Dirt Bike Runaway

by Matt Christopher

  Peter took the high berm that came up, roared down it at accelerated speed, and headed down the straightaway.

  There were eleven minutes left to go, according to one of the pit boards a guy was holding up for his rider to see, when Peter saw a familiar whitefendered BLB blazing down the stretch alongside a yellow-fendered, black-tanked Corella. The two of them were scrambling for the lead: Giff MacKenzie on the BLB, Dex Pasini on the Corella.

  Then, as they headed for the berm, Peter saw the Corella make a short, jerking turn toward the BLB, and the BLB swinging away from it and almost losing control. The bikes were zooming up onto the berm now, with MacKenzie on the upper side of it and Dex below him.

  The move — dirty and tricky, in Peter’s opinion — had helped Dex gain at least a couple of yards on MacKenzie, and Peter wondered if he’d get away with it.

  Perhaps he would, Peter thought. Dex had made the slick move quickly and furtively, and unless a track marshal had had his eyes on him, he would not have noticed it. It was only by coincidence that Peter had happened to glance that way at the exact moment that the incident had occurred, otherwise he would not have seen it either.

  There were eight minutes left to go when Peter realized that he had an excellent chance of coming in among the top four. Dex, No. 44, was leading; No. 16 was second; MacKenzie, No. 11, was third; and No. 123 was fourth. In fifth place, trailing only by a yard, was Peter.

  A thought went through his mind now that had repeated itself many times in the past when he was riding in just such a position: At this point take them one at a time. Concentrate on passing the rider immediately ahead of you, then work on the next. Never mind where the lead rider is. Work on him when you reach him.

  The idea was a good one, even though it didn’t always work out. It was a strategy that Mr. Fairchild had taught him. The strategy usually worked for him, Mr. Fairchild had said. If things went right, it should work for Peter as well.

  It did — but not often.

  It didn’t now. Peter had almost forgotten about No. 99, whose bike he had passed sometime back. Suddenly there it was again, coming up on his left side, the crimson suit like a blazing flame. And then it zipped by him as if he were standing still. He could hardly believe it.

  The number, 99, flashed back at him in the sunlight like a wink of mockery.

  It was near the first jump-hill of the track where he finally caught up with 99 again. The rider seemed to have decelerated slightly before reaching it, as if he feared the high, long flight through space and the hard, solid re-contact with mother earth.

  No. 99 was already soaring through space when Peter reached the edge of the jump-hill, but his full attention was on his own flight now. Peter’s speed and momentum were carrying him far out upon the track, perhaps farther out than he had ever traveled at any time before this.

  Peter was about halfway in his flight when he realized that he was going to have problems. The bike had turned a little coming off the peak of the jump-hill. Not much, but enough to inject a bit of fear into him, and the strong feeling that this jump was going to be a disaster.

  He turned his wheel to keep it in line with the direction in which he was going, and waited for the rear wheel to hit. Suddenly Peter felt it make contact, even though the only parts of his body that were touching the bike were his hands on the handlebars.

  Then the front wheel hit, the impact forcing the front forks to plunge down to their full 11.8-inch limit inside the hefty 28-mm tubes. His rear end came down upon the saddle seat so hard that he felt the coiled springs pressing down to their limit, heard their groaning protest from his weight. Then Peter sensed the machine being out of balance under him, and he knew — even before it happened — that he was going to spill. He just couldn’t help it now.

  Peter twisted the throttle back almost to stopping position as he felt the bike falling away from under him. He waited till it was nearly on its side before he let go of the handlebars, hit the dirt, and rolled over onto the track away from it, and from any bikes that were making the long leap over the jump-hill.

  Landing up against a stack of hay, Peter quickly leaped to his feet. He felt bruises on both of his arms, but that was all. Nothing else hurt him. Nothing, he was sure, was broken.

