I had been spoilt by too many years of English pub food which I have always found to be generally very good.

  Back at the hotel I enquired at the front desk. But there were no phone calls for me yet, so I planted myself in the hotel pub, or ladies bar, as it was labelled, and drew the barmaid into conversation she tried hard to subtly imply she didn’t want. But what the hell - that’s what barmaids are paid for.

  I’d just taken possession of my fourth beer when the bar phone saved Jill, my unwilling new acquaintance, with its shrill warbling. She grunted into the mouthpiece twice, passed it over to me and escaped to the other end of the counter. I watched her go with regret - I hadn’t finished telling her my life story yet - and said hello into the phone.

  “Simon? How’re you, buddy?” Mark’s Americanized accent punched out at me. He sounded genuinely welcoming and I pictured him on the other end of the phone, thirty four like me, probably still fit, eager for life and filled with the same unreasonable enthusiasm for just about everything that had characterised his two years of army training.

  “Great, great. Nice to hear from you,” he was saying. “Why didn’t you contact me earlier? You could have stayed with us.”

  “Ah well, thanks for the thought, Mark, but last I heard you had a wife and three kids. I’d hate to impose on a full house.”

  “There would have been room. I’d have tossed one of the kids into a sleeping bag in the front room and he’d have loved it. But listen, how about dinner tomorrow night? We could take you to this English style pub-cum-restaurant just outside of town.”

  I refrained from telling him that English style anything was old hat to me after years of living there, but I was afraid that the choice was that or one of those fast food places I had seen earlier. I agreed it would be great, and we settled on a time.

  “Come to think of it,” Mark said, “I’m going to invite a couple of friends along. They are from South Africa too. The son, he’s eighteen now, races bikes, and they’re on their way to Great Britain. He’s landed a ride for a team over there and he’s flying out next week. He’s really good apparently and won the national championship.”

  I said that would be great, although if the truth were to be known, I just as soon have met with Mark and his family alone. I’d met some of these hotshot kids before. Not that I had anything against them being talented and young, but many of them were so full of themselves that I soon tired of hearing how they were going to be thrashing world champions in no time flat. They were usually spoilt brats too. Still, it was going to be nice seeing Mark after all these years, so I swallowed my reservations and told him I would see them all tomorrow. The barmaid deposited another beer in front of me, collected payment and moved away hurriedly. I guessed it was time for me to go to bed.

  The Churchill Arms was new, brightly lit and air-conditioned. Actually, it was nothing like the average English pub, but pleasant none the less. The taxi deposited me outside the double doors, and after tipping the driver more than his lack of good manners deserved, I pushed open the doors and stepped into the cool interior. There I was greeted by a strikingly good looking young Mexican woman who smiled and, on hearing Mark’s name, directed me to an alcove at the rear. Showing me to a seat, she told me that Mr Forrest would there in a few moments. Mark was obviously a regular, and well liked. Being a friend made me well liked too it seemed, so I took advantage and received a beer in record time.

  Mark arrived to more smiles and giggles from the reception area and swept through the restaurant to our table with a pretty, healthy looking redhead and two kids in tow. I’d forgotten what a handsome bugger he was. I rose to greet them all and had my hand pumped and my cheek kissed. The children were twelve and ten years old, boy and girl respectively, and looked like smaller versions of Mark and Debbie.

  “We left the youngest one with our neighbours,” Mark stated. “He wasn’t feeling that well. It’s nothing serious, but he’s not feeling up to going out. By the way, the friends I told you about will be here later, so we won’t wait for them, OK?”

  “Anything you say, old boy,” I replied with a ridiculously fake English accent. Why do I do that?

  Drinks for the Forest family arrived and we chatted about this and that, doing the ‘do you remember’ routine that people always do when meeting a long lost friend. We quickly fell into an easy discussion as if we had seen each other only last week, not eleven years ago.

  Debbie turned out to be intelligent, well read and well able to handle Mark’s habit of subtle domination of family conversation. They were a well-matched pair and I felt envious of their relationship. I had never had a truly close relationship with any girl, Becks a possible exception. That was partly because motor racing kept getting in the way, although I reasoned that if a girl was serious enough about me, she would have put up with the weekends spent at cold, windswept and all too often wet race tracks around. Evidently, they thought not. Becks included.

  We ate salads before the main course rather than with them, an American habit Mark had picked up, and drank a bottle of South African red wine, fashionable in the US at the time.

  During a break in the conversation, Debbie laid a hand on my arm and asked with motherly concern gleaming in her eyes, “Now that you have given up racing, what are you going to do with yourself? You’ll have to earn a living now.” As if risking your neck every second day wasn’t a real way for a man to earn money. In my opinion I thought we deserved every penny we received.

  “What sort of job can you get?” she asked. Good question, I suppose. Certainly one I had been asking myself for a while now.

