Dirt Bike Runaway

by Matt Christopher

  It was a Muni 125 LC, red-fendered, with twin carburetors. Its worn seat — the stuffing was slightly squeezed out of its sides — was strong evidence that whoever had owned it before had indeed pumped a lot of mileage out of it.

  “Dad bought it from a friend of his sometime ago,” Giff explained. “The guy needed some ready cash. So really, he didn’t invest a heck of a lot of money into it.”

  “Well, it needs a new plug and a new air box,” Peter observed, finding the faults of the bike without much effort. “And the forks need adjustment. I don’t know what kind of a rider owned it before, but I don’t think he ever checked the air in them. And it needs new shocks, and maybe a transmission over-haul. I can fix a lot of it, but some of the parts will have to be bought.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, Giff. I’m broke. And maybe your father won’t want to put a lot of money into fixing it.”

  Giff looked at him, grinned, and laid a blunt finger against Pete’s chest. “Ease your mind, old buddy. I talked with my father after you went to bed last night. He wants to get that bike running. And I mean running. It’s been sitting in here too long and is just taking up space, he said. So no matter what it costs to fix it, fix it, he said. He even joked about it. He said that if you’re really a good mechanic, you might fix it up so that it’ll be better and faster than my BLB.”

  Peter smiled. “That’ll be the day,” he said.

  Peter was able to repair the carburetor and clean the air filter to get the bike running, but it was only in Max Jenkins’s bike shop that he was really able to fix the rest of it.

  Peter had hated to mention tires, but he didn’t have to. It was Giff who saw that new ones were needed and suggested buying them.

  All the time Peter worked on the bike, Max, who was either busy with customers or working on a bike himself, kept looking over at him with quiet interest.

  When Peter was finished with the bike, he wiped his hands on the grease cloth and asked Max if he would check it over for him. Max seemed astonished at first, but agreed to do it. He went over the bike and scrutinized every detail of Peter’s repair job. When he was finished, he shook his head, vastly impressed.

  “It’s incredible,” he declared. “I couldn’t have done a better job myself.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Jenkins,” said Peter appreciatively.

  When they were ready to leave, Giff started to tell Max that his father would see him about payment of the bill, but Max raised his hand. “I’m not worried,” he said, smiling.

  Peter rolled the bike out of the garage and climbed on it, and Giff climbed on behind him.

  “Wear this,” Giff said, handing Peter his helmet.

  Peter put it on, buckled it, then hit the starter. The machine popped off at the first try.

  “Is there a hill nearby?” Peter asked as they drove onto the street. “I’d like to give this baby a good test to see how she pulls.”

  “Yes,” replied Giff after thinking a bit. “There’s a high, steep pile of dirt that a construction outfit left three or four years ago in a development that they started but never finished. That might do it.”

  “Might. How do we get there?”

  Giff gave directions. Peter maintained a speed of twenty-five miles per hour until they were out of the city limits; then he revved the engine and got it up to fifty, then fifty-five, and held it there.

  Peter’s pride mounted as he listened to the smooth, rhythmic sound of the engine. Mr. Fairchild would be proud of him, he thought, his heart singing.

  The hill was about three miles away in the country, in between an abandoned blacktopped street and a canal. Peter approached it slowly, stopped the bike about twenty feet from its base, and left the engine running.

  “Well, what do you think?” Giff asked.

  “Wish it were higher,” said Peter, looking at the hill with the backdrop of blue sky behind it. “But it’ll do.”

  Giff got off the bike. Smiling, he brushed his wind-blown hair back with his hands. “We’ll have to get you a uniform and a helmet,” he said.

  “And a pair of boots,” Peter added. “But maybe there’s no need for them. I might not be around long enough to break them in.”

  Giff looked at him, weighing his words. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?”

  Peter shrugged. “Sure.”

  He checked the strap of the helmet Giff let him borrow, revved up the engine, then released the clutch and headed for the hill.

