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Less than seven minutes later, the track goes silent as the second moto lines up on the starting gate. For whatever reason, as I heard Dad explaining earlier although I hadn’t been paying attention, the motos today are only three laps long instead of the usual six.
Moto after moto races past my little corner of the track. Luckily, I never have to wave my yellow flag. This is good news of course. It means no one crashes near me.
Marty commentates the entire race through the PA system but I am remarkably good at tuning it out until he says the words “Eighty-five Novice.” Teig’s class is next and I can’t believe fourteen motos have gone by without me realizing it. Apparently, time flies when you’re baking in one-hundred-degree weather and agonizing over how you ruined the chances a gorgeous dreadlocked motocross racer had of winning the biggest race of his career.
I shrug off the feeling of self-loathing and try to focus on Teig. He picks a piece of paper out of a hat and throws a victorious fist up in th
e air, meaning he got a good gate pick. I smile, watching him show the number to Dad while they wait for the rest of the riders to draw a number from the hat. Though it doesn’t make much sense to me, having a good gate pick means you can line up wherever you want on the gate because some places are worse than others for getting the holeshot.
He’s second to choose his spot on the gate and he takes the one on the far right. Everyone starts their bikes and I get a case of the pre-race jitters Molly always talks about; I am both nervous and excited for Teig. I take a deep breath and try to send him good vibes. I mostly just want him to not get hurt, but it would be nice to see him win.
Dad walks to the center of the starting line to the lever that drops the gate. A girl I recognize from Oak Creek prances out into the middle of the track about fifty feet in front of the racers, holding a big sign with the number thirty on it. Dad nods to her and she turns the sign sideways then scampers off to the sideline.
All of the bikes rev up, ready for the gate to drop at any moment, signaling the start of the race. I watch Teig lean forward and focus straight ahead of him, his toes barely touching the ground and his elbows up and ready.
The gate clunks to the ground and they take off. I squint under my sunglasses to try and see if Teig gets the holeshot but the crowd of bikes is too hard to decipher. I will have to wait until they round the berm by Shelby and then pass me one by one. My brother is in third place – not bad out of twenty kids – but I know he’s furious and that will only make him ride better.
Watching him race from this close proves to be harder than I thought. I have only seen him race from the safety of the bleachers and now that he’s close enough for me to touch, I fear for his safety. He rides past me each time at a speed I couldn’t fathom back when I sat in the bleachers.
Thinking of the bleachers, I look back to them. Molly is the first person I see, standing on the top row with her hands clinched together under her chin. She could be a mannequin standing there, not moving a muscle.
A dirty blond mass of knotted hair catches my attention next. Ash is a few spectators away from Molly, standing with Shawn (whose wheelchair is parked on the ground) and his parents. He is dressed in his riding pants and boots but isn’t wearing a shirt. My imagination slips away from me and I think about how gorgeous he would look if the clouds darkened and it suddenly started pouring rain. I groan. What good are men for if all they do was make me weak in the knees and never ask me out?
He runs his hands across the top of his head and lets them rest on his neck as a pained look stretches across his face. Even from this far away, I can tell he’s stressed and it crushes me. There is no way I can leave my post as flagger and talk to him before he races. Although a dozen crazy scenarios play in my head, from faking a seizure to alien invasion, none of them will work.
Molly, Ash and Shawn jump at the same time I hear Marty announce, with biased enthusiasm, that Teig passes a rider and is now in second place. I turn back to the race and search for him in the crowd of bikes. The finish line flagger holds out the white flag and has the checkered flag at the ready, meaning the race is almost over.
A yellow bike with the number forty-seven is in first place and I don’t recognize him. He must be one of the many riders who traveled from far away for Nationals. Now I realize what Ash had meant when he said he was the “Ash of Mixon.” Just because Teig is the fastest around here, doesn’t mean another kid from far away isn’t faster.
Teig finishes in second place but appears to be happy about it when I see him run to his mother in the pits and give her a huge high-five. I wish I could be there to celebrate with him, but it will have to wait until later.
