Dirt Bikes, Drones, and Other Ways to Fly

by Conrad Wesselhoeft

I pat the seat. “Just honor the spirit. She was born to grind, so don’t park her in mothballs. Or let her clutch go dry. I was thinking, maybe Lee could drive it, just to keep it running strong.”

  “Wait!” Siouxsie says. “Are you giving it to her, or to me?”

  “He’s giving it to you,” Lee says.

  “Sure doesn’t sound like it,” Siouxsie grumbles.

  If you can love a machine, I love this one. A nothing bike, if you don’t know her. But if you do, you know this: she has shredded it all—the hills and mesas, the meandering arroyos and lone goat trails. She’s flown off a million humps and bumps. She’s never hurt me. Only protected me.

  On a great bike, you don’t break your neck. You save your neck.

  I’m definitely giving it to Siouxsie.

  “It’s kind of an insult,” Siouxsie says. “But you don’t mean it to be. So I’ll take it.”

  Chapter 29

  I’M DEAD TO THE WORLD—deep-Delta comatose—when:

  L.A. . . . L.A. . . . L.A.

  Gonna get my junk in play . . .

  I shove El Guapo off me, find my phone—dog-butt incubated—and gasp into the receiver: “Whaaa!”

  “Arlo, this is Major Anderson.”

  “Huh? What time is it?”

  “Zero-hundred hours.”

  I open my eyes in pitch-darkness.

  “Zero hun . . . ?

  “It’s midnight, Arlo. We launch in six hours. Saddle up that Ducati and get down here.”

  Click!

  In the battle between awake and sleep, sleep is Goliath, a thousand times stronger, but the loser.

  I swing my feet over the side of the bed. The floor is ice cold. I shiver into my clothes, stamp into my Gringos, shamble downstairs, and slip out into the frozen night. Scurry to the shed and roll out the Ducati.

  On the back porch, I glance at the thermometer: eighteen degrees Fahrenheit.

  Factor in wind chill.

  Then factor in chill when I hit speed.

  In the kitchen, I slip on Dad’s down parka and duster. Dig through a drawer and find ski gloves and a wool mask. It’s a pretty uncool getup, but it’ll keep me warm.

  Dad’s baked a drawerful of corn dodgers for just such a night. I stuff a couple handfuls in my pocket. Guapo suddenly appears, and I toss him one. He gulps the little corncake. Sits in tail-twitching humility staring at my pocket.

  “Greedy bum,” I say, and toss him another.

  I jot a note: Gone to White Sands, 12:15 a.m.

  I remember the mares and add: Don’t forget to water and feed—

  But you can’t get this wrong. You can’t forget. Babies are on the way. If Dad wakes up on the novel-writing side of his brain, those horses won’t get fed till noon, or maybe not at all.

  So I scratch out this line and instead write: Already fed and watered the mares.

  I stick the note on the fridge and head to the barn.

  Queen Zenobia is awake in her stall, watching over her sleeping sisters. She stares at me, a pretty liver chestnut with flaxen mane and black eyes. Her ears prick forward.

  You can tell how old a horse is by looking at its teeth, how it feels by looking at its ears, and how it thinks by looking into its eyes. A horse says a lot with its eyes. Right now, Queen Z is saying, “Whatever brings you here at midnight, I support you one hundred percent.”

  In some ways, being trusted by the mares is the most important thing in my life.

  I fill their oat bins, fork alfalfa, and top off the water buckets. I do this with Maximum Efficiency and stealth.

  Then I rub Z’s neck, because she doesn’t like to be patted. Breathe her good, warm smell.

  You can lean against an old tree, or against a pregnant mare, and feel the same thing: life beyond life.

  “Headed down to White Sands,” I tell her. “Can’t say more—top-secret. Plus, you wouldn’t understand.”

  Fact is, she does understand.

  I SLIP ON MY HELMET and push the Ducati up the drive—far enough so there’s a chance I won’t wake Dad when I fire her up.

  Guapo’s tagged along. “I’m placing you in command of the fort, Guapie.” He stares at my pocket. “Okay, okay, you bum!” I flip him one last corn dodger.