  The Muni hit a chunk of dirt and crushed it to bits as the bike stormed up the steep grade, dirt spraying up like machine-gun bullets from its spinning rear wheels.

  The going was rough. There was no worn path, no groove into which Peter could line up the bike and sail on. It was virgin territory, every inch of the way.

  Two-thirds of the way to the top the front wheel struck another hard lump of dirt and twisted, almost wrenching the handlebars out of Peter’s hands. He quickly let up on the gas, straightened the bike out in time, then goosed it again, getting all the power he could out of the Muni.

  Seconds later he reached the summit of the hill, cut the engine to idle, and turned to look down at Giff. He was sweating as if he had run up the hill on foot instead of climbed it on the bike. His heart pounded with triumph and joy, as if he had conquered Mount Everest.

  Giff waved to him and he waved back, smiling happily behind the plastic shield of the helmet.

  Darn! he thought. I know this baby could be a good racer! I just know it could!

  They rode home, and both took showers. After a late lunch they sat on the front porch steps, leaning their backs against the tall white pillars, and talked about the Muni’s possibilities of coming in among the first five in Saturday’s race.

  The sound of the front door opening interrupted them. Peter looked up and saw that it was D.C. She had a tray with two tall glasses of ice-cold lemonade on it.

  “Thought you hard-working guys might like something cool to drink,” she said, bringing it to them.

  Peter looked at her and saw her smile. He smiled back, wondering if she was putting it on or if it was really genuine.

  9

  Peter was hoping that D.C. would remain outside with them and join in their conversation. Maybe she had changed her attitude toward him a little. He had been at the house almost a full day now. D.C. must have been able to see that he wasn’t as crummy as she had thought.

  Peter and Giff each took a glass of lemonade, Peter glancing up at her after he had taken his. Her brown hair had fallen over the sides of her face, framing her round pink cheeks and brown eyes. Was there something behind that look? he wondered. Was there a hint of forgiveness that she didn’t want to put into words just yet?

  “Thanks,” Peter said, then took a couple of long swallows of the rich-tasting drink. D.C. had taken off her yellow dress and replaced it with a blue blouse and a skirt, he noticed. And instead of the high-heeled shoes, she was wearing toeless pumps.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied pleasantly, and turned to let Giff take his glass from the tray. Then she went back into the house, her long legs lithe and graceful.

  For a moment or two Peter felt his heart pound, and put the glass to his lips again to disguise his emotions. He had never been attracted to a girl before as he was attracted to D.C., and he hated to have Giff see him going through this embarrassing strain.

  He heard the door close behind D.C., then held the glass on his lap and turned his attention to a tall royal palm across the street upon which a cardinal had just landed. He felt bumbly and awkward. This was silly, he thought. That smile meant nothing. Nothing at all.

  Giff’s voice broke into Peter’s thoughts — gently — as if Giff figured that Peter was immersed in some very personal matter. “I told her about you,” Giff said.

  Peter stared at him, surprised. “You did? Everything?”

  Giff nodded. “Everything. I thought it was the best thing to do. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Peter sat up straigh
ter against the pillar. He looked toward where he had last seen the cardinal. It was gone.

  “What did she say?”

  Giff shrugged. “She was surprised, and ashamed. She said she’d have to apologize to you.” He grinned. “I told you, didn’t I?”

  Peter grinned. “Yes, you did,” he said. But she was out here a few minutes ago, he wanted to say. She had her chance to apologize to him then. Why didn’t she? Had she suggested the apology to Giff just to appease him?

  Giff finished his drink. “I’ve just thought of something,” he said, holding the empty glass in his hand.

  Peter finished his, then looked at Giff, curious.

  “How’d you like to ride the Muni on the trail? Just across the canal there’s a dirt bike trail where we do a lot of riding. It’s got almost enough bumps and curves on it to make it pretty good practice for motos. I’ve got some work to catch up on in my room. Well, not work, really. I’m a collector.”

  Peter’s eyebrows arched. “What do you collect?”