  “Well,” I replied, “I would dearly like to run my own team like a lot of ex riders have done. Too many of them in fact. The competition for sponsorship money is tight. But something will come up.” Unfortunately Mr Armstrong’s offer had vanished with his daughter.

  My parents had been asking those same questions for years, and I had avoided answering for just as many. Now that I had to face them, they had stopped asking. Perhaps they were just satisfied that I would no longer be risking death or serious injury anymore and didn’t mind what I did. Anyway, the next sixteen weeks were earmarked for rest and relaxation, travelling around the USA on the Harley, which is as different to any superbike you care to mention. Next stop San Francisco.

  I imparted this information to Debbie. She, in typical motherly fashion, wasn’t satisfied with the state of my affairs, but before she could express her concern for my homeless, jobless existence, the friends Mark was expecting arrived, all four of them - quite obviously a family unit - Mum, Dad, daughter and hotshot racing son.

  “Ah,” Mark exclaimed, standing to meet the new arrivals. “Simon, meet Carol and Bob Robinson.” I shook hands across the table. Bob was perhaps five foot nine, two i
nches shorter than me, portly and expensively dressed. Carol was a wholesome and attractive woman, although certainly on the wrong side of forty. Their offspring were something of a surprise. Seen close up, the hotshot, Brett, was a quietly spoken youngster who took my offered hand with a polite nod, but his sister was something special. She gave me a slow assessing look and I in turn noted the pear shaped mouth, high cheekbones, bright creamy complexion and dark blue eyes. The overall effect was captivatingly finished by the waves of light blond hair that fell in sweeps down her back and hung over her left shoulder.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Michele.” Her voice was low and sexy.

  “Hello,” I replied. Wow, I thought. Her eyes read my expression accurately and she smiled, taking my adoration as her due. She obviously knew the effect she had on the male of our species.

  Dessert came, and the Robinsons joined in, even though Carol had stated that they had eaten earlier at a MacDonald’s, making Michele cringe. I saw her cringe because I hardly took my eyes off her for the rest of the evening. Brett watched my instant infatuation with his sister with amusement, probably used to the effect she had on men.

  The family spoke with a South African accent, although Carol’s had a hint of a long lost American childhood. This explained why they were in Texas - visiting grandparents. Next week they were off to the UK where Brett had secured the ride with a top private team supplied with factory machines. I felt envious, no doubt about that. For ten years I had struggled to beat the superior machinery that Brett was going to take for granted.

  Racing a motor bike is a lot more complicated than most people think. You can all start off with the same basic machine, which in the British Championships is a 1000cc road bike such as the Yamaha R1 or the Honda Fireblade, or a 1200cc twin cylinder machine such as the Ducati. But the factory teams get all the go-faster bits to put on the bike. Then they hire a herd of top race engineers to make sure the thing runs ten miles an hour faster than yours does. If that’s not enough, they get involvement from the tyre companies who provide experts to advise the riders on which compounds of tyres they should be using at given tracks, at given temperatures and weather conditions.

  Privateers run into what we called the spiral trap. You start the day’s practise with a certain tyre compound, a certain suspension setting and a certain gearbox setting. After one or two laps you come into the pits to change the suspension because it’s not right for the track that day. Out you go again, and now that you can go faster, you find that the gears are all wrong for the corners, so back you come to change the gearbox setting. Another two laps and you’re back in the pits because now that you’re going faster through the corners, you find that the tyres don’t work as well as they should. You change tyres and out you go again only to find that because you are going faster still through a certain set of sweeping bends, the suspension is all wrong again. And so it goes on till you get it right or more likely run out of time and have to make do with the setting you have. The advantage the big money teams have is the necessary expertise and equipment to get it right in a quarter of the time.

  During a light-hearted exchange between Mark and Bob on the state of African affairs, Brett put his face closer to mine and said quietly, “Simon, I know you’ve had a lot of experience in European racing; I’d really like your advice, if you get back to England?” My estimation of the youngster moved up another couple of points, not just because he was massaging my ego, but because he was obviously willing to learn from anyone he could.

  “Well, I won’t be back for another sixteen weeks, but I’ll very likely be at Brands Hatch for the first meeting of the new season, as a spectator you understand. 4th of April if I’m not mistaken?” Brett nodded. “If you leave me a couple of complimentary tickets at the gate I’ll look for you. We can have a chat.”

  Brett nodded at me and returned his attention to his plate. Looking up at me again, he shook his head and said.

  “Don’t get your hopes up with Michele, she’s a terrible tease. She’s got more men chasing her than you could imagine.”

  “Do any of them get anywhere?” I asked. He looked at me for a moment.

  “No,” he said with a slight smile.

  I wondered if that was an answer or a warning. Michele flirted outrageously with Mark all evening, much to Debbie’s amusement and Mark’s son tried his best to look down Michele’s top. I noticed him doing it because I was sneaking looks myself.

