by Leigh Hutton
‘I love you,’ Dallas said.
She hesitated, before pulling from his grasp. ‘I’m sorry, but I need to go home. Now. This girl’s as good as dead.’
TWELVE
Clover spotted Ernie through the darkness as Dallas drove slowly down her driveway. Her father was holding an axe high above his head, cutting firewood out the side of the house.
‘Better drop me here,’ she said quietly, motioning with her hand to the offshoot of the driveway that led to the garage. ‘I need to talk to Dad.’
‘You don’t want me to come?’
‘What you’ve got a death wish?’
‘I would.’
‘Thank you. But there’s no need for both of us to get chopped to bits.’
He hesitated. ‘Fine. But, apologise to them for me. And tell them I’ll come round later … if I’m allowed.’
She nodded, then paused, before reaching for the door handle. Was she still too mad to give him a kiss? A hug? Ernie was there, in the corner of her eye.
She smiled tightly and swung her door open.
‘Hey … ’ He grabbed her arm. ‘Can I call ya later?’
She nodded and forced her best it’s-all-okay smile, then slid slowly out of the truck, and closed the door gently behind her.
Ernie didn’t look up, just swung the axe down hard into its cutting stump. The blade stuck deep into the wet wood. He wiped his brow with a gloved hand.
But before he could speak, Clover’s ears closed up, in self-preservation, at the sound of her mother’s frantic voice.
‘CLOVER!’
Leslie flapped into the light, from around the front of the house, half-tripping in the deep snow. She was wearing a pair of Ernie’s old work boots, undone, and a housecoat. Her hair was wild, but not nearly as wild as her eyes.
‘Where have you been?’ Leslie kept talking before Clover could answer. ‘You are in so much trouble, young lady!’
‘Hi, Mom.’
Leslie grabbed Clover by the arm and waved the cordless phone in her face. ‘I’ve been calling you for hours!’ she screeched. ‘Didn’t I buy you a cell phone? I thought you’d had an accident, or worse! I was about to call the police!’
‘I’m sorry!’
‘Sorry, my bum, miss! You are … You Ernie?’
Clover sighed and hung her head, then jumped back as Ernie’s blade came frighteningly close to swiping her. He’d pulled it from the stump and swung it over his shoulder.
‘Go get changed,’ Ernie said, and turned towards the house. ‘I already loaded your bike and gear bag.’
Clover’s forehead wrinkled with confusion. ‘Dad?’
‘Go get dressed, Clover.’
‘Ernie! You have got to be kidding?’ Leslie’s arms flung into the air, sending the phone flying. ‘How could you possibly take her riding today, and why should you? Have you lost your mind?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m doing,’ Ernie said over his shoulder, as he made his way through the snow towards the ploughed driveway. Clover stumbled along behind him, not daring to look back at her mother. ‘Hurry up,’ he said with a wave of his axe. ‘We’re going riding. And we won’t be home for dinner.’
Clover couldn’t believe her luck. Not grounded. Going riding! She had no idea where the countryside was enveloped in snow. Even though she felt seriously ill, at least she was moving, not stuck at home, being yelled at by Leslie, or in solitary for life. The extra strength Advil she’d found in her gear bag was beginning to kick in and she hoped it would take with it all the reminders of last night … a dark night that was doing its best to seep in with all its heavy, gut-wrenching feelings of regret and disappointment in herself, threatening to make her spew.
It was still dark, but the little red lights on the back of the truck reflected off her bike and it stared back eagerly, keen for work after many months of hibernation.
A sliver of hope glinted within her.
Being back on her bike would feel so good.
But as they left the gravel road, and Ernie turned right at the ‘T’-intersection with the highway down into Silvertown, the sick feeling in her stomach began to rise. Ernie wasn’t saying a word, just staring at the road, hardly blinking. Animosity radiated from him. Clover’s chin dropped to her chest. She wished she had that invisibility cloak she’d heard Jasmine banging on about from that Harry Potter book.
