* * * *
“We’re ready!” called the Sheriff over the loudspeaker, startling Ken.
“Oh…uh…yeah,” he said, taking two deep breaths and checking his helmet chin strap. I can do this, he told himself, waving a final time to the hyped crowd of nearly 500. He took off smoothly, switching between gears, letting his anxiety out a breath at a time. Fifty-six, sixty-three, seventy-two…as he shifted from a strained fourth into fifth gear. Seventy-eight…as he closed in on the ramp’s center mass.
Forty feet…thirty. Twenty-five…fifteen…ten, as he looked down at the speedometer for the last time. Eighty-six miles per hour, it read.
Too fast! he thought, as he hit the center of the ramp, rising higher and higher.
“Steady,” he yelled out when his front tire left the structure’s safety, slipping on the top that was slick with rain.
Boom! Streaks of color lit up the afternoon sky and crackled ziggy-zaggy around him. They hadn’t told him about the fireworks, but he should have expected it, as it was a part of nearly all big jumps in the past.
Then there was the moment… All stunt riders must feel it—the moment of full commitment, no matter what. Like a newborn leaving the womb’s safety, having been surrounded by fluid for nine months, and in the blink of an eye going back to that environment would surely end in drowning.
He thought about everything and nothing, gliding through the air…and ultimate freedom he would never feel again.
Boom! This time it came from the other side, taking his attention for a split second. The crowd was cheering, “He’s going to make it!”
But he wasn’t. His back tire couldn’t clear the back of the building’s roof.
Wham! The knobby tire skimmed the top like a flat rock skipping across a glassy pond.
The hit wasn’t enough to stop the bike in its tracks, but dozens of conversations would be had over the next days and weeks about whether or not he could have pulled it off with a less-profile street-bike tire. The nays and yeas would be almost even, with a slight advantage going to the “He would have cleared it” camp.
Not that it mattered much now, with the rider’s nose down farther than it should be. Ken stayed calm, as this wasn’t the first time he would land on his front tire. He only wished the drop weren’t so far.
Arching his back, he pulled the bike up just enough to avoid flying over the front handlebars.
Still, it wasn’t enough, and the smooth landing he had envisioned over the last week over and over in his mind was no more. The front tire hit the dirt landing ramp just before the back, with the impact more of a bounce than a landing. The angle was all wrong when it hit again, hurling Ken and the nearly three-hundred-pound hunk of shiny metal far to the right.
He had seen the hay stacked on both sides of the landing ramp during practice, but imagined only hitting the ones at the end, and hopefully at a slow speed. Ken was thinking to check his speed when he hit. Hay bales stacked six-high, like a dam holding back a raging river, collapsed under the force of the impact.
The crowd, who had been cheering and hollering only seconds ago, went quiet.
Even Sheriff Johnson was at a loss for words. He ran around the building, breaking through the crowd, followed closely by two women with concern on their faces.
Kate was athletic. She always had been and was somewhat of a track star, if it could be called that, in such a small town. Maybe she was just the best out of two or three, but she took the lead this day, beating both her fiancé and new rival before realizing it didn’t look good. She slowed, pretending to catch her breath and not appear as concerned as she was.
The Sheriff got there first out of the three, but the doctors had already surrounded him.
“Is he alive, Doc Walters?” the Sheriff asked.
“Well yes, technically he is. Took a good hit to his head, though. You can see right here,” holding up Ken’s helmet.
“Aren’t you supposed to take that off later, in case he has a neck injury?” asked Kate, without thinking.
“Before, yes… We would leave it on if he was breathing normally and transport him immediately to the hospital. As you are aware, I’m sure,” he said, trying hard to be respectful in front of the Sheriff, “it’s just that we don’t have access to one is all. And we’re all here, every doc and nurse in town, so things have to be done a little differently. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, Doctor, I see your point, I guess,” replied Kate.