  I throw my leg over the saddle—choke up, clutch in—and heave into the air. On the third try, the Monster sparks to life.

  Full of growl.

  Capable of 160 miles per hour.

  But still half asleep.

  As I ease onto the access road, Guapo trots along beside me. When I add a click, he fades back. Compared to my dirt bikes, this is like floating. A few minutes later, I bend through a pond of Shell-station glare onto I-25.

  Add a few more clicks.

  Damn, it’s cold!

  Just south of the city, the interstate opens up flat, straight, and unguarded.

  Stars rain down the sky.

  I wake up the fire-breathing Monster.

  Chapter 30

  MAJOR ANDERSON ASSIGNS ME a small reconnaissance drone called a ScanHawk. Length: five feet, three inches. Wingspan: twelve feet, seven inches. Maximum endurance: five and a half hours. Maximum speed: one hundred five knots. Cruising speed: sixty-eight knots.

  He’s equipped me with two cameras: a belly-mount forward-looking infrared stop-action; and a gimbal-mount video, with extreme telephoto. I can zoom in on tonsils, even in the dark.

  Day is breaking in New Mexico. But on the far side of the world—Pakistan’s Swat Valley—it’s getting dark. No moon tonight.

  I log in and launch. Soon I’m skitting across the face of the valley, so close I can feel my updraft.

  “Pull out, Arlo!” Major Anderson barks through the mike. “Don’t get fancy on us.”

  I pull out, even though I wasn’t being all that fancy.

  Mullins plants a cup of coffee at my side. “Don’t forget to T-FOG,” he says.

  I spend the morning—the night—capturing images of Compounds 52 and 117. After about five hours in the air, I return to point of origin—a dirt landing strip just off the Arghandab River, no more than one hundred yards from the flatbed catapult where I launched.

  Major Anderson swings through the glass door. “Good sortie today, Arlo. We’re filling in that map.” He hands me an envelope. “Why don’t you grab a cot next door and catch a few winks.”

  “Nah, I’ll be fine,” I say.

  I’m dog-assed from lack of sleep and flying drone, but I know the Monster will keep me on my toes.

  Five minutes later I’m decked out in my road clothes straddling the machine.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m on a flat, empty stretch, making the needle bounce off the bar. In the heart of speed lies stillness. In the heart of a Monster’s roar, silence.

  It’s a good place to relax.

  A good place to think.

  WHEN I GET HOME THERE’S a message waiting for me on my laptop:

  Arlo, congratulations on your successful flight today. Please read the following memo carefully, as it pertains to you and your mission. Kincaid.

  This time, the memo is completely unredacted. Not a single blacked-out sentence. I wonder why. Is he getting lazy? Does he trust me more? But I don’t think about it too long.

  Memo for Record

  To: Mideast High Command and Coalition UAV strategic units

  From: Col. (Ret.) Carl Kincaid, ARI

  RE: Operation Brave Panther

  Type of aircraft: ScanHawk

  Purpose: Persistent intelligence and surveillance

  Pilot: Rope Thrower

  Duration: Five hours, seven minutes

  Summary: Last month, we identified for observation Compounds 52 and 117 in the Swat Valley of northwest Pakistan. From this mountainous position, insurgent forces have repeatedly launched attacks against our military personnel, resulting in heavy losses. More than one dozen previous attempts to photograph and map Compounds 52 and 117 have failed owing to weather or pilot error. Two of our UAVs were shot down.


  On today’s mission, our new pilot (hereafter Rope Thrower) was able to capture excellent photo and video intelligence at both sites. Results confirm diverse arsenals, from variants on the old Kalashnikov assault rifle to sophisticated shoulder-launch missiles and armor-piercing explosives.

  Rope Thrower’s images do NOT, however, confirm the presence of Caracal inside either compound.

  It is my belief that Caracal moves stealthily between Compounds 52 and 117, meticulously concealing himself against external observation.

  We will continue to analyze real-time imagery of the compounds. And we will continue to use Rope Thrower’s images to build the “human map.”

  Kincaid

  Chapter 31

  NEXT DAY IS HOMECOMING FRIDAY.

  When I roll up after school, Dad’s packing the pickup. He’s got on his Snack Shack ball cap. He studies his clipboard.