  “I remember you competing in South Africa, Simon,” Bob commented suddenly, thrusting his face at me. “You rode right over my son at Port Elizabeth, when he fell at the end of the start/finish straight.”

  I looked at Brett. It couldn’t be him - he’d have been too young to be riding when I left for England. Seeing my look Bob shook his head.

  “Not Brett. James. He’s my eldest,” Bob stated.

  I did a quick mental review of my early race days and came up with the answer.

  “1994?” He nodded. “I remember,” I continued. “He tried to pass me on the brakes going into the first turn, lost his front end and fell right in front of me. Never saw him again after that day. He wasn’t badly hurt though, as I remember?”

  “No, but he stuck to riding in club races in Cape Town from then on.” Bob was thoughtful for a moment. “Never took it at all seriously. Still trundles out his old bike and does the odd race.” Bob sounded disappointed in his eldest son. I wondered if Brett realised his father was living out his dreams through his sons. I made non-committal sounds and indicated I was sorry for the long ago accident, although at the time I had thrown a punch or two at the older Robinson boy for taking me down with him. Luckily the marshals intervened.

  Carol directed a forgiving smile at me and I saw Michele in thirty years’ time in her face. Still beautiful I thought. I could get used to having her around on a more permanent basis, Michele I mean. Shit, listen to yourself; you only set eyes on her half an hour ago. Glancing at her again I caught her looking at me speculatively. I got the impression she knew what was going on in my mind.

  Finally, Mark pushed away his empty wineglass, called for the bill and said it was time to get the kids to bed. I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see it was already nearly midnight. He would not hear of me paying my share, so I left an extra tip for the attractive Mexican girl. She immediately put me on her ‘friends list’, and begged me to come back any time.

  Outside, Mark and Family asked me to lunch on Saturday, day after next, and retreated to a large American ship on wheels, gliding smoothly away on five litres of V8 power. I said I hoped to see the Robinsons again, meaning that I wanted to see Michele again. She smiled at me with amusement shining in her eyes. She had read me again, and shaking her head, she followed Bob and Carol to a waiting taxi. Brett shook my hand firmly and indicated that he looked forward to Brands Hatch.

  Soon I was left standing on my own. I gave a moment’s thought to my new Mexican friend, but before I could work up the courage to go back and ask she if would spend the rest of the evening with me, the double doors closed and were locked for the night. I had forgotten to ask if Michele would be staying in England with her brother. I certainly hoped she was.

  Friday I spent on the Harley touring the back roads around Dallas. I got lost three times, but each time there seemed to be a friendly highway patrol cop on hand to redirect me. I wondered if they were following me. Perhaps I was just suspiciously aimless.

  By five thirty I was back in the hotel. I showered and went looking for night-life, which any mid-thirties bachelor will tell you, means someone to spend the night with.

  In a club predictably called ‘The Cattleman’ I fell in with a noisy bunch of party animals from a local office of an international oil conglomerate. We drank too much, exchanged names and I entertained the girls with stories of skill and great daring. One of them, I don’t recall much about her now, was impressed enough for her to accompany me back to the hotel and stay most of the night.

  I woke in th
e morning feeling not only hung over, but also faintly guilty. I couldn’t stop thinking about Michele. I wondered if she was ever impressed enough by any of the riders she must have met in the South African championships, to let one of them take her to bed. That thought left me feeling jealous and a little unhappy. So I took my pounding head off to the shower and wondered if my tongue really needed shaving.

  As I was drying myself off, the phone rang.

  “Simon?” Mark sounded bright and chirpy, and had probably been up for hours. “Listen buddy, Brett and Michele will be joining us for lunch if you don’t mind.” I said I didn’t mind. This was true. I would just have to try looking half way human before Michele saw me again.

  “Bob and Carol have just run into a small problem, and they need your help,” I grunted in reply. I wasn’t going to commit myself to anything, unless it involved taking Michele off their hands for a week or two, in which case I would be helpful in the extreme.

  “I’ll tell you about it at lunch. Two o’clock OK for you?” I agreed that it was just dandy. “You can find your way, you sure?” I assured him that it was not a problem - I’d be taking a taxi. Riding the Harley with a head like mine was just not on.

  After breakfast and three cups of strong black coffee, poured for me by an unsympathetic waitress, I took my recovering hangover out for a walk to buy some clean clothes. It’s amazing what men will do when there is a pretty girl around. Normally I’d have just dug into my backpack for the cleanest shirt I could find.

  At five past two a taxi, incredibly the same one that I used before, dropped me outside Mark’s gate, without having found any civil manners. The Forest family lived in a quiet tree-lined street in a suburb on the far outskirts of town. The house was a new double storey painted a creamy white with dark wood door and window shutters.