Ernie didn’t say a word all the way up to Highstone Lake, and only made a low, grunting sound, as if to clear his throat, as he swung the truck into the observation area on the right hand side of the road, looking out across the frozen water.
Ernie killed the engine and hopped out of the truck, the sound of his door slamming like the final nails being driven into her coffin. She didn’t dare move, just watched him walk the few steps out to the railing and lean against it, hoping that his wrath might be lessened by the sight in front of him.
Clover remembered Highstone Lake as a place of beauty and serenity, a place she and Ernie used to visit, when they’d first moved from Canada. But today, the frozen water had lost its lustre. The mountain peaks all around looked black, the spruce trees even more so, like tiny arrows of death. The landscape was frozen and dark, with the Rockies surrounding them, in the dim morning light, somehow more jagged than normal.
Several trucks were already rolling up, their exhaust and headlights clear in the frosty dawn, parking in a line on the side of the track, just out from shore. A few bikes had already been unloaded.
Ernie, still at the rail, turned and yelled her name, causing Clover to jump, and fumble to un-click her seatbelt.
It was cold as she slid from the truck. She instantly felt goose bumps, not so much from the chill, but from the sickening sense of what was to come.
Clover walked slowly out to her father and slumped down on the bench of the picnic table closest to him, shoving her hands into the pockets of her winter jacket, snuggling her mouth down behind the collar.
Ernie remained standing.
‘Here’s the deal,’ he said without taking his eyes off the lake. ‘Your mother and I, we are terribly disappointed in your behaviour over the last few months, and especially last night.’
Clover looked desperately up at her father with what she knew was a pleading expression. ‘Look, Dad … ’
‘No, you look.’ His teeth clenched together with an audible snap, and she ducked her face further behind her collar. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes and all the possible horrifying scenarios of what he was about to say spun like a wheel of misfortune in her mind. But when Ernie finally continued, his voice was no longer harsh. ‘You always wanted to ice race, remember?’
‘Yeah? ’ She took a deep breath, before daring to speak, ‘You used to bring me up here, to watch the ice races.’
‘I loved those trips with you,’ Ernie said, then paused. ‘You haven’t been paying much attention to your bike, lately.’
‘I know, Dad, I’m so sorry.’
‘I don’t blame you. I was pushing you into it, I can see it now. When you didn’t come home, I couldn’t sleep, and did some hard thinking. I realised a lot of things, and made a few decisions. Grounding you obviously just made things worse. We need to trust you, and give you something to strive for.
‘My business is picking up … I’ve got the money to buy you some second hand ice racing tyres, and we brought your bike here today because the man I’m buying them from will be here, to set your bike up, so you can have a go. It’s just a practice day today, but racing is starting soon.’
‘Wow!’ Clover didn’t believe what he was saying.
‘It’s not a big sport, and races often get cancelled due to the weather being either too warm or too cold, but this year it’s cold and looking good I think this will really help your confidence in the bush. I’m even getting another bike, so we can do it together. A second hand YZ250, to race in the old guys’ class.’
‘Oh my gosh!’
‘I realised I’ve been going about it
all wrong, pushing you, forcing you to hate a sport you really love. No more. You have talent, and with the right preparation and training, I think you can make it. Your mother feels the same.’
Clover’s eyebrows rose, as she remembered her mother’s screaming tirade earlier.
‘She’s been absorbed by her work and Jasmine’s sport for so long, it’s hard for her to focus on anything else. Just give her time, Clover. Now, I wanted to tell you about a story I found on the Internet, a few days ago. You can see the Internet on that cell of yours, can’t you?’
Clover hurried off to retrieve her phone from her handbag.
Her delight in finding her mobile was diminished by the state of it, crammed in her handbag with an empty Cruiser bottle, the sticky dregs of red liquid oozing out over the other contents. She shoved the bottle to the bottom of her handbag, before stashing it back under the passenger seat.
