Adventure Bike Club and the Tire Giant

by Brian Bakos

  ***

  “How are we going to get there, Quentin?” Tommy asks. “Do we just ride along the freeway shoulder and hope that nobody hits us?”

  “No, of course not,” Quentin says. “I think we can follow the railroad tracks and sneak up on it from behind.”

  “Well, isn’t this the silliest idea?” Melissa says. “You won’t catch me riding my bike along railroad tracks.”

  “Okay,” Quentin says, “there’s a park nearby. You can wait for us there while we do the close-in reconnaissance.”

  “Maybe Amanda and I will do just that,” Melissa says.

  Ordinarily, I get mad when Melissa tries to speak for me, but this time I don’t mind so much.

  Quentin points to his camera. “Myself, I’m going close enough to take some good pictures. I’ve got a whole brand new roll of film ... almost.”

  “That’s about what you’d expect from somebody who crashes into trees,” Melissa says.

  Her voice is low, but the anger comes through. She always seems to be angry about something. Maybe she’s upset because the conversation has turned away from her fabulous new bike.

  “You up for it, Tommy?” Quentin asks. “I’ll get a shot of you standing right next to the Tire Giant.”

  “Sure,” Tommy says.

  He tries to sound macho, but it doesn’t come across all that well.

  “Then, if there’s no further discussion, I move that we get started,” Quentin says.

  Silence. Quentin looks toward Tommy.

  “Is there a second?” he asks.

  “I second the motion,” Tommy says, without much enthusiasm.

  “All in favor, mount up!” Quentin cries.

  He jumps on Old Reliable and speeds away.

  The rest of us aren’t too happy, but nobody wants to be the first to chicken out. We all just hang around trying to look busy. Tommy fiddles with his bike. Melissa primps her hair. I discover that the pump has to be put away in the garage.

  “Well, I guess we’d better get started,” Tommy finally says.

  So, we all get on our bikes and take off into the bright Saturday morning.

  “I sure hope we don’t regret this,” I mutter.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” Melissa says. “Just stick close to me – if you can.”

  3. Race for Glory

  By an unspoken agreement, we keep to the sidewalk where Quentin won’t expect us to be and where parked cars and trees hide our approach. Riding real quiet and sneaky, we catch up with him a couple of blocks away.

  Quentin isn’t going very fast, and he keeps looking back down the street over his shoulder. He’s wondering what’s happened to his club, no doubt. He looks kind of funny, and a little sad. Somehow, we manage to keep quiet so as to not give ourselves away.

  After watching Quentin stew for a couple of minutes, we suddenly zip down a driveway and take up position behind him.

  “Here we are!” I announce.

  Quentin flinches, but tries not to act too surprised.

  “Well ... hello everybody,” he says.

  “Let’s get moving,” Tommy says.

  “Got it,” Quentin says. “Follow me!”

  He straightens himself up and increases the pace. He looks very much the guy in charge now. We fall into a natural order. Quentin first, then Melissa, then me and Tommy riding side by side.

  I am the slowest, my bike being what it is, and I’m really not that athletic to begin with. Tommy does not shoot ahead, though. He’ll stay with me no matter how slow I’m moving, just so I won’t have to feel dumb.

  Tommy is always so nice. He’s the kind of boy that my dad refers to as a “young gentleman,” as opposed to a “low class slob.” Dad doesn’t like low class slobs. Someday, when I have a real boyfriend, he’d better not be a low class slob.

  Since he is club president, it only makes sense that Quentin should lead the way, but Melissa has other ideas. She looks back towards me with a very confident expression on her face.

  “Watch this, Amanda,” she says.

  She pours on a burst of speed and whips around Quentin.

  “Bye-bye!” She wiggles her fingers at him.

  “Oh yeah?” Quentin replies.

  He pours on the speed and catches up with her.

  “You’re being very tiresome,” Melissa says.

  Quentin is pulling ahead of her, but Melissa switches to a higher gear and shoots away. Quentin catches up again. The race for glory is on! They ride neck and neck, neither one giving an inch.

  “Go Quentin!” Tommy cries.

  I suppose I should cheer for Melissa, out of girl solidarity, but I decide to stay neutral. The two racers fly along like mad, skimming past the parked cars. Some kids playing ball in the street run for cover.

  “Slow down,” I shout, “that’s dangerous!”

  With all the parked cars hemming them in, there isn’t enough room to battle side by side, so Quentin bounds up onto the sidewalk. He zips past driveways and lawns, dodging anything in his way.

