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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

Motocross Madness (8 page)

BOOK: Motocross Madness
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“You still look like the Amazing Muck Man to me,” Joe said.

“I was just on my way back to the garage to change,” Jamal replied. “I cleaned the bike up first. But I promised you guys I'd meet you trackside. How long until your next heat?”

“We're going to check right now,” Frank said.

“Okay,” Jamal said. “I'm on in a few minutes. Try to catch my next race, if you can. I've got to go clean up.”

“See you soon,” Joe said.

The brothers wheeled their bikes to the postrace information pavilion while Jamal went back to get his motorcycle and change armor.

Much to the Hardys' relief, their second heats didn't include each other.

“I understand now why all those Hayday girls aren't competing,” Joe said. “Racing against your family is tough.”

“We may still have to face each other in the finals,” Frank said.

“I'll see you guys there,” Jules Kendallson said, butting in. He stepped out of a crowd of racers gathered trackside to watch the heats the Hardys
weren't participating in. “I saw you race,” he said. “Nice recovery. You two are pretty quick.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Joe said. Noting that Kendall-son's armor was clean, he added, “Good luck in your first heat.”

Kendallson nodded and popped his black and green helmet onto his shaggy head. “Catch you in the finals.” He pushed his green and black motorcycle toward the track and quickly disappeared into the throng of contestants.

As he left, Elizabeth Navarro pushed her yellow and white bike in the brothers' direction. “Fraternizing with the enemy?” she asked.

“Enemy?” Frank replied.

“You know,” Elizabeth said, “the competition.”

“Oh, you mean Kendallson?” Joe said.

“What was he trying to do?” she asked. “Psych you out?”

“No,” Frank said. “He was just wishing us luck in the upcoming heats.”

Elizabeth frowned and crinkled her nose. “That's odd,” she said. “He hasn't been very nice to me.”

“Maybe that's because you're ahead of him in the standings,” Joe suggested. “Frank and I are in the middle of the pack, but you've been doing pretty well for yourself. He's probably jealous.”

She blushed slightly. “Maybe. I've worked hard to get where I am,” she said. “I've been riding a motorbike nearly all my life.”

“Did your dad get you into it?” Frank asked. “We heard he used to ride a bit.”

“Mostly I developed the interest on my own,” she said. “My dad's been helpful . . . sometimes. Other times  . . .” She sighed. “It's like he's living out his dreams through me.”

Frank nodded. “That happens between a lot of parents and kids.”

Elizabeth sighed. “That doesn't make it any easier,” she said. “I think my dad wants me to win this particular race more than I want to win it myself. He even upgraded my motorcycle.”

“It's a beautiful bike,” Frank said, admiring the sleek white and yellow machine.

“Not that I don't want to win,” Elizabeth said. Her blue eyes became steely at the thought. “I intend to beat everyone on the course—including both of you. I'm right behind your friend in the standings.”

“You mean Jamal?” Joe asked. He checked his updates sheet. “So you are. Good luck with that.”

“You don't really mean that,” she scoffed.

Frank and Joe laughed. “Well, it wouldn't hurt to have Jamal taken down a peg or two,” Joe said. “His confidence is a bit much! Good luck.”

“Good luck to you, too,” she said. “See you.” With that, she wheeled her bike toward the track.

“Do you think she has a chance?” Joe asked.

“That's just what I've been wondering,” said an older man's voice. Asa Goldberg pushed out of the
crowd toward the Hardys. He stepped carefully between the muddy ruts beside the course so as not to soil his nice leather shoes. “The betting line on Navarro is pretty active.”

“People are betting on this race?” Frank said.

“In Vegas, they bet on anything,” Goldberg said. “I have people out there who wire me the odds. I can't decide who I want to back. The line's pretty good on you boys, too.”

“Is that ethical for a sponsor?” Joe asked.

Goldberg shrugged. “I don't see why not. It doesn't change the money I'm putting up for the competition,” he said. “Besides, having a stake in a race can make watching it more interesting.”

“I thought the thrill of the competition was enough,” Joe said.

