by Amy Sparling
So ugly rental car it is.
I guess I should be thankful that my phone still gets signal all the way out here, otherwise I’d be screwed without my GPS. I’d known Salt Gap, Texas was in the boonies, but as I drive out here, I realize exactly how far out it is. There is nothing but fields and fields of land, farms, gigantic mansions with long driveways and wrought iron fences. My grandfather wasn’t a rich man, but the paperwork makes his house look fairly big. There’s one thing for sure: Salt Gap has nothing in common with Los Angeles. Like… nothing.
There are no night clubs, no bars, no malls or shopping centers. I don’t pass any fancy restaurants, just some hole-in-the-wall diners and cafes that you see on movies and never really expect to see in real life. There is a McDonald’s, so at least this town has somewhat been brought into this century. Even though this town is nothing like where I’m from, I feel like I can breathe a little easier here. There won’t be any distractions, nothing standing in my way of getting a fresh start. I’ll be alone in the house that I now own, and I’ll have my dirt bike and that’s all that matters.
The GPS shows me my new house and I pull into the driveway. It looks pretty big from here. Two stories, older and kind of Victorian with a big porch. The trust that held this account until I turned eighteen had hired a lawn crew to keep up the landscaping, so the yard looks nice. You can tell the house has been vacant though.
I park and grab my stuff from the back seat, then make my way to the front door. My key works, which is a relief because for a moment I feared it wouldn’t. The place smells like an abandoned house, like an old bookstore mixed with pine trees. It’s not a horrible smell, but I’ll open some windows to air the place out.
It’s fully furnished with dusty couches and chairs, and there are old people knick-knacks everywhere. I venture around, and check out the place. It’s not bad as far as the floorplan goes. Kind of a cool house. All the stuff is super outdated though, but it gives me an idea of what my grandfather was like when he was alive. There’s a stuffed deer head above the fireplace, and that kind of gives me the creeps. But the home has a very country feel to it. Kind of like a farm house.
I head to the back door and step onto the back porch. Relief hits me as I look at exactly what I’d hoped I see. Acres of land with nothing in the way of riding my dirt bike. There are only a few trees, and they’ll be easy to ride around. No lakes or driveways or anything to get in the way. I can’t wait to rent a backhoe and start digging a track. The front yard is also pretty big because all of the houses on this street are set back far from the road and they all have big back yards. My neighbors aren’t very close, and there’s no home owner’s association here like there is back in LA. No one can stop me from digging a track. I’ll make a lake in the front of the house and use the dirt to build some jumps in the back yard.
I’m starting to get totally pumped about how great this is. I’m far away from home but no one besides my parents knows where I am. I can ride here instead of going to a track where people will recognize me and want to get autographs or grill me about how I got kicked out of racing. Here, I am invisible.
But first, I’ll need some stuff. I make a list of groceries and toiletries like towels and shampoo. There’s probably towels here but I’m not about to use them because by now they’re probably more dust than towel. I’ll also buy a new TV because the one in here is both tiny and square and so old it should belong in a museum. I plop down on the couch and look around.
This will do.
I can spend my summer here alone with just my thoughts and my dirt bike. I’ll get my life back together. When the summer ends and the new season starts, I’ll be shape again and faster than ever. My agent will have convinced the board to let me race again.
Yep. Everything will work out just fine.
Chapter 4
One week later, I’m all settled in. I feel like some kind of badass adult doing everything all by myself. My dad has always talked about finding independence and becoming a man and all of that, and I think I finally understand what he means. I feel pretty fucking bad ass being out here alone.
Of course, I couldn’t do everything alone. Turns out you need a license to operate heavy machinery, but renting the backhoe came with the guy who runs it. He’d never built a dirt bike track before, but we watched some YouTube videos—because everything on earth can be found on there—and we figured it out. There’s now a lake in the front yard that’s about half filled with water from a recent rain, and now I have five jumps in the back yard. It’s a small track, but it’s tight with sharp corners just like the arena cross tracks back home. We roughed up the grass with the blade of the back hoe and made a pathway between the jumps. It’s a little rudimentary, but it’ll work. And the more I ride on it, the more I can wear the dirt into a real dirt bike track.
The only shitty thing? My bike still isn’t here. The shipping company had some problem with heavy rains and construction so my delivery has been delayed. I spend the days watching HBO, which I had installed the day after I got here because really, what kind of a life is it without HBO? And I spend my nights outside near the fire pit, burning some of the firewood my grandfather left piled up near the shed. You can see the stars out here. You can’t see anything in LA besides airplanes. It really is beautiful being out here in the middle of nowhere.
It’s also lonely.
The Ex still calls me every day, usually a few times. She’s resorted to texting now, too, and I’ve held strong and ignored every single one. I can’t lie—sometimes I feel like answering. Sometimes I want to talk to the bitch and ask exactly why she did it. She’d seemed genuinely unremorseful when it all went down, so it doesn’t make sense now that she’s calling me so much. You don’t call someone you cheated on, right?