  Peter looked for his bike, and saw it lying on its side some twenty feet down the track away from him. It was about seven or eight feet inside of the track from the same side that he was on, and one biker had already run into it. The guy was still hanging on to his machine, pulling it upright, and getting back on it. He was already on his way by the time Peter saw his own way clear to go after the Una Mae.

  Peter didn’t know how many bikes had gone by him by the time he reached the Una Mae, climbed on it, and got it going again. He was sure there weren’t more than five or six.

  So where would that leave him if he finished the race and didn’t lose any more ground? In tenth place, maybe? Eleventh?

  It didn’t matter. He would finish it, no matter where he ended up. Luckily the Una Mae wasn’t damaged.

  The minutes drifted by, and finally the twenty minutes were up. Peter crossed the finish line only a foot behind an orchid-colored Honda.

  Moments later the announcement came over the public address system: “Ladies and gentlemen, winner of the second heat is, you guessed it, number forty-four! Dexter Pasini! Can’t anybody ever beat him?”

  Cheers exploded from the hundreds of fans. And, among them, a smattering of boos.

  Peter heard the names of the second- and third-place winners announced, neither of which was familiar to him.

  But in fourth place was No. 11, Giff MacKenzie. A thunderous applause followed.

  From the corner of his eye he saw a head turn in his direction. He looked and saw Dex peering avidly at him.

  “Come on,” Dex said, motioning to him. “Let’s get out of here. You and I have things to talk about.”

  Peter frowned at him. What things? he wanted to ask.

  They lifted the three bikes onto the pickup, chained them to their stands, then climbed into the vehicle and took off. Dex drove. Peter sat on the passenger-door side and Jess in the middle.

  “Two in a row,” Peter exclaimed as they rode out of the speedway onto the main highway. “Wowee, man. That’s good driving.”

  Kutter laughed. “Heck, he does it all the time.”

  “No, not all the time,” Dex contradicted. “I finished second in a heat last week and seventh in a heat a month ago. I’ll take credit, but only when it’s due me.”

  “Not bad credit,” Peter said, smiling.

  There was no more said for quite a while, and he thought about the statement that Dex had made to him earlier.

  “What do you want to talk to me about, Dex?” he asked finally.

  Dex shrugged. “Let’s have something to eat first. Okay? I’m starving.”

  “Guess I’ll have to pass on that,” Peter said. “I’m down to my last two bucks.”

  Dex glanced at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. “Pete, you worry too much, you know that? How would you like to own that bike you rode today? You did a great job riding it. I think I can talk my uncle into letting you have it.”

  Peter stared back at him. (He couldn’t believe he had heard right.) “Say that again.”

  Dex laughed and repeated what he’d said.

  He’s kidding, Peter thought. He must be. Nobody would offer to give a bike to a kid the first day he saw him — whether he rode well or not.

  “I don’t know. I’ve got to have a place to sleep,” Peter said. “That means I’ve got to find a job.”

  “No problem.” Peter saw Dex look at Kutter. “Right, Jess? You think Pete’s going to have a problem finding a job?”

  Jess chuckled. “No problem at all.”

  Twenty-five minutes later they pulled up into the parking lot of the Cypress Corners Mall. Dex drove toward the long row of light-emblazoned buildings, reached the end of the driveway, then cut sharply to the right.


  At the extreme end of the mall was the Pasini Bike Shop. About ten new motorcycles and half a dozen sparkling-clean minicarts were displayed in a space next to it.

  “We unload the bikes, eat, then talk,” said Dex authoritatively. “Okay?”

  He shot Peter a grin as he unlatched his door and got out. Peter tried to fathom the grin. What was behind it? he wondered. What did Dex Pasini really have in mind?

  5

  We’ve got a good thing going, but we can use another hand. Yours.”

  Dex smiled. He hadn’t smiled since they had entered the restaurant, where they each had had a beef stroganoff dinner.

  He had seemed to be thinking a lot about something, as if assembling certain thoughts in his mind and making sure they were in the right order before he started to explain them.

  “For what?” Peter asked, curious.