“Maybe if you're actually
in
the race,” Goldberg said. “But for folks like me, this benefit is a lot of standing around and glad-handing.”

“I'm sure the Fernandezes can find some work for you if you want to volunteer,” Frank said.

Goldberg gave a look of mock horror. “And get my hands dirty?” he asked, examining his fingernails. “I got out of that game a long time ago. If you don't mind, I'll leave the muddy work to you volunteers.”

“Thanks,” Joe said, not really meaning it.

“Well, I gotta be checking out the rest of the competition,” Goldberg said. “Y'all race good now, y'hear?”

“We will,” Frank said. Goldberg ducked back into the crowd once more.

“What do you think?” Joe asked after he'd gone. “Will he be betting on us?”

“I doubt it,” Frank said. “We didn't give him any info to go on. Hey, there's Jamal.”

Their friend, smartly dressed in new clean black and red armor, was pushing his motorcycle toward the track starting line. He had his helmet on and looked ready to go.

“Hey, Jamal!” Joe said, waving.

Jamal nodded in their direction, but kept going.

“He must have his game face on,” Joe said.

“Let's watch the start of his race,” Frank said, “before we start prepping for our next heat.”

“Good idea,” Joe said. The two of them pushed their motorcycles trackside, where they had a good view of the starting line. Jamal pulled his red and black bike up with the rest of the racers. Elizabeth Navarro was in the pack along with a half-dozen other riders.

The starter gave the signal, and all of the bikes roared off the line. Jamal got off to a good start. He took the jumps cautiously and accelerated smoothly over the whole course. He'd soon built up a decent lead on the rest of the field.

“Go, Jamal, go!” the brothers shouted as their friend's bike whipped past.

On the second lap, Jamal began having trouble.

He slipped on three whoopdedoos and took several turns too wide. The other racers began to catch up.

Elizabeth Navarro challenged him on the third lap. This seemed to make Jamal nervous. His slips became more frequent, and he nearly went down twice. Near the big U-turn, his tires almost brushed the hay-bale crash walls.

“I can't stand to watch anymore,” Joe said. “Too intense! I'm going back to the garage to get ready.”

Frank shook his head. “I don't know what's up with Jamal. He seemed to have it together for the first lap, but now he's falling apart.”

Navarro took the lead, with Jamal well back in the pack.

“I won't give up on him,” Frank said. “Win or lose, I'll see the race through to the end.”

“Yeah, okay,” Joe said. “Cheer him on for me. I'll see you back in the tune-up bay.”

Frank nodded as Joe pushed his bike away from the track and back toward the row of small metal garages.

Joe felt disappointed that Jamal wasn't doing better. He'd hoped that all of them might secure a place in the motocross finals later that day. He let out a long sigh as he unlocked their unit and slid the folding metal door up into the ceiling.

As he did so, a muffled sound caught his attention.

Joe looked around. The small bay was dark all
the way to the door that led to the connecting corridor in back. Something near the workbench in the rear corner caught his attention As he drew closer, he saw it was a person lying on the floor.

Joe propped up his bike, picked up a nearby tire wrench as a makeshift weapon, then moved cautiously toward the back corner.

Suddenly he recognized the figure lying there. “Jamal!”

9 Off Course

Jamal was lying on the floor in his underwear, bound and gagged like a victim in an old-time gangster movie.

Joe raced forward and knelt by his friend's side. He quickly untied the struggling teen and removed his gag. “Jamal, what happened?” he asked.

“I was changing, and somebody hit me from behind,” Jamal said. He pointed to a rising welt on the back of his skull. “The next thing I knew, I was tied up and lying on the garage floor.” He rubbed his head. “Why would anyone do a thing like that?”

“Someone wearing your armor is competing on the track, right this instant,” Joe said, putting two and two together.

“Someone is pretending to be me and is racing in my heat?” Jamal replied. He tried to get to his feet but staggered a little. Joe helped him up. “We've got to catch that guy!” Jamal said.

“We will,” Joe said. “You okay?” Jamal nodded. “Then let's go. Hop onto the back of my bike.”