  “Doritos, bunny grahams . . . Arlo, a box arrived for you . . . Skittles, Gummi Bears . . . It’s on the porch . . . Styrofoam cups, napkins . . . From Estes, Colorado. . . tamales, hot dogs . . . Who do you know in Estes?”

  “Nobody,” I say.

  I tie up my nag and find the box on the porch. It’s lighter than it looks. I carry it upstairs to my room, grab some scissors, and cut the tape.

  Inside is this note:

  Dear Arlo,

  Congratulations on your winning bid. The Flying Squirrel is now yours. Someday, I hope to look up from a golf tee and see you soaring overhead. But I must warn you, this is extreme. If you haven’t already, I STRONGLY advise that you get training from a qualified wingsuit instructor.

  Take care—and I mean TAKE CARE!

  Yours truly,

  Wade Jackson

  Estes, CO

  The Flying Squirrel is made of a tan, silky material with lots of snaps, straps, and zippers. Plus rigid wingtip grips. A pocket on the lower leg contains a hook knife—a bonus gift from Wade.

  I strip to my boxers and zip in. The suit clings to me like skin.

  I close my eyes and step to the mirror.

  Spread my arms and legs.

  Open my eyes.

  Oh my God!

  It’s obvious why Wade calls this the Flying Squirrel.

  I repack the wingsuit and carry it out to the truck. A dark cloud hangs over Tinaja Mesa.

  Cam shows up on his Kawasaki KLX, and we roll out my 250.

  Cam—all six-pack and ponytail—has always tinkered with motors. He was raised on the scrapyard outskirts of Clay Allison, where the Cimarron River trickles talc-y and snaky into the wider, faster Rio Loco. He can run a bike off the whiff of an oily rag.

  He’s been priming my 250 all week. Changed the sparks, oil, and filter. Cleaned the exhaust. Installed an almost-new drive chain.

  I had two requests:

  Add handlebar extensions.

  Replace my old shocks with the best frickin’ shocks in the world.

  He has achieved both. The handlebar extensions will let me lie low and spread my arms like wings. The new shocks mean I won’t crush my landing.

  Cam’s not about “before-market” or “after-market” prices, he’s about “free.” Cruise the junkyard, not the auto-parts store.

  And—like me—he’s about customizing.

  Customizing gives you that extra foot of altitude. That extra click of speed.

  Customizing is also how you blow a cylinder. Crack a tire. Or break your neck.

  There’s always that tradeoff. Real gambling doesn’t happen when you go to Vegas. It happens when you customize.

  He peels off his jacket, spreads it on the ground, leather side up, and dumps the contents of his tool bag on top. We hunker down and get to work tweaking and testing the handlebars to my specifications.

  Dad walks over. “Hey, Camerado, whatcha reading these days?”

  “Oh, hey, Mr. Santiago,” Cam says. “Kawasaki’s just come out with a new parts catalog.”

  “You ever read that Steinbeck I gave you?”

  “Nah, not yet.”

  “Well, add this to your list.” Dad pitches an old paperback. Cam catches it. Stares blankly at the cover. Mumbles, “Lady . . . Windermere’s . . . Fan.”

  “Nobody beats Oscar Wilde for sheer satire and social commentary,” Dad says. “Everybody should read at least one of his plays. Should be the law of the land. Fact, I think I’ll write a couple of legislators in Santa Fe tomorrow.”

  He tosses Cam a bag of Skittles. “Tell me, Camerado, what do you think about Arlo’s big jump tonight?”

  Cam grins. “Gonna be epic.”

  “Think so?”

  “Yeah, if he hits it right.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “He will,” Cam says. “Arlo always hits it right.”

  “Nobody always hits it right,” Dad says.

  They both look at me, and I can feel them pondering the possibility of a disaster. I turn and focus my wrench on the handlebars.

  “Think about it, Cam,” Dad goes on. “Arlo’s riding against a crowd and bright lights. He’s not used to any of that, are you, Arlo?”

  “Nope,” I say, loosening a screw.

  “And there’s no denying,” Dad says, “it’s one helluva leap.”

  “Sure is,” Cam says. “I couldn’t do it.”

