He wasn’t surprised. He had expected it, and he turned the handlebar slightly to the left to meet the next but lesser challenge, a curve that was wide and circled back to the right, where he was to encounter still another berm.
This one was the longest of the several on the track, but it wasn’t the highest. Guys thrilled at accelerating their bikes along the length of it as if it were a straightaway.
Peter came off it like a shot as he breezed by a bike that seemed to have suddenly encountered engine trouble. Black smoke was spurting from it.
He didn’t look back to see what the rider was going to do. He just hoped that no one would run into the bike, causing injuries to its rider, and possibly to other riders.
He came upon the next high, sharp berm and had to decelerate to be able to negotiate the next couple of left- and right-hand turns without losing control of the bike.
Then came the long, final stretch, the longest on the track. Near the end of it was the finish line, and a few yards beyond it the curve that led back to the start of the racetrack.
There were still some sixteen minutes to go in the twenty-minute race; a man standing on a platform just outside of the finish line was holding up a square blackboard with the time scratched on it in white chalk. But there were other pit-board men spaced at various places around the track whose brief initialed messages kept Peter up with the time.
It was early, anyway. There was no use being concerned yet about how much more time was left in the race. What was important was to keep moving, and moving fast. There was no dillydallying, no procrastination. Every lap had to be run as if it were the last.
As he swung around the curve and back onto the wide straightaway, just ahead of the hill that the riders had to conquer when they started the race, Peter could see all the lead riders in front of him. He quickly counted seven, and recognized Dexter Pasini’s yellow-fendered, black-tanked Corella 125 LC blazing away in the lead. The shiny silver spokes of the bike’s wheels were dust-covered now, but the number on the back of the machine and on Dexter’s back was visible, and Peter knew he would never forget it.
It was 44.
No, I can never forget it, he thought. No matter the fight, the punches, the awful names. He’s letting me ride his bike, the Una Mae, a classy, little machine that fits me to a T. I won’t win. I don’t intend to. I don’t expect to. But I’ll have fun trying, and meanwhile, I’ll not think about anything else. Nothing … nothing …
But the memory was there in the back of his mind, lurking like some worried animal wanting to get out of its hiding place but afraid to.
He had left (left? run away was more like it) the Bentleys, his foster family in Cross Point, two days ago, gotten a ride to Tampa and then to Cypress Corners with a young couple who lived there.
They had left him off next to a mall — THE CYPRESS CORNERS MALL, the huge, neon-lighted sign at the entranceway had read — and only minutes later, as he headed toward a restaurant for a biscuit, jelly, and milk breakfast, he saw the bike, a 125 LC Corella scripted on its side.
Like a magnet it had drawn him to it, and he stood admiring it, loving it, till he heard the voice behind him say, “Hey, Bill, can you believe it? I lost my key. How am I going to start my bike without a lousy key?”
He had turned abruptly, looked behind him, and seen the two guys, the same two Dex had later introduced to him as Jess Kutter and Bill Rocco.
And, like a dummy, he had said, “I think I can start it for you.”
They looked at him, genuinely surprised. The blond one, Jess, said, “You’re kidding.”
He smiled. They had not expected to meet one like him at all — had probably just chanced it that he might know about bikes — and clearly showed it. “All I need’s a wire,” he said.
He looked around and saw the back of a Goodyear garage a hundred feet away. About half a dozen garbage cans were stacked behind it, most of which were filled so much that their lids were tipped up on one side.
He went to them, searched till he found a short piece of copper wire, and returned with it to the bike. He got on the machine, reached down, and made some contacts with the wire, and the engine fired.
The guys stared at him in disbelief.
It was no big deal to him. He had done it before. Not illegally. Only when Jim Fairchild had left the keys in his office and didn’t want Peter, or himself, chasing back after them. It was Jim who had shown him how to do it. That was back before he had ever heard of the Bentleys. Back when he was at the home, The Good Spirit Home in Cross Point.