So yeah, deep down, this stupid part of me wants to talk to her. I just want to know why. But every time I feel like caving and answering her call or responding to her text, I stop myself. I get this vision of Luke Brady sitting next to her, laughing at everything I say. I picture them working together to piss me off more. Every time I do that, it’ll piss me off just enough to stop myself from talking to her.
But then it’ll be late at night and I’ll be sitting by the fire all alone and I wonder if she misses me. If she ever cared about me. If any part of our relationship was even real. When we were together, I was busy all the time. I rode my dirt bike every day, hit the gym every day, raced every weekend. That kind of schedule is hard for girls to handle when they’re dating a motocross guy, but The Ex never seemed to mind it because she was already in this world since her little brother was also a racer.
Plus, she left me for Luke, who also rides so that can’t possibly be it. I think I was a good boyfriend. I tried, at least. I was loyal and I didn’t flirt with other girls. I listened when she talked and I had flowers sent to her house when I didn’t get to see her that week. But what do I know? Maybe I suck at everything. Which is why I’m focusing on dirt bikes from now on.
I focus on working out while I wait for my bike to be delivered. I hit the protein shakes before and after my workouts, and I jog a few miles a day to build up cardio. Contrary to what people think, you actually need to be better at cardio than weight training to be fast on a dirt bike. Racing takes a lot out of you, so you have to train hard.
I’ve taken over one of the guest bedrooms and cleaned out some of the weird stuff that was in here. Now there’s just a bed, a nightstand and dresser. I had a new mattress delivered and bought some new sheets for it. The dresser that’s here is filled with sheets and linens and I’ve been too lazy to unpack it and put my stuff in, so I’m living out of a suitcase. But I did make my own personal touches to the room. I brought some posters of Zombie Radio, which is arguably the best rock band on the west coast, and I also brought my good luck poster. It’s from when I was thirteen years old and Jeremy Sola gave it to me at the supercross races. I was star stuck because Jeremy was a professional racer at the time and I told him I wan
ted to be just like him. He told me about the importance of training and working hard, and then in addition to signing a poster of himself for me, he grabbed one of the bike model’s posters and signed it as well.
The bike models are just hot women who wear skimpy clothing and prance around the dirt bikes at local races. They’re on calendars and posters and magazines, always posed next to a bike. My poster has a Yamaha F250 dirt bike on it, with this blonde big boobed model leaning over the front of it. Jeremy signed the poster with these words of advice:
As soon as you look at this poster and see the bike before the girl, you’re ready to be a pro racer. -Jeremy Sola
It’s kind of dumb I guess, but now I realize more than ever how true it is. I need to focus on the bike. On the sport. Not the girls. Not any girls.
Now that my room feels more like mine, I really enjoy living here. I had thought about taking over the master bedroom but it was just too weird sleeping the room my grandparents used to live in, so yeah. I didn’t. My mom has offered to come down and help me clean out the place. We could have a garage sale and get rid of all the junk and then fix up the house to be my vacation home or something. I told her it’s a great idea, but I’ll have to wait until the summer is over.
This is my summer to be unplugged from everything but motocross.
The next day, I wake up to the ear-splitting wail of a truck backing up. I put on some flip flops and go outside to where a box truck is slowly reversing down my driveway. It’s early as hell and I have to piss, but I rush out anyway because I’m psyched to finally get my bike.
It all arrives in perfect condition. The bike, the gear, and my tool box. I’m pretty sure the delivery guy thinks I’m some kind of lunatic with how excited I am, but screw him. This is a good day.
I throw on my gear and crank up my bike, reveling in the smell of the exhaust. That’s the smell of the greatest sport on earth. I’ve been dying to check out my makeshift dirt bike track, and now it’s finally time.
I rev the throttle, slip on my helmet, and grin as I take off.
Chapter 5
A few days later, I find my grandfather’s liquor stash in the pantry. I’m not one for getting wasted or even that drunk, but The Ex has been calling as if she were a bill collector and I owe her a ton of money. She’s relentless. She texts me good morning and good night every freaking day even though I’m not responding at all. I’m kind of sick of it all. If she’s got so much time to bother me all damn day that means she has to be single. Good. I hope Luke dumped her.
Besides the stupid shit going on with The Ex, my training has come to a grinding halt. I popped a bike tire on a tree root while riding in the back yard today. I’d only had half an hour of practice this morning and then it all went to shit. Plus, the old guy next door came over to bitch at me for riding a bike too early in the morning, so I’m kind of all-around pissed. I pour some whiskey into a glass and take it outside where I build a fire as soon as the sun sets.
Tomorrow, I’ll drive two towns over to where there’s a motorcycle shop that has a replacement tire for my bike. I checked the town ordinances and since we’re so far out in the country and not in city limits, there’s not a damn thing the old man next door can do about it. I’ll ride my bike whenever I want. Seven in the morning isn’t too early, especially on a week day. He can kiss my ass.
Part of me does feel like shit because the last thing I need is to have the neighbors hate me, but I have to train my ass off this summer and they’ll have to deal with it.
The fire crackles as I sit here and stare at it, drinking from my whiskey. This is either really chill or really pathetic. I’m not sure which. I should have some friends over or something so it feels like I’m not just some sullen loser sitting around by a fire contemplating all the places in his life where he fucked up.
