“Your people? What do you mean?” Joe asked.
“I belong to the Fire Creek Mohawks,” Hawk said. “My ancestors roamed the land from the Laurentians to New Hampshire’s White Mountains long before Europeans came to this continent. This land used to be ours.”
“And you want it back, I suppose,” Lupin said, somewhat annoyed.
Hawk scowled at him. “Some of it, yes. We’d like to keep some of the streams clear of industrial pollution and some of the mountainsides free from clear-cutting.”
“So you’re entering the race to publicize your cause?” Frank asked.
Kelly Hawk nodded. “Among other reasons.”
“While we were driving here, we heard something on the radio about Native American protests,” Joe said.
“That’s our lawyers fighting it out in court,” Hawk said. “I don’t go for that stuff. I’m a one-woman protest and publicity campaign.”
“Well, good luck,” Frank said.
“Both in the race and with your political efforts,” Joe added.
“Thanks,” Hawk said with a wry smile. “Maybe you two aren’t as boring and straightlaced as you seem.”
“Before this becomes a mutual admiration society,” Lupin said, “you should know I’m not here to make friends; I’m in this race to win.”
“And to make up for your loss on Last Person Standing?” Hawk asked.
“I nearly won on the show,” Lupin countered. “And I’m going to win here.” He checked his watch again.
“I crossed a rope bridge hand-over-hand in Borneo,” Lupin said. “This cable is a lot sturdier than that. You can wait if you want to, but if this chair gives way, I’m not going to be sitting here when it happens.” He began to raise the safety bar.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Hawk said. “That was a TV show, this is real life.”
“Hey, the danger was real,” Lupin shot back.
Frank grabbed Lupin’s shoulder. “Don’t do it,” he said. “Standing up in this chair could endanger us all.”
“We’re in this together,” Hawk said, “so sit down and wait patiently with the rest of us.”
Lupin glanced from Frank to Joe to Hawk. He lowered the safety bar. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “I won’t wait forever, though.”
“Tough break your trainer landing in the hospital,” Frank said.
Lupin nodded grimly. “I’m not too happy about using a race-sponsored support crew,” he said.
“I thought all competitors brought their own support people,” Joe said.
“Not everyone has their own team,” Hawk replied. “The race hires crews for racers who don’t bring their own.”
“For a fee,” Lupin added. He crossed his arms over his chest and grumbled, “Makes me feel like an amateur.”
Just then the chairlift gave a jerk and started moving again.
Moments later they all landed on the staging platform near the summit lodge. A young man wearing a badge that said, Staff: Kendall, quickly walked over to the group. “I am so sorry,” he said.
“What happened?” Frank asked.
“Something got jammed in the chairlift equipment at the bottom of the slope,” Kendall replied. “Fortunately, no one was hurt. Mr. Lupin, we’ve found a new support team for you. If you’d follow me, please . . . The rest of you can hook up with your crews and equipment at the summit lodge.”
“Good deal,” Joe said. He, Frank, and Kelly Hawk headed for the main lodge while Lupin followed Kendall toward an A-frame building marked Administration.
As the Hardys and Hawk neared the lodge entrance, a man and a woman in matching red-and-white uniforms came out of the main doors.
“Ms. Hawk,” the woman said, a look of disapproval marring her pretty face, “my brother and I think it is wrong of you to use this race for your political purposes.”
“As opposed to the commercial purposes you and your brother are using it for, Victoria?” Hawk said archly.
“We have entered the race for the thrill of the competition,” the man said. “If our fame is spread by our victories”—he shrugged—“so much the better.”
“Georges,” Hawk said, “you’d give your eye teeth to get an American sponsor endorsement—don’t pretend you wouldn’t.”
“No need to be hostile about this,” Victoria said. “Perhaps we could have a more civilized discussion some other time.”
Hawk’s dark brown eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me a savage?” she hissed.
