Jackal (2 page)

I repeated the sequence up and over the remaining rollers, and I didn’t pedal the entire time. Instead, I pumped my way through the whoops with my body, picking up more speed than I thought possible. My arms and legs were beginning to ache by the end of the section, but it was worth it. The other kid may have looked cooler, pogoing through the whoops and jumping them in pairs, but I zipped over the last one a full bike length ahead of him. Now I was in the lead.

Next up was another turn, this one to the right. The bend wasn’t as sharp as the last one, and the berm wasn’t anywhere near as steep. However, this turn had something I’d never seen before in a BMX track—a jump at the very center of it.

I whizzed around the first half of the bend and hit the lip of the turn-jump going faster than I should have. I not only cleared the gap, I nearly jumped
out
of the entire track. Fortunately, there was a safety wall made of solid plywood at the top of the berm, and I hit it square on with both tires. I rode the wall for a few feet like a street BMXer cruising along the side of a building. Then I bunny-hopped off and righted my bike, putting the wheels back on the dirt.

I blinked several times to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. That was probably the sickest move I’d ever pulled off.

The other kid had timed the jump much better, and he caught up with me. We rode neck and neck, flying over more sets of eight- and twelve-foot rollers before zipping into the final turn—another tight one to the left.

I took the turn high this time, while the other kid stayed low. The low road was the shortest route, which usually made it the best choice. However, as the other kid’s earlier move had reminded me, a high rider could gather more speed on a turn like this by taking advantage of the berm’s steep downward angle. I decided to give it a go.

I swept down the berm like a hawk, but the other kid saw me coming. He began to pedal furiously while leaning hard to his left.

Pedaling on a berm was dangerous. The kid handled it like a pro, though, his left foot and pedal barely skimming the dirt’s surface. He inched forward, preventing me from getting in front of him.

I settled for riding at his side as we completed the turn and headed for the final straightaway, which consisted of another section of ten whoops, followed by a pair of twelve-foot rollers. After that was the finish line.

I pumped the whoops like I’d done on the previous set, but so did the other kid. His upper body was clearly stronger than mine because he began to creep ahead. By the time we finished the whoops and reached the top of the first twelve-foot roller, he was out in front by half a bike length.

I was going to lose.

We went airborne, and I ground my teeth. I didn’t mind
losing a race on a mountain bike or road bike, but for some reason I couldn’t stomach losing on a BMX bike. This was
my
territory. Somewhere very far off, Hú Dié let loose another one of her banshee wails, and I knew that it was meant to motivate me. I had to do something.

I squeezed my bike frame between my knees and tail-whipped my rear tire in the direction of the other rider. Skilled racers do this all the time as a neat trick. However, unskilled racers do it, too, most often because they’ve lost control of their bike.

The other kid saw my rear tire headed his way, and he flinched. His smooth glide became an erratic wobble. I pulled my rear tire back underneath me, beginning to regret what I’d just done.

I landed as soft as a feather, while the other rider slammed into the backside of the final roller like a rookie. Thankfully, he didn’t go down, but he’d lost most of his speed.

As I coasted to victory, I looked over my shoulder, because I wanted to make sure that the other kid was okay. Unfortunately, he appeared to take it as me being cocky and waved an angry fist at me.

I stopped well beyond the finish line to give the other kid and the remaining riders plenty of room to complete the race, but the kid with the dreadlocks kept coming toward me—fast. Hard. And I had nowhere to go. My back was against a plywood wall.

I couldn’t help thinking of Ryan’s crash into a fellow racer, and the final outcome. I braced myself, preparing for the worst.

I heard brakes
squeal and tires swoosh as the rider on the shiny new bike cut his front wheel an instant before plowing into me. His rear tire skidded around, scraping off the top layer of the track and sending up a wave of dirt that clogged my nostrils and clouded my vision. I choked out loud.

The kid laughed. “Better watch yourself, Jake. Paybacks are rough.”

I tore off my helmet and shook my head, using my shaggy blond hair to mop some of the dirt from my face. The other rider removed his helmet, too.

I rubbed my eyes. “Raffi? It
is
you!”

“The one and only,” he said.

“How’d your hair get so long?”

“Extensions, yo. Now introduce me to your crew before things get ugly.”

I looked over Raffi’s shoulder and saw my friends running toward us at full speed, forcing the remaining six riders
off the track as soon as they crossed the finish line. Phoenix’s eyes glowed with green fire, and Hú Dié and Ryan appeared ready to smash something.

I held up both hands and yelled, “Easy, guys! This is Raffi. He’s just messing with me. He was my best friend before I moved to Indiana.”

“I’m messing with
you
?” Raffi said, adjusting his sweet dreadlocks. “What about that tail whip?”

“Sorry, bro,” I replied, “but you started it by high/lowing me on the first turn.”

Raffi chuckled. “Oh, yeah. My bad.”

Phoenix, Ryan, and Hú Dié stopped next to me. They were all panting from their effort, and they didn’t look happy. It was, like, ninety degrees out, and they were sweating buckets.

“Everything’s cool?” Phoenix asked.

“Cool as a cucumber,” I said.

“You gonna introduce us?” Raffi asked.

“You know it,” I said, pointing. “That’s Phoenix, that’s Ryan, and that’s Hú Dié.”

Raffi smiled, his teeth gleaming. “Nice to meet you all, though I already know who you are.”

Phoenix raised a sweaty eyebrow. “Really?”

“Sure. You guys are all over the Internet, man. I normally don’t pay attention to road bike racing, but I saw Jake’s pic on the local newspaper’s home page, and I had to investigate.” He turned to me. “You got mad BMX skills, yo. Why you fooling with road bikes?”