Wiping stray drops of Cruiser off the screen of her phone, she shuffled back to Ernie. She stopped next to him and rested her elbows slowly on the top of the rail.
‘Have a look on the Canadian off-road website,’ he said.
Clover’s eyes were on Ernie’s face now, narrowed into slits of confusion.
‘Go on, then. Haven’t you seen the story? Oh … I guess you haven’t been very interested in what’s happening in the racing world, lately.’
‘I have, Dad, just been a little preoccupied. ’ She forced her mouth shut and tapped www.offroadmotorcycles.com into the Google bar.
The Breaking News section carried international racing stories, and many from home, including Husqvarna’s effort in the European championships, announcing dates for a new series in Australia and something about Lasha Moore racing in the upcoming ice racing championships. Nothing to cause Ernie anxiety there, she’d have thought.
She scrolled down and the story Ernie wanted her to read practically smacked her in the forehead, and a smile emerged from some forgotten part of herself as she read the title and scanned over the paragraphs:
Women to race WSEC
Organisers of the World Six-Day Enduro Championship (WSEC) today announced women would be allowed to race the gruelling event for the first time in its 98-year history.
The iconic race, being held September 5th to 10th at Jablonec nad Nisou (in the Czech Republic), will attract the world’s Enduro royalty, including riders from more than 40 nations.
Clover blinked a few times, before re-reading the first paragraphs. The six-day, aka the ‘Olympics of Motorcycling’. Her heart clicked up a gear, and her body suddenly filled with an intense feeling of hope. Her hands started to shake as she continued reading …
The International Enduro Commission (IEC) said they expected a number of European lady racers, Americans and Australians to accept the challenge and line up next to the anticipated 600 men.
And one Canadian, Clover thought. She raised her eyes to Ernie.
‘Care to become an international racing star?’ he asked.
‘You know I’d kill to.’
‘Well, you can’t.’
Clover wanted to scream . Her hands clenched into fists. Then she remembered what she’d done, and instantly understood. Her dad was making a point, showing her what her life could have been, but that it was gone, and she was the only one to blame.
She looked away and held a hand up to her face, as if to scratch her cheek, then swiped the tears away. ‘You can’t go,’ Ernie said.
She watched, in the brightening light from the rising sun, as her father turned to face her. ‘You can’t go unless you can finish on the podium in the women’s class at the first round of the American Enduro Championship, in Florida.’
Clover was too dumbstruck to respond, so Ernie patiently repeated himself. ‘Does that sound like a fair proposition?’
‘Do you mean the race that’s tied in with Daytona Speedweek?’
‘I know you’ve always wanted to go, and this could be the year you do, as long as you toe the line. It will be your reward, if you are a good girl. Get your grades up and no more drinking, missing curfew. You be good, and you’ll have these opportunities. Continue in the way you have been, one more slip, and it won’t just be the races you’ll miss out on. I’ll take everything. Your bike. Your gear. Truck. Cell. Everything.’
Clover wasn’t sure whether it was safe to get excited. It seemed like her father was talking in riddles. But something he’d just said did resonate … One more slip … She hadn’t been expecting a second chance, or the opportunity for a reward. But a warning gave her the chance to make things right. And the reward, a reason to.
It was her decision. In her control.
‘This is all assuming you still want to ride?’
‘Are you kidding? I wouldn’t be me without my bike!’
She couldn’t wait to be on that track, on the back of her bike, at full revs, kicking Lasha Moore’s ass.
She brought her tear-stained face close to Ernie’s and made a promise. ‘I won’t let you down.’ She snuggled into his embrace, sneaking a look over his shoulder, at her bike.
Brilliant rays of morning light were reflecting off every surface, turning the plastics to gold, the aluminium to sparkling silver. It was as if her motorcycle was breathing. Alive. Ready for action.
Like her. Positively.
THIRTEEN
Clover’s heart was pounding a million miles an hour, but her hands were steady, gripping the cold handlebars. Elbows up, body forward, eyes glued to the first turn.
Thirty second board up.
A twist of her wrist and her WR250F was at full revs.
It had been three months since Clover had been on her bike, and riding had never felt so good. Just a hint of a headache served as a reminder of last night, and the adrenaline had pumped her up well past being tired.
She held the throttle pinned, bike shaking to be set free, to rocket forward and out onto the ice racing oval. She wore her race face eyes lit with the fire of competition, mouth set in a hard line. Ready to win.
Lined up next to Clover’s number 828 bike was number 1, Lasha Moore. By some serious strike of misfortune, Lasha’s father had also chosen today to be his daughter’s first ice ride. It was just Clover’s luck to have her arch-rival in the bush take up ice racing at the precise time she did, but she didn’t mind. Was excited by it, actually. A challenge. And a chance to take back what should have been hers.
Lasha’s high-pitched two-stroke was just as amped as Clover’s thundering four-stroke. No one else lined up next to the pair. The other riders who had travelled up to Highstone Lake for the first ice racing practice of the year peppered the snow banks at the edge of the track to watch the battle. This New Year’s Day was perfect for riding. Clear, blue sky. The air frigid with that crisp cleanness only brought about by freezing temperatures. Clover’s breath escaped through the slit in her balaclava short white puffs. She was dressed in her normal gear, with her Yamaha winter jacket over her jersey and chest protector and a kill cord that Ernie had installed fastened around her wrist, in case of a crash.
Ten second board.
A vice gripped Clover’s chest, she was that amped up and anxious. Her body pushed as far forward on the bike as possible, her fingers shaking to release the clutch. She sensed Ernie on her periphery, standing a few metres from Lasha’s dad, on the edge of the track. His arms were crossed, competitive without even trying. She needed to win, and as the thought struck her, a bolt of nerves and stress flashed through her body, making her muscles tighten and lose their finesse. She started to panic.
It was then that a few words of wisdom, spoken by Dallas, of all people, glued themselves firmly in the forefront of her mind: You are in control.
Five second board.
Calm … Focus.
The start flag dropped.
She released the clutch, and her revs were perfect, driving her bike forward like a smooth, powerful shot straight for the first corner.
Lasha, unfortunately, was a flawless starter,
and got to the first turn just ahead. Lasha stuck to the main line as they careered around the track. The ice was getting rougher, with a well-worn rut on the main line and lots of loose stuff beyond it. Lasha was fast, a pro already at cutting the throttle on the entry to the corners, to get the back end into a brief skid, before ramming the throttle back on and sling-shotting out on to the straightaways. Unless she made a mistake, it was going to be near impossible to pass her.
Clover stuck to Lasha, challenging, ready to pounce at the slightest error. Second lap, third. Four times around the oval. They rode smooth and fast. Off the throttle, then back on, bikes leant over making graceful arches around the ice, hard-core ballet on dirt bikes.
Out of the penultimate corner, Clover and her bike were right on Lasha’s rear fender. She gritted her teeth and revved it out already in top gear. Her bike lagged, rough for a split second, as the motor climbed. Then it was all crisp, full song as it hit the power band, taking her to a speed of 80 kilometres per hour down the straightaway. She wanted to scream with joy in tune with the tapped-out engine. But she had to focus on clinging to the grips, and pulling her weight forward, to keep from being sucked off the back of the speeding machine.
Into the final corner, just before the last straightaway and the chequered flag, Lasha let off the throttle and shot in on the main line. Clover could see her clearly, now the fine, powdery cloud of roost had cleared with the cut of her throttle. At that moment, it was as if the race clock froze the bikes in slow motion. And Clover’s mind hit overdrive. It’s time to pass. Her time was nearly up. Going out wide, around Lasha, into the rough stuff, was risky. Easy to slide out. But there was no other option.
A surge of power filled Clover’s limbs she kept her bike pinned and steered to Lasha’s right, into the dangerous outside zone. Ernie would be yelling at her, but she didn’t care. She had to win, to prove she could, and this was her only chance.