The man and woman looked shocked. “No, no,” Georges said. “We did not intend it that way. Just, perhaps, that we should speak later. Adieu.” He and his sister turned and jogged off together toward the administration building.
“Who were they?” Joe asked.
“Victoria and Georges Clemenceau,” Hawk said. “Hotshot local athletes looking to make their names across the border. Snobs.” She turned her head and spat onto the grass. “Look, I’ll see you boys later. I’ve got some things to do.” She turned and headed toward the gondola platform, pulling a cell phone out of her pocket as she went.
“Why didn’t she use the phone when we were trapped on the chairlift?” Joe asked, slightly annoyed.
Frank shrugged. “I guess she wasn’t any more worried than we were,” he said. He pushed open the door to the main lodge and they both went inside.
The entry opened into a large, wide room with a high ceiling supported by huge timber beams. On one side, a lounge with tall floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the ski slopes. A large stone fireplace was set in a short wall between the windows. Tables and chairs surrounded the fireplace, which—due to the season—had no fire burning in it.
To the right of the entryway, a passage led from the main room to the guest rooms beyond. To the left sat the lodge’s registration desk, which was serving as a check-in area for the contestants.
Joe and Frank went to the desk and checked themselves in. The clerk behind the counter assigned them a room for the night and gave them a set of keys.
“The last real bed we’ll see for a while,” Joe said, wagging the keys in his hand. “Enjoy it while you can.”
Frank was about to reply when the door of the lodge burst open and a tall, burly man surged through. “Outrageous!” he said, almost shouting. “Someone could have been hurt. Why wasn’t the lift checked before the event started?”
A member of the race staff trailed after him, nodding obsequiously. “I assure you, Mr. Baldwin, the lifts were checked before anyone used them. It was an accident, that’s all.”
Behind Baldwin and the staff member came three college students—two men and a woman—all wearing UMass T-shirts.
“Well, tell Bennett that he needs to get his act together,” Baldwin said. He stalked over to the desk and held out his hand. “Give me my room key.”
“Who’s that?” Joe whispered as he and Frank walked away from the desk.
“Roger Baldwin,” offered one of the students, a thin man with dark curly hair and big sideburns. “He’s a former Ironman triathlete, and I guess he’s trying to switch sports.” The student extended his hand. “I’m Quentin Curtis. These are my friends, Maggie Collins and Robert Frid.” The other two, a man with short black hair and a woman with long auburn tresses, offered their hands as well.
The Hardys shook hands with them. “Frank and Joe Hardy,” Frank said.
“Are you three a team?” Joe asked.
“No,” Frid said. “We’re all competing separately.”
“Though not in a cutthroat way,” Maggie Collins added with a smile. “What about you two?”
“We’re competing as well,” Frank said. “Our support crew should be here shortly.”
“When Frank says ‘crew’ he actually means our friends Chet Morton and Jamal Hawkins,” Joe said, grinning.
“We’re using hired support,” Curtis said. “One of the college alumni pitched in on the cost so all of us could race.”
“Lucky thing,” Frid added, “or two of us would just
be along for the ride.”
“Well, nice meeting you,” Frank said. “I’m sure we’ll see more of each other during the race bivouacs. C’mon, Joe. We’d better find Jamal and Chet.”
The Hardys left the hilltop lodge and joined up with their friends at the gondola platform. They checked over their mountain bikes, and housed them in a large shed being used to store race equipment. Then all four scouted the next day’s downhill course before returning to the lodge for dinner. After dinner, they mingled and scoped out their rivals some more.
The large field of competitors came from all over the northeastern United States and Canada. Most had joined up for the thrill of the race. Many were college students like Curtis, Frid, and Collins. Others, like Roger Baldwin, had crossed over from other athletic disciplines. Some, like the Clemenceaus, hoped to expand their media visibility. A few, like Hawk and Lupin, seemed driven by their own inner fires.
Most of the contestants kept to themselves during the evening and retired early, not wanting to betray their strategies to their rivals. The Hardys, Jamal, and Chet turned in just before ten.
