Motocross Me (Motocross Me 1)

Finally, Marty announces something that isn’t spur of the moment and spoken as if he were hanging of the edge of his chair, “Twenty minutes are officially over, folks. Now we’re down to the last two laps of the race. Flyin‘ Ryan Russo still has the lead, followed by Ethan Andrews, Ash “The Flash” Carter, John Martin-” He says the name of every rider as they gear up to cross the finish line for the second to last time. Dad walks out on the podium at the top of the finish line jump, holding a white sign with the number two on it.

The sign must have magical powers bestowed upon it straight from the gods above, because the moment Ash notices it, something in him changes. His shoulders square, his elbows bend at a ninety-degree angle and his body assumes the racing position again. He presses the toe of his boots hard into the pegs and in one swift motion, as if it comes as naturally as breathing, he flies past number 519 and takes second place.

Marty shouts into the microphone, barely audible now. Above the roaring of the crowd I hear Shelby shriek something that sounds a lot like hell yes.

My heart quivers with hope again as I watch, my excitement for him almost drowning out the pain I have knowing I had lost his trust forever. With one lap remaining, I can hardly contain myself as Ash’s front tire creeps closer to Ryan’s back one. My heart pounds so hard it hurts and my fingers are numb, but nothing distracts me from watching the battle that ensues. It’s happening – Ash is gaining on Ryan. He can win. He might win.

Shelby trembles as the rush of excitement and anticipation overtakes her. Her hands press to her face, covering her nose and mouth, while her fingers are spread open so she can see. Ryan comes into her berm at full speed and takes the high route around at the same time Ash makes the split-second decision to cut to the inside, passing Ryan by a heartbeat.

I don’t know how Shelby reacts in the moments that follow. Every fiber of my being draws my attention into a vortex around Ash and Ryan as they approach. Everything goes fuzzy except for the number plate that reads 336.

Clunk, clunk, clunk, Ash throws the bike sideways and slides halfway around the top of the berm.

Clunk, clunk, Ryan downshifts and takes the inside. I watch in slow motion as Ryan comes out of the turn perpendicular to Ash.

Braaaaaaaaaap.

Ryan’s arms tighten as he throws his full weight into the bike, forcing the back of it to collide with Ash’s front tire. Their helmets look at each other. A fountain spray of sand fills the air. As it settles, only one bike rides away. The other bike tumbles over the back of the berm and disappears in a cloud of dust.

The fallen rider balls up and rolls out of the way to avoid being hit by the bikes that follow. Acting purely on instinct, I remember the reason I am here and unroll my flag. I run to the edge of the track and wave it as hard as I can.

The balled up rider jumps to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, shivers as if shaking off the crash and spins around looking for his bike. My heart bursts when I see the dreadlocks.

Seeing that no riders had crashed into his fallen bike, Ash realizes it must have fallen behind the berm. He shivers again, hopping from foot to foot as he waits impatiently for the riders to clear so he can run across the track and fetch his bike.

I ache to help him, but all I can do was wave the flag and watch. There is less than half a lap left now; all hope is lost. Ash finds an opening and darts across the deep tire ruts in the track.

“Ryan Russo is the winner!” Marty roars. I look over to see Ryan hurl his bike across the finish line, leaning in a horizontal whip through the air. Victory is his.

Without warning, Ash reaches for his chest as he drops to his knees and collapses in pain.

ONE MONTH LATER

Chapter 23

Houston Grand Plaza Hotel

Dear Hana-banana,

I know- that was weird. I’ve never called you Hana-banana before, so why do it now? I guess spending a week relaxing in a five-star hotel and allowing room service to cater to my every whim will cause one to make up random nicknames. So anyway, as you know by now, my crappy pre-paid cell phone doesn’t get signal three hours away from Mixon so I can’t call you. This pretty hotel stationery was just begging to be written on, so I’m kicking it old school and sending you a letter.

I’m not good with c

onfrontations so I’d just like to let you know now that Ash told me everything about you and Ryan, and I don’t care one bit, okay? You are still my best friend (the only girl friend I’ve ever had really) and I hope that when supercross season is over and we return home I will still have a best friend.

Speaking of supercross… I really don’t want to sound like I’m bragging here, because I’m not, but…it is AWESOME! Ash really lucked out by not winning the National race because Ryan’s factory deal isn’t nearly as sweet as Ash’s. Team Yamaha is taking way better care of him than that crappy energy company is doing with Ryan. So everything has actually worked out for the better this way, I hope you realize that.

His shoulder is doing extremely well- the doctor said collarbones are one of the fastest bones to heal, and he should be completely well for the race this weekend. He’s spent every hour of daylight practicing at Team Yamaha’s private track in Houston, and I think he’s going to do really well in his first professional race.

I really hope you change your mind and decide to come. I can sneak away from the VIP section and watch the races with you, if you still want to avoid Ash. I just want my best friend back, okay?

-Shelby

PS- Mom said Molly told her you decided to live in a dorm on campus next year? Please say this isn’t so…

I let the letter fall to my bed and resume packing. I don’t know why I bothered to read it again; I know what it says by heart. Shelby smiles at me from under the glass in a photo frame on my dresser. I flash her a quick smile and then cover it with newspaper and shove it into the cardboard box.

I guess the best part of the letter was that she still wanted to be friends. We haven’t spoken in person since the second day of Nationals, when Dad ran up to me fuming with rage and fired me in front of everyone. “How could you cheat like that, Hana?” His words sting me now just as badly as the day he first yelled them.