  “Stamps. Coins. Maybe you’d like to see them sometime.”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  It had better be soon, Peter thought. I might not be around here very long.

  Giff explained to him how to get to the trail. Then, after Giff and Peter carried their glasses into the house, Peter got the Muni out of the garage, turned left on the street, and cruised down to Georgia Avenue. He turned right, then crossed over a narrow wooden bridge onto a street flanked by a row of tall coconut palms, the ones on the west side leaving the street in deep shadow.

  “Look for the dirt bike sign,” Giff had said. “It’s about a hundred yards up from the bridge, tacked to an electric light pole.”

  Peter rode slowly, keeping near the edge of the curb, as he watched for the sign.

  After riding about a hundred yards he saw the sign and the trail. He turned toward the curb, slowed down, jerked the front end of the bike up onto the curb, then headed down the narrow trail into the woods.

  The trail led straight for some twenty yards, then curved to the left, and Peter gave the throttle a gentle twist to goose the engine.

  The trail got rougher, and he began to bounce on the seat, feeling the jar on his rear end as if he were sitting on a vibrating machine.

  He got to thinking of Giff, of Giff’s family, and especially of D.C. If she were given enough time, would she really condescend to apologize to him? Maybe she was shy and saying she was sorry to a person was difficult for her.

  The smile she had given him when she brought out the lemonade had some definitive true signs behind it. There was genuine friendliness in it, as there was in her liquid brown eyes.

  No matter how she felt about him, he knew how he felt about her. He liked her. Not only her looks and her smooth handling of a bike, but also a gentle softness and warmth he had noticed when she had brought out the tray of lemonade.

  But what good was it to keep those feelings inside? And if she wasn’t willing to open the door to him first, how could he tell her how he felt toward her?

  The sound of a bike shook him out of his reverie. Or was there more than one bike? He wasn’t sure. The sound was coming from his left, good and loud, as if the rider or riders were really pouring it on.

  The woods here were not as thick as they were near the entranceway, and he was able to see a fairly good distance through them.

  Then he saw the bikes. They were on a trail about fifty feet from him, running parallel with the one he was on. There were two of them, one following the other, and both traveling in the opposite direction from which he was traveling.

  The lead bike had yellow fenders and a black gas tank. The other had black fenders and a white gas tank. The yellow fenders captured Peter’s attention immediately. He’d never forget that bike as long as he lived.

  It was Dex Pasini’s. The other one was Jess Kutter’s.

  Peter was quite certain that Dex and Jess had seen him, too. But had they recognized him? He wasn’t wearing the same clothes he had worn the day they had met him. Mrs. MacKenzie had thrown them into a hamper to be washed. He was wearing a pair of Giff’s pants now, and one of Giff’s shirts. It didn’t matter that the pants were an inch too long for him; folding up the ends took care of that. The shirt was slightly large for him, too. But, so what? He remembered the times at The Good Spirit Home when the clothes bought for him did not always fit perfectly either.

  The Muni 125 bounced and twisted on the rutted dirt path, jarring every bone in Peter’s body as he tried to keep a strong, steady grip on the handlebars, and himself on the seat.

  Now and then he glanced back to see whether Dex and Jess had cut off the other trail and onto the one he was on to pursue him, but so far he didn’t see them.

  An animal — an armadillo — standing directly in his path startled him out of his wits.

  “Move!” he shouted, braking and swerving to avoid hitting it.

  It moved, all right, but straight into Peter’s path. In a desperate effort to dodge it, Peter rammed into a tree. The bike bounced back and tipped over onto its side, spilling him. He rolled over the grass like a top in order to avoid being struck by the bike, and collided into the armadillo.

  Fear shot through him as he felt the hard armor of the animal, but the armadillo skittered away and disappeared into the dense brush.

  With a pang, Peter saw the bike lying next to the tree, its rear wheel spinning.

  He got up, ignoring a pain in his left leg as he scrambled to the machine and shut off its engine. Then he lifted the bike and saw that the front fender was bent.