Joe leaped into the saddle of his motorcycle and fired up the engine. Jamal pulled on a pair of sweatpants and hopped on behind him.

The two of them raced back to where Joe had left Frank. The elder Hardy did a double-take when he saw Jamal on the back of Joe's bike.

“If you're here,” Frank said, “who's that riding your bike?”

“An imposter,” Joe said. He swiftly angled his motorcycle toward the track.

“Joe, no!” Frank said, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder. “We have to tell the track officials,” he said. “They can handle this.”

“Right!” Jamal said. “I'll get the Fernandezes to stop the race. Riding the bike through the crowd would be dangerous. You two wait here.” He hopped off Joe's bike, took a deep breath, and sprinted through the gathered racers toward the nearby Officials' Pavilion.

Meanwhile, Joe and Frank kept their eyes on the culprit. The imposter raced around the track, near the rear of the pack of riders.

“You think he's dogging it deliberately?” Frank asked. “He seemed to have the talent to do better, at first.”

“I can't believe that we didn't notice it wasn't Jamal riding that bike!” Joe said angrily.

“I'm not surprised,” Frank said. “With the body armor and helmet, it could be just about anyone on Jamal's cycle.”

Joe scanned the racers competing in the heat. “You're right,” he said. “From a distance, the armor and helmet cover up a lot of differences. You need the colors on the bikes and uniforms to tell the riders apart.”

“That's why the fake Jamal only waved to us, rather than come over before the race,” Frank said.

“I thought that was odd at the time,” Joe said.

Frank mounted his bike and did a quick check of its systems.

“What are you doing?” Joe asked.

“Getting ready. Just in case,” Frank said.

Jamal sprinted back and took a moment to catch his breath. Then he said, “They're going to put out the yellow flag, then stop the race and take custody of the imposter. The police are getting ready.”

In the tower atop the reviewing stand, an official waved a yellow flag. Corri's voice boomed over the PA. “Sorry for the interruption, folks, but our finish-line system has developed a glitch. We don't want any errors calling the end of an exciting
race. Please hold your positions while we solve the problem.”

The crowd in the stands groaned, but the racers on the track slowed down in compliance with track rules. They held their positions relative to one another, waiting for the green flag to come out again.

The man wearing Jamal's armor looked around warily as the race ground to a near halt.

“He senses something's wrong,” Joe said.

“He's probably worried that, at slow speed, someone might realize he's not Jamal,” Frank said.

“Look!” Jamal said, pointing. “He's making a break for it!”

The imposter suddenly turned his bike around and headed for the north side of the course, where the track abutted the woods.

“He won't get away!” Joe said. He twisted his accelerator and shot forward. Frank did the same.

The two of them made several quick cuts between stacked bales of hay, and skidded out onto the track. They turned north, hoping to head off the imposter before he could reach the wooded trail.

The charlatan rocketed forward, soaring over the whoopdedoos at top speed.

“The jumps are slowing him down,” Frank called to his brother over their headsets. “He's being careless.”

“I don't think he's seen us yet,” Joe replied.

They rode as fast as they could, keeping their air-time down when they hit the jumps to save precious seconds.

The imposter rounded the final turn before the trail into the woods, but the Hardys got there ahead of him. They screeched their bikes to a halt and positioned their motorcycles across the path, making it impossible for the man to get by.

Joe smiled. “It's the end of the line for you, bub,” he said, knowing the charlatan couldn't hear him.

“Give up!” Frank shouted. “There's no way to escape.”

In response, the imposter twisted his bike and zoomed east, off the track. He squeezed between several bales of hay and cut across the infield, a mass of ruts and wild grasses.

“Circle back the way we came!” Frank said. “We can cut him off there, too.” He turned his bike around and looped back toward the eastern side of the course. Joe followed right behind.

The imposter bounded over the infield, dodging around scrub trees and other obstacles.

“This guy would do real well in the cross-country portion of the race,” Joe called to Frank as they rode.

The elder Hardy nodded and pushed his machine faster. “He's going to beat us to the other side!” Frank radioed back angrily.

BOOK: Motocross Madness
2.3Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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