“He’s unconscious but breathing normally, and that’s better than the alternative. We will let you know, Sheriff, when we hear something. Should I send a couple of medical people from here for the next event?”
“No need, Doc. This next one won’t be requiring medical attention…”
“It looks like Ken’s going to be okay!” called the Sheriff over the megaphone. “What a jump! If it hadn’t rained, I think he would have stuck the landing!”
* * * * * * *
Chapter Six
Weston, Colorado
Sheriff Johnson nodded to his deputies to get Richard and James’ shooter ready for the exhibition. The plan was discussed two days earlier. Each would be given one weapon, and only one man would be left standing. The Sheriff, having feelings for both—equally bad—would personally make sure spoils would not go to the victor.
“Gladiator-style, gentlemen, like Marcus Aurelius,” the Sheriff told them in the holding pen an hour before. “This should make it fair,” he added, showing them the lances. “Lastly, try to run and you will be shot on sight. Now, let’s put on a good show for my guests. Your very life depends upon it.”
Richard’s confidence waivered with the introduction of the weapons. “I thought this would be a fair fight,” he argued—“man to man.”
“It is now,” replied the deputy. “It’s like that kid in the Bible up against the giant, whatever his name was. At least it was fair.”
“So, the winner walks?” asked Richard.
“That’s what I heard.”
“So, you can’t guarantee it?”
“Nope,” replied the deputy. “But I know one thing for sure—the loser is not going home. And lastly, don’t run or you will forfeit the contest and be shot on sight, as the Sheriff said.”
* * * *
Next to the Bike Jump, Sheriff Johnson was coming up on his favorite part of the event.
“Go get it,” he whispered to Kate.
She disappeared around the side of the courthouse and took the large green tarp off the wheelchair. She brought it around slowly, so as not to give away the surprise too soon. Parking in front of James and family, the Sheriff did the honors.
“Today we honor our new Mayor, James VanFleet, for his dedication, both former and future, to this town. On behalf of Weston, we present you with this motorized marvel, handcrafted by an expert in the field. Take her for a spin!”
“Thank you, Sheriff, and everyone! I am very thankful for this wonderful gift,” James replied, saying he thought he should try it out later.
“Later!” the Sheriff called out over the megaphone. “The Mayor wants to try it out later. Maybe we can convince him to try it now. Try it now!” he said, getting into a chanting rhythm. “Try it now!”
One after another, the townsfolk joined in. “Try it now!” they hollered.
.
“Okay! All right! I’ll give it a try. Want to hop on?” James asked little Billy.
“Sure, Daddy! It looks like fun!”
“Forward, back, left, right, fast, and brakes,” said the Sheriff, pointing to the levers.
“It seems simple enough,” replied James.
James started slowly as the path opened before him. Within a minute, he was speeding around, kicking up dirt and smiling as much as Billy.
“Oh, we’re going to have some fun with this back at the ranch!” he told his son.
“They’re jazzed now!” said the Sheriff to Kate, watching the townsfolk cheering and hooting. Time for the big show!”
he added.
He was able to get James on the megaphone, with everyone chanting “Speech!” as one might see at an office retirement party, where most people were only there for the free food.
“I would like to thank Sheriff Johnson and all of you for this kind gesture and support of my recovery. Enjoy your weekend, and I’ll be back to work on Monday!”
Most cheered at the news. Only a few were concerned that he was coming back too soon.
* * * *
“They are ready for everyone over at the arena,” the Sheriff called into the megaphone. “This will be the last event of the day. Thank you all for coming and enjoy the show. Please, no hands or other parts on the railing or inside the arena. Enjoy free popcorn and sodas on your way inside. And lastly, let’s cheer on our boys!”
“This half,” waving his arm across a section of crowd, “cheer for the Red Team, and everyone over here cheer for the Blue Team. Let’s go!”
* * * *
They piled into the arena, shoving popcorn into their faces and wiping butter-soaked hands on dirty blue jeans and cargo shorts.