• • •
Morning dawned bright and beautiful over Fire Creek Mountain. Sunlight blazed over the green ridges of the resort and painted the bare ski slopes orange and gold.
The Hardys and their friends rolled out of the sack early and joined the other competitors in the dining hall for breakfast. Then the brothers went to the equipment shed and gave their mountain bikes a last going-over.
As the starting time drew near, the race crew assembled the contestants in front of the lodge, and Vince Bennett spoke to the group.
“Greetings! Welcome to the Speed Times Five Adventure Race!” Bennett called to the crowd through a bullhorn. “Glad to see you all up and at ’em this early.” He smiled as the competitors grumbled back a sleepy greeting. “Hopefully, all of you received your start times with your competitor’s package when you checked in. For the benefit of the media present”—he nodded to a stand of video cameras set up nearby—“let me explain that the racers will start in order of ranking—for those who have competed in previous adventure races—or by random group draw for new participants.”
“How’d we do on start time?” Chet asked.
“Not too bad,” Frank said, checking his schedule. “We’re about the middle of the pack. I’m going before Joe.”
“They kept us together since we’re using the same support crew,” Joe said, smiling at Chet and Jamal.
“Because of the staggered start, the racers will be timed to the checkpoints,” Bennett continued. “These times will determine starting order during other legs of the race. The media and spectators can check the Speed Times Five Web site for complete rules.
“Racers’ communications packs will be given a once-over by race personnel at every checkpoint. Because of the isolation of parts of the course, it is vital that you keep your communications gear in good working condition.
“Also, please observe the rules of good sportsmanship. If someone is in trouble, make sure you help him or her or—at the very least—call for assistance. The race can be dangerous; let’s look out for one another.
“Finally, I want to thank our support staff and race sponsors, especially StarTel communications, QuickAid sports drinks, the Tuffy bike corporation, LaTelle Medical and Pharmaceutical, and Sea-Zoom personal water craft. And, of course, I can’t forget the beautiful Fire Creek Mountain Resort, who have allowed us the use of their spectacular facilities for the first three stages of this race. Next time you’re in Quebec, visit Fire Creek Mountain.” Bennett gazed out over the sea of eager racers assembled before him. “So, are you ready to race?”
“Yeah!” the crowd screamed back.
“Then let’s hit the starting blocks!” Bennett waved to the crowd, pointed toward the starting gate atop the ski hill, and then jogged in that direction.
Half an hour later, the Hardys’ starting numbers were called, and the team made its way to the gate.
“See you both at the first resupply point,” Jamal said.
“Take good care of the van,” Frank said.
“We’ll treat it as if we owned it,” Chet replied.
“That’s what we’re worried about,” Joe shot back jokingly.
A crowd of officials milled around the starting gate. They checked the communications equipment—a durable long-range walkie-talkie hooked into race headquarters—as each racer came through, and ran through a final prerace checklist.
Joe and Frank completed their paperwork and headed for the gate. Ahead of them, the brothers saw Kelly Hawk plunge down the slope at a breakneck pace. Collins, Frid, and Curtis waited nearby, looking very much a team in their matching UMass campus wear. All of the students started before Joe and Frank.
When his turn came, Frank mounted his bike at the top of the run. He gave Joe the thumbs-up, waited for the starting buzzer, and then took off downhill.
Joe positioned his mountain bike in the starting gate and hopped on. He watched as Frank zipped around the first turn in the course, disappearing behind a stand of pine trees. Joe looked at the starter, who said, “Ready?”
Joe nodded and adjusted his racing helmet and goggles. The starter brought up his starting timer, which was hooked into the gate. The lights on either side of the gate flashed red . . . yellow . . . green! A buzzer sounded and the gate flew open.
Joe hit the pedals and lurched out of the gate and down the steep, bare ski slope.
“Yahoo!” he whooped. Yelling wasn’t very professional, but the thrill of descent felt glorious. Stones and dust kicked up behind Joe as he zoomed toward the first turn.