  Already he was beginning to feel nervous about what Dex was going to say. Somehow he wished he hadn’t accepted Dex’s offer to race. But that was behind him now. There was nothing he could do but hear Dex out.

  They were outside of the shop, behind the motorcycles and the minicarts. Down to the left of them, facing the main street, was a bank. From where he stood Peter couldn’t see a single person, only the dozens of parked cars, and the cars driving back and forth on the street beyond.

  All at once he felt very lonely, and helpless. There wasn’t a soul he knew in Cypress Corners except these two guys, Dex Pasini and Jess Kutter. He knew Bill Rocco, too, but only vaguely. More vaguely than he knew Dex and Jess.

  And he knew Giff MacKenzie, but by sight only.

  That was all. The few friends that he had lived in Cross Point, some seventy-five miles away. Up beyond St. Petersburg. And he might never see them again.

  The thought left a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach in spite of the big meal that he had put away only a little while ago. If something happened to him, to whom could he turn? No one.

  “I let you take a bike to ride, right?”

  Dex’s voice jarred him from his reverie. “Right. And I appreciate it.”

  “I paid for your entry fee, and then for the dinner. Right?”

  Peter nodded, frowning. “Right.”

  What was Dex leading up to? He was getting Peter more nervous by the minute.

  “And you want a place to sleep tonight. Right?”

  Again Peter nodded. Come to the point, Dex, he thought. What are you trying to say?

  Dex stepped up closer to him and put an arm around his shoulder. “How’d you like to earn twenty-five percent of every buck we bring in, Pete?”

  Peter met his eyes. Who do I have to kill? he wanted to say. “Doing what?” he asked.

  Dex glanced at Kutter, then again at Peter. “We’re in the car-parts operation, Pete,” Dex explained, speaking almost directly into Peter’s left ear. “We relieve certain cars of hubcaps, radios, CBs, tape decks, and now and then batteries. It is, like the big shots say, a lucrative business.”

  Peter’s heart began to pound like crazy, causing the last few words of Dex’s to drone in his ears. Stealing? Is that what Dex wanted him to do? Oh, God!

  His spine turned into a stick of ice. What Dex was suggesting brought dark, vivid memories back to him. Back at The Good Spirit Home he had stolen some stuff — cigarettes (for a couple of his friends, since he didn’t like to smoke) and money. That was all. The first time was easy. The second was even easier. But the third time he got caught.

  His punishment was ten whacks with a paddle done by Dr. Forrest Cunningham himself, the director of the home. A giant of a man, six-foot-four, and cold as an iceberg, Dr. Cunningham seemed more concerned about discipline for the students than about injured feelings. Each whack, Peter remembered, seemed hard enough to snap every bone in his body. He could never understand why none of them did.

  Peter was also confined in the home with no privileges to watch television, listen to radio, or get near a bike for a whole month. He had seen Mr. Fairchild only once in all that time. He also had to spend two hours every afternoon painting the halls of the home, and if he were caught talking with any of the kids, the length of his punishment would be extended accordingly. He had no idea of what life in prison was like, but that was a taste of it that he didn’t want a part of anymore.

  “Forget it, Dex,” he said, raising his hand. He had heard enough of Dex’s proposition. “That’s not for me.”

  He looked at Dex, saw the dark, piercing expression that came into his eyes, then looked at Jess. The ice-cold sidelong glance that he got back in return told him that that wasn’t the answer they expected from him.

  “But it is for you, Pete,” Dex declared, keeping his voice low and steady. “Starting tonight.”

  He was smiling now, as if he were sure that this time Peter’s reply would be in the affirmative.

  “Sorry,” Peter said, and started to head toward the parking lot.

  It was about five-thirty, he guessed. If he started to hitchhike now, he should be able to make it to Fort Myers long before dark.

  “Just a minute, Pete,” Dex said.

  Peter paused and turned around. He saw it coming, but it was too quick for him to do anything about it.