Both men were given the simple rules only minutes before going to opposite corners of the arena, and each with designated armed guards.
“The Sheriff’s rules are as follows,” one of the deputies read. “One, try to escape and we are ordered to shoot you dead. Two, this is a fight to the death. There is only one winner, and your opponent must not be left breathing. Three, you will each receive an identical dagger, called a lance. If it is thrown, dropped or confiscated by your opponent, you will not have a resource to get it back—basically, no time-outs. Four…well, it’s crossed out, so I guess that’s it. Any questions?”
“The winner gets to walk out a free man, right?” asked Ralph.
“That’s the Sheriff’s call—above my pay grade, I guess you might say.”
Each participant was led to the arena’s center with handcuffs, leg shackles, and a two-deputy team. One lawman to undo the restraints and the other to cover him, twelve-gauge style.
The crowded bleachers seemed to strain under the weight. Even the rodeo had never once drawn this big a crowd.
Sheriff Johnson stepped out into the middle of the arena, working up the crowd.
“In the days of the Roman Empire, once the most powerful civilization on this Earth’s face, they were known far and wide for their warriors—the men who fought in battle and the condemned needing punishment for their crimes. They were strong, wild and cunning, and they were known as Gladiators.
“Today we have brought Rome to Southern Colorado. I introduce you first to the Blue Team,” he called out like a boxing announcer, raising his arms to get the cheering started. “This man hails from out of town, stands five feet, nine inches and weighs in at 158 pounds.” Cheers from about half of the citizens erupted, with most forgetting about the children sitting next to them.
“Now the Red Team!” the Sheriff announced, pausing for the fans and being drowned out by the chant ‘Blue Team! Blue Team!’”—on their feet and stomping one foot after the other on the hollow-sounding metal bleachers.
“Now for the Red Team!” he said again, smiling at the raucous crowd. “This man hails from right here in Weston. He stands in at a giant’s height of six foot, seven inches and weighs in at a staggering three hundred forty-three pounds.” Red Team chants now rivaled that of the Blue, with more than a few switching to Richard’s side only on account of his size.
“This is what I’ve been missing!” said the Sheriff, with his bullhorn turned off. “We didn’t have this kind of excitement at the hangings,” he told Kate.
“They’re scared,” said James to Janice, both watching the commotion.
“The men?” she asked.
“No, the citizens. The rabid fans are scared of tomorrow and the day after that. There are no more distractions like we used to have. No movies, social media, or even a drive in the country on a Sunday afternoon for most. This is how things like this, as bad as I imagine it will be, get confused for entertainment.”
“Anything for a diversion,” added Jason.
“That’s right,” replied James. “And tomorrow they will forget all about what happened here tonight. Can you gals please take the little ones to the restaurant and we’ll meet you in just a few, I’m guessing. They don’t need to see this.”
“Sure, but we’re ordering the jalapeño poppers for an appetizer, and they aren’t good cold,” Janice replied.
“Point taken; I don’t think we’ll be too long.”
“Let’s get up front, be seen, and leave as soon as it’s over,” said James. “And thank you, Jason, for the chair.”
“This one wasn’t mine, and I don’t even know when or if it will be completed,” replied Jason.
“They said it was from the town,” said James, “but it was your idea from the start. That’s all that matters. So once again, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, James.”
* * * *
Sheriff Johnson gave the nod to his deputies as he backed away from the men he had already sentenced.
“Your weapons will be placed twenty feet behind you,” he said to the two men. “Whether you choose to use them or not is up to each of you. Once unshackled, you will remain still until the air horn signals the start of the battle. Good luck, gentlemen, and may the best man win.”
With that, the Sheriff turned and walked back to the excited and agitated crowd.
* * * * * * *
Chapter Seven
Weston, Colorado
The leg shackles dropped to the ground, and the cuffs were removed.