  “That’s because you have too much sense to try,” Dad says.

  “Too much fear, you mean,” Cam says.

  “And suppose it rains,” Dad says.

  “Hey, it ain’t gonna rain,” Cam says. “It already rained this month.”

  Dad points toward Tinaja Mesa. We all gaze at the black stovepipe cloud hovering there, leaching into the yellow horizon.

  “Looks like a good night to fly a kite,” Dad says. “If your name is Ben Franklin.”

  “Jeeeez!” Cam mumbles. “Of all nights.”

  I truly want Dad to go away—because he’s not helping me, he’s depressing me. Instead, he steps up and pats the seat of my 250.

  “I used to ride with my buddies too,” he says. “My first bike was a Desert Phantom. She was all the vacation I ever needed. Good thing, because we were scratch-ass poor. But I never did what you boys do—the crotch-rocket stuff. Never risked like that. Never saw the point.”

  He pulls off his Snack Shack cap and looks inside it, as if it holds an answer. “What befuddles me, Camerado, is that I don’t stop Arlo from doing this. I could and should, but I don’t. What does that tell you about me? Am I a bad father?”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” Cam says.

  “Oh, I’m here, all right,” Dad says. “But my compass is broken. I just go round and round the mulberry bush.”

  “Maybe your compass ain’t broke, Mr. Santiago,” Cam says. “Maybe the reason you don’t stop Arlo is because you know he has to do it. It’s an honor thing. Like a knight riding out to reclaim his good name.”

  “Thank you!” I say. “’Bout time somebody mentioned honor.”

  Dad shakes his head. “The sad fact is, many a knight who rode out never returned.”

  He checks his watch.

  “Ten minutes, Arlo.”

  WE WIPE DOWN THE BIKE and pack up the tools. Cam rips open the Skittles, pours half in my hand, and drains the rest. Then he slips on his jacket, stuffs Lady Windermere’s Fan in a pocket, and mounts his Kawasaki. He kicks it, grinds some pepper, lowers it to a sputter.

  “Dude, your dad was all over your grill tonight.”

  “Yeah, pretty much,” I say.

  “All these books he gives me . . . I’ve never read a single one.”

  “Nobody ever does,” I say.

  “You do.”

  “Sometimes.”

  I hand him the tool bag, which he zips, like it’s a puppy, inside his jacket.

  “Hey, man, just to be honest, this jump is the biggest thing in your life. You scared?”

  Fear has never been a problem for me when it comes to jumping my bike. But this is no ordinary jump.

  “Guess so,�
�� I say. “All those people watching. It’s just not natural.”

  “Forget them,” Cam says. “Just do like you do on Little Piñon when you hit Davy. Nobody in the world, just you. The whole run-up, just you. Remember, nobody can fly like you. Shut us out. Slam the door. Shred the sky. Hey, you’re not thinking about a girl? You better not be. ’Cuz if you’re thinkin’ about her—”

  “I’m not thinkin’ about anybody,” I say.

  Cam peers into my eyes. “I sort of believe you,” he says. “And I sort of don’t.” He grinds the throttle. “See you at Rio Loco.”

  We bump fist, and he is gone.

  Chapter 32

  WHEN DAD AND I DRIVE up to the Snack Shack, the marching band is out on the field rehearsing “Mighty Trucks of Midnight.”

  “Make it shimmer!” bandleader Bernie Kohler shouts through his bullhorn. “Rub some Brasso into that brass.”

  Dad notices a banner stretched across the front of the announcer’s box:

  WINGO LUMBER,

  OFFICIAL SPONSOR OF JETT SPENCE

  “Who the hell is Jett Spence?” Dad asks.

  Then he sees the second banner—this one vertical—hanging above the entrance to the pedestrian tunnel. It’s a picture of me flying off a mound on my Yam 125, catching serious air. Uncle Sal took it the summer before last, with his telephoto lens. Dad published it in the Gunslinger. My shirt’s off, hair’s flyin’, and I’m lookin’ ripped, if I say so myself. I got a lot of good feedback on that picture. Uncle Sal hung a copy in the game corner at TunzaFunza.

  Dad reads aloud the words on the banner: