“He’ll get hurt!”
“If he’s careful, he won’t.”
“Yes he will!”
“No, he won’t. He’ll learn to respect limits.”
“No, he won’t. If that Evil Kneivel guy, who was a professional motorcycle rider, could break every bone in his body in a crash, Dak will break every bone in his body twice!”
“No, he won’t.”
“Yes, he will!”
“No, he won’t.”
Mom’s voice shifts down a tone, the way it does when she is about to win an argument with some unassailable fact.
“Arthur, Dak can’t walk across the yard without tripping. He couldn’t mow the lawn without destroying the lawn tractor. And now you want to let him spend his entire life’s savings on something that’s almost as heavy as the lawn mower, but only has two wheels and goes a hundred times faster?”
Intentionally missing Mom’s point, Dad replies:
“He doesn’t have to spend his life savings on it. I want him to have it. I’ll buy it for him.”
Mom is silent. She is probably as shocked as I am. Normally, Mom practically has to hold a bazooka to Dad’s head just to get him to buy himself a new pair of socks. If he is willing to fork out his own cash for my dirt bike, it’s pretty clear just how much he wants me to have one.
My heart palpitates for the next two weeks as I await the delivery of my new ride. I bought some motorcycle magazines, and have begun to replace the Star Wars posters on my bedroom walls with pictures of dirt bikes. The anticipation is nearly killing me, but I can’t ask my dad about it because I’m sure that he wants to surprise me. I wonder if he’s going to buy me a Suzuki, or a Yamaha, or a Honda. I wonder if he’s going to get me a 125, or a bigger 250, which I could “grow into.”
I eagerly do every chore Dad asks me to do, from trimming the hedges to sweeping the driveway to carrying dozens of heavy boxes of old National Geographic magazines from the basement to the attic, and then back again when Dad changes his mind. I know he’s testing me, to see if I am truly worthy of a new dirt bike, and I am not going to falter. I wonder what colour my new motorcycle will be, and if he’ll get me a full-out motocross racer, or an off-road/on-road enduro model.
Finally, after about a couple of weeks of raking, shovelling, carrying, and cleaning, the big moment arrives.
“C’mere, Dak,” Dad calls out from inside the garage, “there’s something I want to show you.”
I drop the rake I’ve been working with and race across the yard with Smiley bouncing along behind me.
“What is it, Dad?”
“Well, Dak, you’re getting older now, and it’s time you had some additional things to be responsible for. You’ve been taking good care of your dog, and you’ve been doing your chores like a real soldier.”
I nod along, knowing from the introduction that this is going to be a bike that will shame even Devin Orff’s enormous RM 250.
“Follow me, m’boy,” Dad says, and he leads me around behind the garage. With lots of ceremony, Dad pulls the tarpaulin off what I thought was a little stack of firewood, and there it is.
My jaw drops.
In front of me, at just above knee level, stands a battered old mini-bike about the right size for a six-year-old. It is a “Moto-Pup 33” — the “33” meaning that it has a thirty-three cc engine, which is less than one-seventh the size of the engine on Devin Orff’s monstrous machine, much smaller than even his least worthy toadie’s bike. It looks like a chainsaw with a girls’ bicycle seat and two shopping cart wheels. Riding it around in The Badlands will be like trying to fight a squadron of F-16s with a Sopwith Pup biplane. The Bad Boys will run right over me, and over me, and over me again, until my bones and my tiny mini-bike are smashed into particles and ground into the earth.
“So, Sport,” Dad beams, “what do you think?”
“Wow, Dad, thanks!” I cry out, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “It’s . . . unbelievable!”
“Well, then,” he says, “put on the helmet and let’s see you take ‘er for a spin!”
The helmet. Oh, the helmet. It is covered in a leopard skin print with cartoony green animal eyes painted above the front visor, but the worst part is this: on either side of the helmet, in iridescent purple lettering, are the words ANIMAL WARRIOR. The Bad Boys will not just chase me out of The Badlands; they will kill me and put my skull on a stick as a warning to others who invade their turf.
“Come on, Dak,” he urges me, “go try it out!”
So I strap on the ridiculous helmet and sit down on the tiny bike that is so undersized my knees are practically in my armpits. I boot away at the surprisingly tight kick-starter, but the engine will not start. Dad tries to remain patient as he explains that the starter switch has to be in the “on” position before the engine will start, and sure enough, the little motor buzzes to life on the next kick. After stalling the engine a few times, I get the hang of easing the clutch out, and the little bike starts moving, buzzing along like an adrenalized snail.
I discover that the brakes aren’t too good as I round the top of the first hill into The Badlands, and sail down the hill at some speed, gravity being more responsible for the mini-bike’s velocity than its motor. For the first time since leaving our yard, Smiley had to break from a trot to a run to keep up with me. Since the little engine has so far struggled to pull itself over even the smallest hill, I avoid the steep ones that the Bad Boys had jumped their bikes over with such reckless abandon. Still, it’s fun to be moving like this, and Smiley seems to be having a good time running along beside me. I start to laugh, and a bug flies into my mouth and buzzes against my larynx.
I stop to spit out the bug juice, when a noise makes me jump. Over the purring of my engine, I can hear the shriek of a bigger dirt bike racing toward me from the other side of the hill. The bike’s back tire just clears the top of my head as it sails over the hilltop. The bike bounces a couple of times as its tires hit the earth, then the rider loses his balance and somersaults across the ground, the bike cartwheeling and crashing on its side.
I put the kickstand of my mini-bike down and run over to where the rider lies.
“Are you okay?”
He sits up and pulls off his helmet, shaking the hair out of his face and cursing a blue streak, totally ignoring me. It is Devin Orff.
Smiley wanders over to Devin and begins licking his face.
“Fuck off fuckin’ mutt!”
Smiley just barely dodges the punch Devin throws at him, and beats a hasty retreat back by my side.
Several other dirt bikes roar around the hill and grind to a halt in the dirt around us. The tallest guy gets off his bike and stands over Devin’s prone figure. He whips off his helmet and says, “You lose, Orff.”
Devin Orff struggles to his feet, trying not to show any pain, and snarls, “No, you lose, dickhead. You owe me fifty bucks!”
“Bullshit, Orff,” the other kid brays. “You crashed. You owe me fifty bucks!”
“I still jumped the hill, fuckface,” Devin counters, dragging his left leg slightly as he moves within inches of his nemesis. “You bet me I couldn’t jump the hill. I jumped the damn hill, so fucking pay up.”
“Fuck off!” says the other kid, “I bet that you couldn’t land the jump, and you didn’t. You wiped out!”
One by one, the other riders remove their helmets. I recognize one of them as Cliff Boswink who has held a grudge against me since grade seven when he got suspended from school for giving me a bloody nose. He has never bothered me at school since then, but at this particular moment, we are far, far from school.
“Hey!” Cliff cries out, pointing at me as I attempt to tiptoe back towards my mini-bike. “Why don’t you ask him if Devin made the jump or not!”
Devin Orff limps toward me, like Frankenstein’s Monster. Great.
“You saw me land the jump, didn’t you, buddy?”
“Um, well . . . ”
The other guy strides over beside Dev
in, and joins him in staring at me.
“You saw him crash, didn’t you, kid?”
“Well, actually, I — ”
“Ha! He saw you crash, Orff, you suckass!” the other kid taunts. “You owe me fifty buckaroos!”
Devin Orff’s already reddened face flushes a deeper crimson and he grabs my helmet between his meaty hands and jerks it from my head, the chin strap painfully catching on my ears.
“Nice helmet, dickboy,” he says as he tosses my helmet to one of his toadies. “Now listen here, mister Animal Warrior. Tell this fucking asswipe that I landed the jump!”
The toadie who has my helmet is scratching on it with a rock. The rest are focused on the conflict between their fearless leader and his potential usurper.
I stutter, “I’m, um, I’m not, um, I’m not sure I saw, um, exactly, um — ”
“TELL HIM!” Devin Orff rages, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me.
At that moment, another dirt bike comes peeling around the hill with Devin Orff’s two Dobermans running along on either side. The rider lifts his helmet’s visor to reveal a smaller version of Devin’s angry face.
“Devin!” the kid says, “Ma says to git yer ass home for dinner!”
“Tell her to fuck off,” Devin replies, letting go of me. “I’ll get there when I get there. And you fuck off, too, Billy!”
“Yer gonna get a lickin’ when you get home,” Billy Orff shouts. He gives his older brother the finger, then roars away in the direction from which he came. The two Dobermans remain, though, and circle over to where Devin stands in front of me, snarling. Instinctively, Smiley snarls back, but not too much. The guy who has been arguing with Devin begins to back away. Devin points a finger at him.
“Chopper! Slash!” he says evenly.
The two dogs begin to snarl, their muscles trembling, straining forward like they are pushing against an invisible wall.
“Fuck!” the kid whimpers, stepping quickly backward. “Don’t, Devin! Come on now! Don’t!”
“Chopper! Slash! Sic’im, boys!” Devin hollers.
The two dogs blast off toward the other boy. He turns to run, but they leap and knock him down from behind. The dogs hold him face down on the ground, growling like demons, their teeth chopping at his arms and legs, and the kid screams in terror, “Fuck! No! Fuck! Orff! Stop ‘em! Fuck! Fuck! You win! You win!”
Devin snaps his fingers and says, “Chopper! Slash! Heel!”
The dogs back reluctantly away from their victim, still snarling.
“Get the fuck out of here, ya fairy,” Devin says to the kid, who is pale and shaking. “Don’t come back here without my fifty bucks.”
As the other boy starts his bike’s engine and rides away, Devin turns his attention to me. His toadies circle like vultures, with that prick Cliff Boswink standing right beside Devin. The one who has been holding my helmet steps up beside Devin.
“Nice bike — a Moto-Pup!” Cliff Boswink sneers, scarcely able to contain his glee. “Didj’a get it at a toy store?”
Cliff grabs my helmet from the toadie who held it, then hands it over to Devin. Devin holds it up for all to see, and they all start cackling. The toadie has scratched the letters I and M off, and the stupid lettering on my helmet now reads AN AL WARRIOR. All the Bad Boys roar with laughter.
“Awwww, c’mon boys!” Cliff laughs, “you’re gonna make the Anal Warrior cry! He might tell the teacher on you if you make him cry!”
I turn, get onto my mini-bike, and kick away at the starter, forgetting once again to switch the starter to the “on” position, which makes the Bad Boys laugh even harder.
“Hey, Anal Warrior!” Devin calls out, “don’t forget your Anal Warrior helmet!”
He throws it at me, and it hits me in the side of the face. I reach down to pick it up, lose my balance, and dump my pathetic little mini-bike over. Some of the toadies actually fall on the ground laughing over this. I pick up my little two-wheeled snail, mount it, and buzz away with my knees tucked under my armpits.
A few days later, Dad steps into my room, where, other than to eat lunch and to take Smiley out to pee, I have been sequestered all day reading Lord of the Rings.
“Hey, Dak,” Dad says. “Aren’t you going to get out there and rip around on your mini-bike in the vacant lots? It’s a beautiful afternoon for it.”
“I’m not feeling very good, Dad.”
“Sounds like there’s lots of other kids out there having fun on their motorbikes.”
Good for them, I thought, they’re probably laughing and waiting for the Anal Warrior to return for another round of humiliation.
“You do like the mini-bike, don’t you? You know, your mom still isn’t speaking to me . . . ”
I just shrug. Dad has my helmet in his hands, which he tosses beside me on the bed.
“I noticed that the letters on it got a bit scuffed up, so I painted the whole thing black for you. I hope you still like it.”
“Yeah, it’s better, actually.”
“Well, good. Get back out there and have some fun.”
I don’t want to disappoint him, so I say, “Sure, Dad. I’m just going to finish this chapter.” I figure I’ll listen out the window until the sound of the other engines is gone, then I’ll go out for a quick ride.
Dad turns to leave but, when he gets to the doorway, he looks over his shoulder and says, “Life is too short to let anyone stop you from doing what you want to do.”
There is maybe an hour of sun left when the hum of engines finally disappears from The Badlands; it is finally safe for me to saddle up the Moto-Pup for a ride. I am doing laps around a hill, with Smiley trotting along happily beside me, when I see one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. Above the western horizon, five fingers of deep orange sunlight break through a small cloud, leaving five glowing fingerprints on the surface of the earth. I take a run at the hill with the Moto-Pup, and with a little help from my feet, I manage to coax it up to the top of the hill for a better view.
I kill the engine, remove my helmet, and stretch my arm out towards the sky. When I spread my fingers wide, and bend my wrist downward, it looks as though the sunbeams are flowing directly from my fingertips. I imagine I am a powerful wizard, and the beams of light are actually rays of magic.
Then Smiley begins to growl.
There, in the long shadow of the hill, leaning on their parked bikes, are Devin Orff and Cliff Boswink sharing a cigarette. It is probably hand-rolled and doesn’t smell like tobacco. Devin’s Dobermans are crouched beside him, their snarls growing louder.
“Look, Devin, it’s the Anal Warrior!” Cliff Boswink calls out.
“What the hell ya doin’, Anal?” Devin adds. “Prayin’ to the queen of the fairies?”
“Nah, Anal’s not gay, Orff,” Cliff wheezes, “at least not completely gay — he’s got the hots for some skinny little chick in his class. Zoe’s her name. She’s sweeeeeet.”
“Has she got tits yet?” Devin Orff giggles. “Should we go find her and feel her up?”
This imagery is just too much for my brain to handle, and my voice explodes from inside me. “Shut up, jerk!” I yell out. I kick at the starter of the Moto-Pup. I am going to race down the hill at full speed and ram the handlebars right into Devin Orff’s crotch for that remark. I kick and kick at the starter but the motor fails to fire.
“Oooooh, Anal just called me a jerk, Blaster. Maybe we should go have a talk with him about that.”
Smiley growls louder as Devin Orff, Cliff Boswink and the two Dobermans saunter up the hill.
Then I remember to turn the starter switch on, and the engine fires on the first kick, but Devin Orff is already standing in front of me, gripping the handlebars of my mini-bike.
“Hey, Anal, don’t worry!” he titters. “I’m not gonna hurt you — I just wanna take this hot bike of yours for a ride! Promise I won’t break it!”
Even over the buzz of the little engine, I can hear his dogs snarling like demons. Close
beside me, Smiley’s fur bristles, and he growls back at them.
“Yeah, Anal,” Cliff giggles. “We promise we won’t smash the Moto-Pup into little tiny bits!”
It isn’t as big or expensive as their dirt bikes, but the Moto-Pup is a present from my dad, and I am not going to let these two giggling idiots wreck it. I kick the gearshift pedal, wind back the throttle, and drop the clutch, making the doughnut-sized rear tire actually spin a little. It is enough to push Devin Orff out of the way, but there is not nearly enough power to drive through him like I had planned. Now all I can think of is escape, and I buzz down the hill away from Orff and Boswink as fast as the Moto-Pup will carry me, which is slightly faster than they can run on foot.
“Come back here, Anal!” Cliff yells.
They both run after me, but the Moto-Pup gradually pulls ahead enough that they break off their pursuit.
“The name’s Dak, shithead!” I yell back as my little bike carries me away. Smiley runs beside me, his mouth wide open and his tongue wagging like a flag, like he’s laughing his head off.
“Ha-HAAA, suckers!” I shout over my shoulder.
And then I see them. Devin’s attack dogs are charging behind us, gaining quickly. I wrench the throttle back, but it is already open as wide as it will go.
My left foot is jerked from the footpeg. One of the dogs had my pant leg in his teeth! The other Doberman is running beside my right leg, nipping at it. They are going to pull me right off the mini-bike!
A hollow thump! A cyclone of snarling and barking! The dog on the right lets go of my pant leg, and then the second disappears, too. I stand on the rear brake pedal, spin the bike around 180 degrees in the dirt to see Smiley on the back of the dog who had my pant leg in his teeth. The Doberman bucks and thrashes and howls wildly but cannot shake Smiley loose. The second Doberman leaps into the fray, hissing and shrieking like something from hell. The three dogs kick up a cloud of dust, thrashing and snapping and gnashing and snarling wildly.
My hands claw at my face. No no no no no! I would have rather let Devin and Cliff smash up the Moto-Pup and beat me up than watch my dog get killed like this.
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