“Easy guys. Easy,” said the head deputy, as if he were talking to a penned bull before opening the chute. “Nobody jumps the gun.”
“Let’s make this a fair fight—no weapons,” offered Richard as his hands were uncuffed and he walked around in a semicircle. “I’ll even give you the first punch, he offered.”
His opponent circled slowly but didn’t speak.
“You know, I told you I would make this quick, but seeing all of my fans on the bleachers over there, I feel like I need to give them a show!” said the big man.
With this last statement, he raised his arm, fist punching the air to the Red Team’s chants. The crowd, now stomping on every level of the twenty-three rows of seats, didn’t seem to notice how they shook.
Richard’s opponent made the first move, catching the big man off guard. It wasn’t particularly hard, not knockout power he was sure, but it was fast and it stung, drawing a small amount of blood from his nose.
“Good shot!” yelled Richard as his rivals yelled “Blue Team!”—thirsty for more blood.
The Sheriff smiled, thinking that this could not have gone better.
“My turn,” said Richard, still the only one talking.
He swung a heavy right arm, arcing around in a semicircle and catching his opponent in the left rib cage with a thud. “That had to hurt!” he called out, forgetting where he was.
He moved forward, as his man had fallen five feet back, landing in a fetal position. “No bell here,” he laughed. “No rounds, no referees, and absolutely no decisions. Winner takes all!” he called out, raising his fist to the raucous crowd. “Come on in; I’ll give you another free...”
This one came fast again, but harder as the foot-shorter man sprung up from the ground, getting in close for the uppercut landing just under Richard’s chin. He stumbled back two steps when the next two shots hit him in the gut and liver, buckling him over. A right knee to his chin finished the onslaught as he dropped facedown onto the ground.
The smaller opponent took several precious seconds to pander to his base, raising both arms and turning in a circle. The stunt gained him most of his fair-weather fans back, and then some.
“It’s not over,” said Sheriff Johnson to James. “That slob Richard still has some fight in him. I’m sure of it.”
The man danced around Richard, as if the fight were over minute
s ago…
A swung leg from the big man caught his opponent on the left knee with a pop.
“Oooh,” came from the crowd of nearly 500 as he fell to the ground, screaming in pain.
“Get up,” his fans cried. “Get up! Get up!”
Richard gave him a chance to rise again, and he did on one leg. Richard walked in a circle around him as a once-young Mohammad Ali would do to his opponents while talking to them about how great he was. “It’s not bragging if it’s true,” said somebody somewhere, and the champ was arguably that. Richard could have stayed all night. Who hates a large audience calling for blood, after all? he thought. If it wasn’t for the popcorn’s smell wafting down from the stands, tempting his near-empty stomach, he might have dragged this out.
He thought about his favorite MMA fighter, “Country Roy Richard” he called him, since he couldn’t remember his last name. The fighter was big like him, a heavyweight, and usually underestimated by both fighters and fans for his lack of a chiseled exterior. He did, however, hit like a mule, could stay in a full five rounds, and had a signature move. Once his opponent was on the ground, he would lay all 360 pounds on him and just count the punches to the face and head until the referee had no choice but to stop the fight. He usually got to fifteen or twenty, thought Richard, before they would call it.
“Down you go, boy,” Richard called, sweeping his opponent’s good leg in another devastating kick. He went down hard, turning away from Richard.
The crowds on both sides of the aisle were yelling and taunting the fighters. A few small fights broke out between Red and Blue rivals. “Finish him!” came a chant, nearly drowned out by something he couldn’t quite make out.
“Finish him. Pick up the…! Finish him—pick up the...”
“Pick up the…the what?” Richard kept asking, not being able to hear above the raucous crowd.
Clarity was cold as a slap in the face as he saw his opponent reach for the blade he had been falling back towards the whole time. The fans knew where it was all along, but Richard had forgotten.
Next World Series | Vol. 5 | Families First [Homecoming] Page 6