He had been sitting on the bike for some thirty or forty seconds when Dex came running up from the mall, and from the angry look on his face Peter could tell immediately that he had been framed. Jess had lied to him, had deliberately lied to get him into trouble. This bike didn’t belong to Jess. It belonged to the kid running toward him, face twisted with fury, eyes blazing, fists clenched. Then came the first blow, only seconds after Peter had climbed off the bike.
Now here he was, riding the Una Mae in a two-heat race on the Bumble Bee Speedway, one of the best and fastest tracks in Florida. Riding it as if the fight had never happened.
A jump-hill was coming up, and he braced himself for it. It was the highest one, and the most challenging, on the track.
3
Ahead and to the right of him was a whitefendered, black-tanked BLB 125, with a rider wearing a blue helmet and the number 11.
Peter remembered having seen the rider just before the race had started. He had looked at Peter and the three guys who were with him as they passed each other near the bike examination area. He had also spoken to the guys and had gotten a blunt greeting in return, enough to indicate to Peter that all didn’t seem to be hunky-dory between him and them.
Peter had a glimpse of the rider sailing off the jump-hill in a graceful, well-balanced leap. Then he quickly placed his full attention on his own driving, and seconds later found himself soaring through space, his seat and feet free of the machine.
His eyes were on the track below him as he clung hard to the hand grips of the bike, staring with anxiety and anticipation. His breath was caught like a ball in his throat.
Then the wheels hit — the rear one first — and his feet found the pegs, and his bottom the seat, as the machine bounced and thudded down the brief incline to the level part of the track.
But suddenly the handlebars twisted to the left on him, as if the front wheel had bumped into something solid, and for an instant panic assailed him. The thought flashed through his mind that this was it, that he was going to lose control of the machine and spill.
For a second or two he decelerated, slowing the bike down and getting the front wheel back in line without losing his balance. He had to take both feet off the pegs to do that, and lost precious time in the process.
In control again, he gave the throttle a twist and shot the bike forward, hearing the yelp that boomed from the powerful twin-cylindered engine. He took the washboard bumps in stride — so called because the track here for a hundred feet or so was grooved like a washboard, an added variety for the riders — and felt the forks bouncing in and out of their tubes like a riveting machine. Peter prayed that they could stand the gaff for the remaining twelve minutes or so of the heat.
He had just gotten the bike well under control again when he noticed company riding along his right side. He took a quick glance in that direction and saw the bright-red color of the rider’s uniform. It was the guy wearing No. 99.
He had taken advantage of Peter’s brief slowdown and had caught up to him. Now he was accelerating his machine, trying hard to shoot by.
Peter smiled to himself and gunned the Una Mae, giving it all the power it could take. He felt the bike respond, could almost feel its knobbies biting into the dirt like hungry beavers.
The Una Mae edged ahead of the Yamaha, although not as fast as he liked it to. It didn’t have all the power of a great motocrosser. It wasn’t there when you wanted it to be.
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Still, he moved ahead, and by the time he reached the first high berm, he found that he wasn’t too far behind No. 11.
On his left side now was a black-tanked Yamaha with red-and-white striped fenders. The number on it was 123, and he recognized Jess Kutter. Jess was crouched low over his bike, his rear end as far back on his seat as he possibly could get it.
Peter understood his reasoning for doing that. Putting more weight over the rear wheel meant better traction, and keeping his body low down would lessen wind resistance. Jess knew the score.
But why wasn’t he farther in the lead? Maybe his bike didn’t have all that get-up-and-go power to get it there, Peter thought. Or perhaps those berms and jump-hills slowed him down. The possible reasons were numerous.
Peter roared up onto the berm, heading toward the middle part of it with throttle wide open. He saw Jess Kutter coming up at his left side, maintaining a lead of only about two feet or so.
They were heading down off the berm when Peter noticed Jess cutting closer to him. From a space that was about five feet between them, Jess had narrowed it to four, then three, and was getting it even closer.
“Hey, watch it!” Peter yelled, terror seizing him for a moment.