  Anguish assailed him. He looked for other damages and immediately saw that the front headlight was damaged, too.

  Heartsick, he thrust the bike up against the tree, collapsed on the grass beside it, and pounded the ground with his clenched fists.

  Damn the armadillo! Why did it have to be there then? He closed his eyes tight and rubbed them with his balled fists, then held his breath till the feeling of wanting to cry passed.

  Why should this happen to me? he asked himself. What have I done to deserve all this?

  Then he heard the sound of the other bikes again. They were approaching from behind him.

  Tensed, he waited, and watched for them to appear.

  Seconds later they came tearing down the trail, and slowed up abruptly. Dex, Peter saw, was in the lead.

  Dex stopped inches away from him, and cut his engine. “Well, look who’s here!” he cried. “Peter Lewinski himself! And with another bike, which, if I’m seeing right, has smashed into a tree! Jess, do you see what I see?”

  Jess rode up beside him. He, too, shut off his engine. “Yeah,” he muttered dryly.

  Peter wondered whether Jess ever said any more than a few words at a time when Dex was around. Probably not.

  “Whose bike is that?” Dex went on. Neither he nor Jess had bothered to take off his helmet. “It ain’t yours, that’s for sure.”

  “It’s Giff MacKenzie’s,” Peter replied, trying not to be intimidated by anything Dex said or did. Although that sock in the gut that Dex had given him wasn’t going to be forgotten in a hurry.

  “Oh? Giff MacKenzie’s, huh?” Dex said, and Peter thought he could detect a smile of malice behind the blue visor. “I suppose you’re staying with him?”

  Peter nodded. “With his family,” he said.

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He didn’t want to keep talking. Talking would only keep the two from moving on.

  Dex looked at the Muni, scrutinizing the damage done to the front fender and the headlight. Finally he turned to Jess, who nodded as if a silent message had been exchanged between them. Turning around again, Dex got off his bike, kicked out its rest stand, leaned the bike against it, and walked off into the dense bushes.

  Peter could hear him moving around for a minute, then heard the crack of splintered wood. He frowned. What in heck was Dex doing? Peter felt his heart pound as he glanc
ed at Jess and saw a sly, amused grin spread over his face through the visor.

  Then Dex reappeared, carrying a branch about four feet long and three inches thick. Peter stared at him, terror seizing him as he wondered what Dex intended to do with the club.

  His eyes were glazed with fear as he sprang to his feet and backed away.

  “What do you think you’re going to do with that?” he cried, taking another step back. “You gone wacky?”

  A chuckle issued from behind the visor. Then Dex stopped in front of Giff’s bike, raised the club high over his head, and brought it down hard against the right-side suspension fork.

  The resounding blow bent the tube almost up against the front wheel and split the branch.

  “You rat!” Peter shouted, and dove at Dex, hoping to get at him before he could wield the broken club again.

  But Dex, as if he had expected Peter to make just such a move, sprang away, ready to swing the club at him.

  “Come on, jerk,” Dex challenged him, “and I’ll let you have it, too.”

  Peter stood, staring grimly into the glittering eyes that stared back at him. He saw now that Jess was also off his bike and had it resting on its stand while he stood nearby, ready to jump on Peter.

  Dex waited a few seconds, then turned and heaved the broken branch into the woods, where it struck a tree and dropped to the ground. He picked up the other piece of it and flung that away, too. Then he went to his bike, kicked up the rest stand, and started it.

  Jess followed suit. In a minute both of them were gone, headed back in the direction from which they had come.

  Peter listened to their roaring engines subsiding in the distance, then surveyed the damages done to the Muni. His throat burned, and he blinked back tears as he approached the machine and checked it to see if the front suspension fork was touching the tire or the spokes. Both tongs were bent, Peter observed, but still cleared the tire and spokes. The tubes would not be sliding freely up and down, and the bike would ride rough. The fork, therefore, would require straightening out. More likely, a new replacement would be needed.