“Because he is
good
at it,” Hú Dié answered. “The road bike race he won the other night was against adults.”

“I read that,” Raffi said, “and I also read that you came in second. Pretty impressive.”

I saw a hint of a smile appear on Hú Dié’s face. “Thank you,” she said.

She was wearing shorts in the July heat, and I pointed to her burly quads. “Hú Dié drops hammers.”

“No doubt,” Raffi said. “You ride any other kinds of bikes besides road bikes, Hú Dié? Maybe BMX?”

“I ride here and there,” she replied.

“Don’t be so modest,” Ryan said. “She’s a monster on any kind of bike. She even builds them by hand in a bike shop she owns in China.”

“That is so cool,” Raffi said.

“I am really not that great on a BMX bike, though,” Hú Dié said, “especially when it comes to tricks.” She rested her hand on my shoulder. “But Jake … I had no idea you could ride like that!
I
am the one who is impressed!”

I felt my cheeks begin to turn red. “It’s nothing, really. Raffi and I used to do a little riding.”

“A little riding?” Raffi said. “That’s the understatement of the century, yo! We used to ride at least five days a week, two or three hours a day. Sometimes more.”

“During summer vacation?” Phoenix asked.

“Nah, man, during the school year. Check it—Jake’s folks are both busy lawyers, right? Mine are both doctors. Every day after school, a van used to pick us and a couple other kids up and take us to the local BMX track. We’d do our homework, eat a snack, and then ride until our folks got us. We all got real good at racing and doing BMX tricks and stuff, but your boy Jake here was always the best.”

“Now you’re the one who’s exaggerating,” I said.

“It’s true,” Raffi said, raising his right hand. “I swear.”

I glanced at his long-sleeved racing jersey. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many sponsor logos on a BMX jersey before. You pro now?”

“Not yet. Sponsors are flowing all kinds of gear to kids nowadays, even if they’re not pro. I bet you’d be pro by now if you’d stuck with racing.”

“Hey, you kids!”
someone announced with a bullhorn.
“Clear the track! We have another heat to run.”

“Sorry!” we yelled back, hurrying away from the finish line with Raffi in tow. We headed for the concession stand, where Ryan’s mother was waiting for us. She was hard to miss. Her body got messed up from taking some kind of bad experimental weight-loss drug, and no matter how little she ate, she kept gaining weight. I felt bad for her.

Ryan’s mom frowned. “I was wondering when you kids would show up. Jake could probably use a little hydration after all that jumping. I hear the air is drier in the upper atmosphere.”

“I’m really sorry, Mrs. Vanderhausen,” I said. “I got carried away out there.”

“It is what it is, Jake. Turn in your bike and your gear. You’re done. We’re leaving now.”

“But, Mom!” Ryan said. “We all planned to rent bikes and do a race or two for fun.”

“Absolutely not,” Ryan’s mom said. “Jake’s parents signed the waiver, but I have yet to hear back from Phoenix’s grandfather. I won’t put my name on the line for him in
a place like this, and I certainly won’t put my name on the line for you. You could
die
on that track! I’ve been involved in cycling most of my adult life, and I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Most tracks aren’t this crazy, Mrs. Vanderhausen,” I said.

“Which, I suppose, is why you wanted to ride it?”

I shrugged.

“Come on, Mom,” Ryan said.

“No,” she replied. “You probably shouldn’t be riding yet, anyway. Hok said that you should take it easy.”

“I’m fine,” Ryan said. “I told you last night, I haven’t felt this good in months.”

“My answer is still no.”

Ryan shook his head. “What about Hú Dié? She’s eighteen.”

Ryan’s mom laughed. “That’s what her passport says, but I know better. Now all of you, say goodbye to your new friend … what’s your name, son?”

“Raffi,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Jake is an old friend of mine. We used to ride BMX together down in Southern California.”

Ryan’s mom shook Raffi’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Raffi. Where are your parents?”

“Working. My dad’s delivering a baby and my mom’s doing an emergency appendectomy. This place is my home away from home. I have a question, ma’am. If these guys can’t ride the track, would you consider letting them ride a small loop?”

“What do you mean?”

Raffi gestured toward a patch of woods a few hundred yards away, across an open farm field. “There’s a short trail over there. You don’t need a waiver or anything.”

“How short?” Ryan’s mom asked.

“It’s a seventy-five-yard loop. The track we just rode is more than five hundred yards long.”

“Are there jumps?”

“Not exactly,” Raffi said. “It’s a pump track. You don’t even pedal when you ride it.”

“How big are the—what do you call them—
whoops
?”

“Different sizes, but the biggest one is smaller than the smallest roller me and Jake just raced over.”

Ryan’s mom wiped her sweaty brow and checked her watch. “I don’t know, this place is farther outside of the city than I originally thought.”

“Please, Mom?” Ryan said. “It will be a chance for me to stretch my legs. I’ll prove to you that I’m fine. I haven’t been on any kind of bike since the road bike race.”

Ryan’s mom sighed. “I suppose I could give you kids an hour, if you want. We should still have time to shower back at the hotel and get to the airport. We’ve already said our goodbyes.”

“All right!” Ryan said. “What do you guys think?”

“I’ll do it,” I said.

“I would love to,” Hú Dié said. “I have never been on a pump track.”

Phoenix didn’t answer. He was staring across the parking lot at something.

I poked him. “Phoenix?”

“Huh?” Phoenix said. “Oh, I’ve never been on a pump track, either, but I’m game.”

“Then it’s settled,” Ryan said. “Let’s rent some bikes and gear and get rolling!”