But he held his ground. If anyone was going to yield, it was going to be Kutter, Peter told himself determinedly.
He saw Jess’s head turn his way for an instant. Although he couldn’t see Jess’s face or eyes because of the dark gray shield, he knew that Jess could see him.
What is he up to? Is he trying to scare me? Peter thought. Is he doing that to get ahead of me?
They were nearly off the berm by now, and Peter saw Jess edging away from him, widening the gap between them.
Relief swept over him, and he wondered if Jess had deliberately ridden close to him to get him rattled. Was that one of his tricks?
Maybe he doesn’t know it’s me riding the Una Mae, Peter thought. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he feels that just because Dex befriended me, he doesn’t have to be a friend of mine, too.
Whatever Jess’s intention happened to be, his ploy worked. He was ahead of Peter by about twenty feet as they streaked down the stretch toward the next berm.
Peter felt that he had been duped and was angry at himself for letting Kutter take advantage of him. Kutter was probably laughing to himself and would brag about it later to Dex.
There were only four minutes left to go in the heat when he saw two bikes collide just after they had leaped off the first jump-hill of the track. It was the track’s most dangerous jump, and it was no surprise to Peter that it happened.
As a matter of fact, he was surprised that there were not more of them. It only proved that the riders were really good, he thought.
The Una Mae took the jump-hill gracefully, but Peter almost panicked as the bike landed only inches away from one of the fallen riders.
“Watch it!” he screamed as he came plunging down from the peak of the hill, the front wheel of the bike held high and the rear wheel coming down almost in the exact spot where the rider was trying to scramble out of Peter’s way.
The rider — No. 14 — managed to roll out of Peter’s path in time and toward his bike, which had tumbled over toward the side of the track, where bales of hay had been piled. The other fallen rider, having been on the left side of the bike he had collided into, had escaped toward the hay bales only seconds before and was now sitting with his knees hunched up, waiting for the other bikes to ride by.
A black tank and the number 123 flashed through Peter’s senses as the Una Mae came to land finally on its two wheels and head on down the short stretch toward the high berm in the distance.
It was Jess Kutter’s number. What had he done? Peter wondered. Had he tried to scare another rider by riding up close to him, and gotten too close? Maybe that accident would teach him a lesson.
But, then again, maybe it wouldn’t.
Minutes later a flagman stood at the finish line and brought down the black-and-white checkered flag with a swish each time a bike sailed by him.
Peter breezed by him, too, coming in eleventh.
He was disappointed. He had hoped to come in among the first ten, at least.
4
The winner of the heat, riding his faithful Corella one twenty-five — number forty-four! Dexter Pasini!” a woman’s voice announced over the public address system.
A roar burst from the crowd, then quieted down as the voice continued: “In second place, riding an Italian Jet — number one-oh-two! Jim Withers!”
Again the roar. Then the third-place winner was announced. “Riding his BLB one twenty-five and coming in third place — number eleven! Giff Mac-Kenzie!”
The roar seemed to be louder this time than it was the first two times, and Peter stood on his toes to try to see what this third-place winner, who seemed to be so popular with the fans, looked like.
He saw a tall, broad-shouldered guy about sixteen, with a thatch of blond hair topping a lean, smiling, suntanned face, waving back to the crowd. It was the kid who had spoken to Dex and his two cronies before the race and gotten a short, grunted reply in return.
“How’d she ride?” a voice broke into his thoughts.
He turned, met Dex’s eyes, and smiled. “Great. But a better rider might’ve brought her in a lot quicker than I did.”
Dex shrugged. He had his helmet off and the wind was teasing his curly black hair.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get something to drink.”
Peter walked with him to the soft-drink and sandwich stand, carrying under his arm the helmet Dex had also let him borrow.
As a matter of fact, nearly everything he wore Dex was letting him borrow: the helmet, the gloves, the shoes, and the uniform. Never mind that they were battle-scarred; they were still usable.