He came in hard and clenched the hand brake to slow himself a little. The bike skidded sideways a bit, costing him some time, but he regained control and headed for the second steep turn.
A tall stand of pines rose up before him as he neared a jog to the right. He squeezed the brakes lightly to take the edge off the turn.
The grips caught for a moment, then pressed all the way to the handlebars. The brakes didn’t catch. Unable to control his speed, Joe careened toward the tall pine trees.
3 Accidental Meetings
* * *
Joe squeezed the brakes once more as he turned the bike’s front wheel to steer away from the edge of the course.
Nothing. He had no brakes at all.
He flipped the shift lever and kicked the bike into a lower gear, hoping he wouldn’t throw the chain as he did so. The chain held and the bike turned, but not fast enough.
Trees shot up in front of him, a dense, green wall. Many of the trunks were a foot wide. The mesh ski fencing at the edge of the course looked flimsy and inadequate. Joe doubted it would stop him from a nasty spill.
Desperate, he leaned the bike sideways while he continued to try to turn. If he tipped too far, the controlled slide he was aiming for would turn into a bruising skid. The bike’s wide tires bit into the rough dirt, spraying pebbles and dust into the air.
Nearly digging the bike’s right pedal into the dirt, Joe veered away from the ski fence and the tall trees. He tried to turn the bike back uphill, to use the lower gear as a breaking mechanism, but his momentum was too great. He’d avoided an initial crash but kept hurtling down the hill at frightening speed.
He and the bike went airborne as the ground dipped on the next straightaway. Joe held his breath and braced for the landing, concentrating on maintaining control of the bike. The impact made his bones ache, but he held on tight and the bike stayed under him.
As he landed, Joe caught sight of Frank ahead of him, gliding into the next big turn. Joe snaked back and forth across the course, trying to slow his descent. When he reached the turn, though, he had to abandon that strategy or risk a bad spill.
The course turned to the left now and cut back quickly several times from right to left and back. Joe careened from one side of the course to the other, trying to burn up some of the bike’s momentum. He swung perilously close to ski fe
nces and obstacles on both sides as he went.
Once, his tires skidded out from under him and he had to touch his foot down to keep from falling. A sharp pain shot up from his ankle to his knee. Joe gritted his teeth and held on for dear life.
He went airborne again near the bottom of the hill and was surprised to spot Frank right in front of him. The elder Hardy had steered a far more conservative course and looked in full control of his bike.
Joe swerved to avoid hitting Frank and could only imagine the look on his older brother’s face as he shot past. A checkpoint loomed at the bottom of the hill as the slope flattened out, but Joe couldn’t stop. Collins, Frid, and Curtis stood waiting to be cleared through the checkpoint as Joe plummeted toward them.
The course turned ninety degrees to the left at the checkpoint. Joe knew he’d never make the turn. He zipped past the startled college students and plummeted into the forest. The calls of the race officials echoed after him for a moment before being drowned out by the sound of his mountain bike crashing through the light underbrush.
The younger Hardy wove his crippled bike between the trees, barely missing the wide trunks. Fortunately, the rough terrain and brush beneath the pines soon diminished the bike’s speed. Joe put his feet down and slid to a stop just short of a huge spruce. He whistled a long, slow sigh of relief.
Joe got off the bike and looked back to see Frank sprinting through the forest toward him. “Joe!” the older Hardy called. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” Joe called back. “Just a bit shook up.”
Frank skidded to a halt next to his brother. “What’s wrong?” the older Hardy asked. “Why didn’t you stop at the checkpoint?”
“I couldn’t,” Joe said. “Something’s wrong with my brakes.” He knelt down by the front wheel; Frank did the same at the back.
Frank frowned. “The cable’s come loose from the brake mechanism,” he said.
“Up here, too,” Joe said. “I know we checked the connections last night. They were working fine when I took the bike out of the shed this morning, too.”
Speed Times Five Page 2