With the excitement of Teig’s race over, I slip back into my zombie-like state of agonizing over the approaching Pro class’s race. They are moto number twenty-four, the last moto. Instead of three laps they ride for twenty minutes plus two laps. Ash’s only hope now would be for Ryan to fall, break his bike, and not be able to finish the race. That doesn’t seem likely since Ryan never falls.
Ash is no longer on the bleachers but that doesn’t stop me from looking over there every other lap, wishing I could see him. There isn’t much else to look at. None of the riders are falling in front of me, so I stare at the dirt below and make out shapes – somewhat like cloud-watching but much less romantic. Occasionally, I’ll look over at Shelby who is either watching the race as if she would be quizzed on it afterward or smiling and waving at me, happy to be a part of Nationals and oblivious to my internal struggles.
Moto twenty-three starts and finishes before I have time to panic. I know the Pro race is coming. It is an inescapable truth, but I’m still not prepared for it. I’ve dreaded this moment all day and now that it’s here, it feels like it isn’t real. This can’t possibly be happening, can it? Ash is about to be released onto a track he doesn’t know how to handle and thanks to me, his competition knows exactly what to do. My stomach knots and my knees grow weak.
One by one all twenty riders draw their gate pick. I squint to make out the numbers on the bikes; it is the only way to tell who each rider is because they all look the same dressed in head-to-toe protective gear. Ryan has much broader shoulders than Ash, but even that is concealed in long-sleeved jerseys and plastic chest protectors. Unlike the kids, these guys don’t show emotion when seeing their number so I have no way to tell if Ash draws a higher number than Ryan.
As if luck isn’t already on Ash’s bad side, he gets one of the last gate picks and has to choose a line on the far left. Judging from Teig’s excitement on getting a right line, this can’t be a good thing, but Ryan has a much better gate pick and chooses a line only three riders away from Ash. I am now curious and confused and my heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my skull.
Marty calls out each rider’s name and hometown over the speakers and sometimes he adds a random fact about a particular rider. Dad and a few other staff members scurry around the starting line getting everything set up. Ryan has one foot on the ground steadying himself and the other hovers in the air while he leans to his left and chats with the guy next to him. If he’s nervous, he doesn’t show it.
Ash sits on his bike with both feet on the ground. The riders on each side of him wait with their fathers but Ash is alone. His gloved hands are clasped together and rested on his seat. His helmet is lowered to his chest and he sits there, unmoving for several seconds. Finally, his head lifts and he makes the sign of the cross across his chest. I exhale, feeling adoration for him swell inside me until I think I might burst.
I should pray too, I think. I’m not experienced in praying and don’t have a clue what I should say. I think back to when Grandma was alive and she took me to church on Sundays, but none of those prayers stuck with me through the years. Time is running out and all I can’t think of anything to say except for please.
Please help.
Dad jogs to the front of the starting line and makes a swift slicing motion across his neck. The riders kill their engines; a wave of helmets look to their left and right, and then to my dad for an explanation. He speaks into his walkie-talkie and a moment later the speakers crackle and Marty makes an announcement. “Attention: Due to the dry weather today, we have decided to water the track before our Pro class goes on and therefore we will be taking a fifteen minute intermission. I urge everyone to check out the chili cheese fries at the concession stand, they are delicious!”
My yellow flag drops out of my hand and sticks into the dirt, standing straight up before wobbling and falling to the ground with a thump. I have been granted a fifteen-minute window to find a way to tell Ash the secret so he would have a miniscule chance of winning.
All the commotion around me seems to disappear. I stand frozen trying to think of a way to get to Ash. Slowly, the sound of Shelby’s Chuck Taylors slapping on the ground behind me jolts me back to reality. Maybe she will have an idea of how we can get him off the starting line – if I just tell her it is vital for me to talk to her brother…
Her hand wraps around my wrist as she jogs past and pulls me into step behind her. I follow because I have no other choice; her hand is pretty tight around my sweaty wrist. She’s out of breath but smiling as she turns to me and says, “Can you believe this? I’ve been waiting all day for this race and now we have to wait longer – jeez!”
“What… are we… doing?” I manage through gasps of air. Running through the paths of a motocross track requires a lot of effort; the dirt sinks several inches with each step we take.