Following close behind them were Jess Kutter and Bill Rocco. Jess had gotten back on his bike after the collision and finished the heat, coming in fourteenth. Peter didn’t know what had happened to the other rider. He probably hadn’t finished.
Jess hadn’t said anything to Peter about that close-driving incident on the high berm, nor to Dex. Peter said nothing, too. Better that it be forgotten, he thought, than bring it up and cause an argument.
They walked up to the counter, and Dex turned to Jess, a broad smile coming over his dimple-cheeked, suntanned face.
“Okay, pal. Your turn to spring,” he said.
Jess stared at him, seemed on the verge of arguing the point, then lowered his gaze and dug into his back pocket for his wallet. Somehow, Peter got the feeling that Jess never argued with Dex. That whatever Dex said, went.
“What time does the second heat start?” Peter asked.
“Two o’clock.” Dex drained his Coke, set the empty can on the counter, and waved to Peter and his two friends. “Come on. Let’s gas up the bikes.”
Dex had brought along a five-gallon container of gasoline on the pickup that had carted their three bikes to the track, and he refilled the tanks. He had also fetched a box of new sparkplugs, and asked Peter to make the replacements.
Why me? Peter wanted to ask him, wondering why they each couldn’t do the simple job themselves.
But he said nothing and removed the plugs with a wrench, then replaced them with the new ones.
Once he saw Dex in a close huddle with Jess and Bill, and saw them looking intently at him, speaking in soft tones. He felt certain they were talking about him, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying.
When he was finished tightening the last plug, Dex slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “Thanks, old buddy. You’re fitting in just great. You know that?”
Peter shrugged. Dex didn’t know that Peter couldn’t fit in just great with anything. Not for long, anyway. Soon after the moto was over, Peter had to move on. He wanted to be in Fort Myers before dark.
Peter put the tool back into the kit, took out a soiled cloth, wiped his hands with it, then put it back and locked the kit.
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“Like another drink?” Dex asked.
“No, thanks. I’ve had enough,” Peter said.
He picked up his helmet and stuck it under his right armpit. For a long moment he stared off toward the stadium seats of the track and felt that he was in a trance.
He just couldn’t believe that he was here, racing in a motocross. He was supposed to be on the run, not accepting favors like riding somebody else’s bike in a race. This was crazy.
But he was into it up to his ears now. Too deep to back out till it was over.
He heard the same woman’s voice coming over the public address system again, and he shifted his thoughts to listen to what she was saying.
“Riders, please get in your places at the starting gate,” she said. “The second heat will start in five minutes.”
As before, the hill was the first item on the bill to conquer, and nineteen bikes crossed the starting gate and headed for it as if their lives depended on it. And somehow they did, for, as Peter knew, conquering the hill meant that you had a good chance of finishing the race. Not conquering it meant that you had no chance at all.
The roar of the engines was deafening as the bikes raced side by side up the hill. Peter had the throttle wide open and could feel the knobbies tearing up the dirt as the machine scrambled up the incline.
Near the peak of it the Una Mae seemed to lose power. Then it came almost to a dead stop, and Peter yelled at it, “Don’t stop now! For crying out loud, don’t stop now!”
He worked the throttle feverishly, feeding the much-needed gas back into the carb and then to the plug upon which the life of the machine depended so much. He felt the power surge through the bike as the rear knobbies caught traction and spun, pushing the vehicle up to the peak and then over it.
A thrill swept through Peter as the machine picked up speed, then roared down the hill, Peter bending as low as he could to cut the wind resistance down to a minimum.
The Una Mae reached the bottom of the hill, its front end surging up slightly to meet the beginning of the flat, long straightaway. Peter saw a dozen bikes ahead of him and quickly tried to recognize them. The first one that captured his attention was 99, the rider next to him — the guy in the crimson suit riding the blue-tanked Yamaha. Peter glanced ahead and saw No. 123 — Jess Kutter — in about sixth place. No. 44 — Dex — was in about fourth.
Dirt Bike Runaway Page 2