The whiskey warms my insides and takes off the edge. I’ve been pissed all day pretty much, and it feels good to relax. Tomorrow I’ll get my bike fixed…it’ll all be okay. I just need to chill.
When my phone rings, I’m about to lose my shit, but then I see my mom’s name on the caller ID. It’s a welcome change from seeing The Ex flash across my phone screen.
“Hello?” I say, hoping I don’t sound drunk.
“Jacey,” she says, which makes me roll my eyes. My name is Jace. Jacey is the ridiculously juvenile baby name she has for me. Only moms can get away with that kind of crap. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good, Mom.” I lean back in my chair and stare at the sky. “What’s up back at home?”
“Nothing much. Just wanted to check in and see how you’re surviving being all alone there.”
I laugh. “I’m not alone. I have my dirt bike.”
“Honey, I know that girl hurt you but you can’t let it make you sulk.”
I stiffen. “I’m not sulking, Mom. I’m over that bitch.”
“Are you, though?”
I hate how her voice is all soft and sweet like she’s afraid she’ll hurt my feelings. Since when am I some baby that needs to be handled with kid gloves? “I’m pissed about being kicked out of the races, Mom. That’s all. I don’t give a shit about that girl anymore. You don’t need to worry about me.”
She sighs into the phone. “If you say so. I just worry about you.”
“You don’t need to worry,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “My life is all better now. I promise.”
When we get off the phone, I’m not sure she believes me. I know she cares about me and all that motherly crap, but it really makes me wonder how pathetic I must look like moving all the way out here after a breakup. Honestly, it’s not because of her. It’s just not. I’m here for me. I am totally over The Ex.
My phone rings a little while later. It’s her. I don’t know why, but I stand up and put the phone to my ear.
“What?”
There’s a long silence, probably because she wasn’t expecting me to answer. “Hello to you, too,” she says in that voice of hers. The one I’ve heard so many years of my life, and it never used to sound awful but now it’s just the worst. “It’s about time you answered my call, Jace.”
“You should learn to take a hint,” I say, keeping my voice level. She won’t get any emotions from me.
She scoffs. “Don’t be rude. I just want to talk to you. I’ve missed you a lot.”
It’s hard not to laugh out loud. “I don’t care what you feel.”
“Jace! I said don’t be rude! Look, it’s been five months, okay? A lot has happened since then and I just want to say hi and tell you I miss you. I really think we could be good together.”
I exhale slowly. “You should have thought about that before you fucked that dude.”
I don’t say his name because he’s not worth it.
“Jace! Come on! Stop being stupid! Where are you? Let’s go to dinner or something and talk.”
I’m feeling pretty damn vindicated that she has no idea I’m not still in California. “Stop calling me,” I say. “I don’t want to hear from you again, or I swear I’ll break this phone in half.”
It’s a little dramatic, but at this very moment, I believe it. I’ll throw the damn thing into the fire. I am so done with this girl and all the bullshit she’s put me through. I hang up and don’t wait for her answer.
It feels pretty awesome to have told her off, though. Tomorrow will be a better day.
Chapter 6
I’m refreshed the next morning. Before I’ve even poured a bowl of cereal, I feel like a new man already. Maybe telling her off was exactly what I needed, the last piece in the puzzle of starting over my life. The drive to the bike shop takes forever, especially in this slow ass rental car, but eventually I get there and I get my tire and head home as fast as I can. I’m aching to ride my bike again. I feel useless without it.
I usually have a mechanic at the races, someone we hire to take care of my bikes and fix anything that goes wrong so I can focus only on the races. But out here, I’m all alone and I’
m happy my dad made me learn how to take care of a bike myself. A lot of these rich ass idiots from Cali only care about riding the bike, not fixing them. But it’s a skill you need to know. Not to get all philosophical and shit, but knowing how to take your bike apart and then put it back together again makes you one with the bike. You care more about it when you understand how it works.
I quickly change out the popped tire for the new one and then throw on some riding gear. The stuff I wore yesterday smells like a rank ass locker room, so I grab a clean pair of red and black gear from my suitcase. Motocross gear is kind of like a jersey mixed with protective equipment. The pants have breathable areas so you don’t sweat your balls off, but they also have thick patches of leather on the inside so the muffler pipe doesn’t burn your legs. My jersey is mostly a mesh fabric to keep you cool and my last name, Adams, is printed on the back of it.
It feels great to be back out here, soaring over jumps and sliding full throttle around the massive sweeper turn I put at the back of the property. I ride all day, only stopping for lunch and to refill with gas, and then I get back on my bike and ride some more.
At dusk, I figure I can ride a few more laps before it’s too dark to see. And then my chain busts.
Seriously? What else is going to break on this stupid thing? Maybe I’m riding it too hard. Maybe Fate is just being a huge bitch to me right now.
I pull off my shirt and wipe the sweat from my face, then push my bike back up to the house where there’s a porchlight so I can assess the damage. The good news is that I have a new bike chain already, so I won’t have to waste time driving to the nearest shop tomorrow.