  “Coming through!” he yells.

  The mail man jumps off the sidewalk, dropping a handful of junk mail.

  “Hey, watch it!” He shouts, then he calls Quentin a horrible name.

  Melissa stays in the street, her long blonde hair flowing in the wind as she drives her English racer on to incredible speeds. She looks like some Viking princess out of a movie.

  They have to stop at a corner for traffic, but the race starts again on the next block.

  “Down with the English!” Quentin shouts. “Yee Haaa!”

  “Eat my dust!” Melissa yells back.

  I can’t tell who is winning. Then a little kid on a tricycle settles things when he rolls down a driveway right in front of Quentin.

  “Look out!” Tommy cries.

  Quentin jerks the handlebars, barely missing the trike. He barrels across a lawn out of control.

  No joyous Yee Haaa! this time just a terrified:

  “Ahhhhh!”

  “Cool!” the little kid on the trike shouts.

  Whump!

  Old Reliable wraps itself around a big maple while Quentin skids across the grass head first. He disappears into a shrub.

  We all stop. The world becomes deathly silent, even Melissa looks worried.

  “Quentin, are you okay?” she asks.

  “Never better,” the shrub groans.

  Quentin untangles himself and stands up slowly. He examines his ripped T-shirt and the network of scratches on his arms.

  “Nothing seems to be broken, at least,” he says.

  The little kid rides up on his trike.

  “Wow, that was really neat!” he says. “Can you show me how to do that?”

  “Sure,” Quentin says. “First you’ve got to put on your ‘light fall’ jacket.”

  “Oh, please,” Melissa says. “Let’s go before that brat gets us into trouble.”

  “What’s going on out there!” somebody roars from inside the house.

  “Uh-oh,” the little kid says. “Dad’s gonna be really mad when he sees his favorite shrub all busted up.”

  We take off pretty quick then. I hear the front door of the house being flung open but don’t look back.

  Old Reliable is in pain. The front wheel is bent and rubs against the fork with every turn, the left pedal is all bashed up.

  “Looks like your racing days are over,” Melissa says.

  “Oh, yeah?” Quentin says. “Maybe I’ll get one of those fancy bikes, then we’ll see.”

  4. Mayor Lazar Investigates

  Five Days Earlier:

  “Honest Joe” Lazar, mayor of South Allendale, was confused. His whole Tuesday morning routine was out of whack.

  “What’s that thing doing out there?” he said. “Is it some kind of advertisement?”

  “Beats me,” said police chief Bascomb, “it just sort of appeared last night.”

  The two men were standing on the railroad tracks behind th
e city hall parking lot, looking toward the Tire Giant half a mile away.

  “That’s city land out there,” the Mayor said. “If somebody wants to advertise on it, they’d better pay up.”

  “Right,” said the police chief, chomping down on his cigar.

  It was a cheap, stinky one, not like the fancy brand Mayor Lazar smoked.

  “Have you been out there yet, Bascomb?” the mayor asked.

  “No, sir. I thought you’d want to be in on the investigation.”

  “Yes ... well, let’s go have a look now,” Lazar said. “Better bring a couple of your men, just in case.”

  Bascomb spoke into a walkie-talkie. Soon, two uniformed police officers joined them on the tracks. Mayor Lazar looked them over critically, like a general inspecting his troops. They weren’t the sharpest men, for sure – but with the town budget being what it was, you couldn’t expect the Lone Ranger to join your police force.

  “Let’s go, boys,” Lazar said.

  He led the posse along the cross ties. A narrow dirt road ran alongside the tracks to their left, but it looked too muddy for Lazar’s expensive shoes.

  The mayor was in a bad mood. This railroad track wilderness was an undignified place to stroll. What a lousy neighborhood for the city government to be in! The city hall itself was nothing more than a converted warehouse, but the cheapskate taxpayers refused to cough up the money for a better one.

  Imagine that! Lazar grumbled to himself. They’d rather spend their money on food, housing and other stuff rather than provide a suitably grand building for their city government.

  “Drat this place,” Lazar grumbled aloud.

  A ragged vagrant was coming toward them along the dirt road. The man carried a large plastic trash bag and kept his eyes fixed to the ground in search of any discarded bottles or cans that might be there.

  Pretty slim picking here today, he thought.

  He’d been hanging around these tracks since the summer. He used to haunt the new state park on the other