  Dex’s fist got him in the stomach, doubling him over and filling him with pain and nausea that made him want to vomit. He got dizzy, closed his eyes, and clutched at his stomach. He thought he was going to pass out. He lay down and rolled over onto his side, the pain of the blow feeling like an explosion inside of him.

  “Come on, Jess,” he heard Dex say as if from a long distance away. “Let’s get out of here.”

  A few seconds later he heard their motorbikes start up, and then the roar of their engines as they sped away.

  He lay with the side of his face flat against the hot pavement, his knees drawn up against his hurt stomach, and began to cry.

  I wish I were dead, he thought.

  He should have known that Dex had a reason for letting him borrow a bike and all that gear and encouraging him to enter the motocross. Dex must have gathered, from the ease with which Peter had fixed his bike, and from what Peter had told him about his experiences working on and riding bikes in motos, that Peter was an excellent prospect for his “operation.”

  And, since Peter had run away from a foster home and had no place to go, how could Peter not accept Dex’s offer to join his operation?

  But he couldn’t steal again. He wouldn’t steal again. Never. And he certainly would not join an operation like Dex’s.

  He couldn’t believe it. How long did Dex think he could get away with stealing hubcaps and all that other stuff? Didn’t it ever occur to him what a stiff fine, and a jail term, meant if he got caught?

  “Kid! Are you hurt?”

  The voice cut into his thoughts, startling him for a moment.

  He opened his eyes and looked up at someone bending over him. A young man with friendly blue eyes, a cheerful, suntanned face, and a thatch of wavy blond hair.

  Where have I seen him before? Peter asked himself.

  “Did they hurt you?” the guy asked.

  He recalled where he had seen the face now, and that mop of blond hair. At the motocross. It was one of the riders.

  “Can you get up?”

  Without answering, Peter put a hand against the pavement and pushed himself up. The guy helped him.

  Peter stood on his feet, waiting to see if he’d get dizzy again. He still felt nauseated, but not as much as he had earlier.

  “I’m Giff MacKenzie,” the guy introduced himself. “I spoke to you at the track.”

  “I know. I recognized you.”

  Peter looked down at his clothes, saw the dirt on one side of them, and brushed it off.

  “Why’d they hit you?” Giff asked.

  “They didn’t both hit me,” Peter said. “Only Dex did.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted me to join his outfit.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Giff didn�
��t elaborate. He probably knew what kind of an outfit Dex had. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  Peter nodded. “I got here this morning, and I’m leaving now.”

  He glanced toward the sky. The sun was still high above the horizon, spraying bursts of yellow rays from behind a cloud. He glanced at the street, where traffic was still flowing briskly.

  “Where you going?”

  Peter opened his mouth to answer, met Giff’s eyes, and felt a ball rise in his throat.

  “What’s your name?” Giff asked.

  “Peter. Peter Lewinski.”

  “I’d like to help you, Peter,” Giff said.

  Peter stared at him. A Good Samaritan? He couldn’t believe it. “Why?”

  “This was no coincidence my coming here and finding you,” Giff explained. “I was at one of the stores when I saw you walking out of the restaurant with Dex Pasini and that buddy of his, Jess Kutter.”

  Peter brushed back his hair with his fingers. “You watched us?”

  “Yes, I did. I watched you guys come here. But the three of you went behind this building, out of my sight, and I didn’t want to get out there in the parking lot where Dex and Jess could see me, so I just hung back and waited. Then I saw them come out from here without you and take off on their bikes.”

  “Why?” Peter asked again, looking into Giff’s blue eyes with deep curiosity. “What business is it of yours what they do, or what I do?”

  Giff shrugged. “No business, I guess. Maybe I just want to help.”

  “How well do you know Dex?”

  “Well enough to know that I’d trust a snake quicker than I’d trust him.”

  Giff paused. Peter looked at him, squinting a little against the sunlight, waiting for him to go on.

  “Look, can we sit and talk?” Giff asked him. “Over a Coke, maybe?”