Foreword

"Dirt Bike Ike II: Pursuing the Dream" is a very inspirational book that talks about everyone having a purpose in life. Reading this book reminded me of how I became the person I am today – setting goals and having dreams and never giving up ’til I reached them."

TRAMPAS PARKER – Two-Time World Champion and Motorcycle Hall-of-Famer

Chapter 1

"Where’s my helmet?" Ike snapped, with nervous panic rising in his voice.

"Where’d you leave it after practice?" answered Mr. Gonzales in a soothing tone, trying to calm him down.

"I dunno, I put it right here," Ike countered, slipping his chest protector on with one hand and grabbing his gloves off the chair with the other.

"125 beginners to staging," the PA speakers boomed.

"Ike, that’s your race!" Rick Abernathy called from behind the trailer.

"I know, I know! I can’t find my helmet!" Ike said, his voice betraying the fear of a first-time racer.

"Does it look like this?" Mr. Gonzales asked coolly, holding up Ike’s helmet.

"Where was it?" Ike demanded, grabbing it as he rolled his bike by.

"In the trailer. Did you check your air pressure?"

"Yes."

"Chain tension?"

"Yes."

"Adjust your cables?"

"Yes," said Ike, his voice rising.

"Fuel?"

"Yes! Do you have to ask me that every time I ride? I always do it," Ike mumbled through his helmet as he buckled it on.

"Yes I do, until you can…"

"I know, I know, until it becomes a habit. Can I go race now?" Ike asked sarcastically, frantically kicking the starter on his Honda, with no results.

Mr. Gonzales walked over to the bike and turned on the gas, then choked it. Then he stepped back with a smile of a knowing father. Ike rolled his eyes and tried once more. The engine roared to life. In his nervousness, he over-revved it. Mr. Gonzales gave him a look and started to step toward him but caught himself. Ike was busy putting on his goggles.

"Ike, hold up," Mr. Rick said, catching him as he started to pull out of the pits. "Take your goggles off and sling them on your wrist."

"Why?"

"Because you’re just gonna have to go up to the staging area and wait, and they’ll fog up."

"No they won’t," Ike snapped as he pulled out.

Mr. Rick and Mr. Gonzales exchanged glances of frustration.

"I have never seen him this nervous," Mr. Gonzales said.

"Don’t you remember your first race, even though it was, what, about 200 years ago?" Mr. Rick chuckled.

"You’ve got a point, but I surely didn’t talk to adults that way," Mr. Gonzales said, with a little anger.

"Well, you’re right, but look at it this way: You’re not his dad, and his dad hasn’t been around since he was really young to enforce respect. Besides, he just wants to win."

"I know, but I hope he’s not racing for the wrong reasons. If he tries too hard, he’ll get hurt."

"Who of us raced for pure reasons? Didn’t we all have something to prove when we were young stallions?"

"He’s looking more like a mule to me," Mr. Gonzales quipped. "I’m going to turn two to watch."

"The mechanics’ turn is in four."

"But they’re going too fast through there. I want him to have more time to read the pit board."

"Aren’t you going to the gate with him?" Mr. Rick asked.

"He wouldn’t let me. I think it’s the cowboy hat," Mr. Gonzales said, pointing to the frazzled, weather-beaten hat he wore, and smiled. He reached down and picked up the mechanic’s bag with the extra plugs, wrenches and other essentials, and then grabbed the pit board.

"Are you sure you want to use the pit board?" Mr. Rick asked "This isn’t a championship. It’s his first race!"

"That’s the point – it’s his first race, and I want to communicate to him."

"Why not just let him ride, make his mistakes, and learn that way? You know he’s only going to get hung up on the gate or fall in the first turn."

Mr. Gonzales just stared at him. Then he put the board down.

"True. But I say he falls in turn nine."

"Why?"

"It’s right after the big tabletop, and he won’t get stopped in time. I saw him in practice. He’s concentrating so hard on trying to time the jump that he forgets about the turn right behind it."

"Then why aren’t you going to turn nine?"

"’Cause he’s got to learn to pick up his bike in a race," smiled Mr. Gonzales.

"Oooooh, you’re so mean," Mr. Rick teased.

"Tough love."

They both laughed, and the PA speakers boomed again: "Open Novice on the gate, 125 Beginner is staging, Senior 45+ and Women’s classes get ready."

Chapter 2

Ike pulled up to the entrance of the staging area. A line had formed all the way out the gate. Other riders had their helmets and goggles hanging on the handlebars and were just leaning against their bikes. He pressed the kill button and fumbled with his helmet strap. He couldn’t feel it through his gloves, so he removed his gloves and stuffed them in front of the tank. Now he couldn’t see through the foggy goggles, so he took them off and hung them on the bars. When he finally got his helmet off, the line had moved, and the rider behind him bumped his rear tire.

"Hey, keep the line movin’, man," he ordered impatiently.

Ike started pushing his bike, but his boot slipped in the mud and the goggles fell off, dropping right into the muck. When he reached down to pick them up, his helmet fell off the other side. As he reached back across the seat to pick up his helmet, he lost his balance and fell over, bike and all, burying his throttle in the mud.

The riders behind him laughed and shook their heads as they pushed their bikes around him, leaving him to pick up the bike by himself. One rider accidentally stepped on his goggles, squishing them into the mud.

"Hey, you jerk! That’s my goggles!" Ike spouted as he reached out and tried to trip him.

"What are you gonna to do about it, you little twerp? You won’t need to see from last place!" the rider responded angrily, turning around and pushing Ike’s head with his hand.

Ike jumped up, but lost his balance and fell backward over his bike, landing flat on his back in the mud. The riders laughed heartily, and the rider in front of him just waved to him and continued on toward the gate.

When Ike finally got the bike back up, he nearly fell again. Now his hands, goggles, boots, helmet and throttle were all covered in the brown ooze. Gas had leaked from the carburetor and was all over the engine case.

"Oh, great, I bet you won’t start, too," Ike said to Vinnie.

"Vinnie" was a 1982 Honda Elsinore 125 that he and Mr. Gonzales had built a few months ago. It was old, but it was the newest bike they had. Ike had grown accustomed to it after riding for hours through the back country around his house in Calais, Louisiana. He had only been practicing on the Abernathy track for two months when the opportunity came to race. Sam’s dad, Mr. Rick, had to convince Mr. Gonzales to let Ike race. Mr. Gonzales thought Ike needed more experience, but he finally gave in when Ike pestered him enough. Now here they were at the racetrack in New Iberia, just 35 minutes from Calais, and Ike’s dream of becoming a pro motocross racer was finally about to begin. He had waited all his life for this moment. He had played it out in his mind every night before he fell asleep and while daydreaming in school. Now the dream was about to become reality, and he was ready – or at least thought he was.

The Open Novice class took off, sending dirt clumps all the way back to the staging area; some of them hit Ike in the face. Ike’s class quickly rolled their bikes up to the gate, jostling for the best spots, while Ike was trying to wipe the dirt out of his eyes. A rider down the gate saw the motion and announced, "Hey, look at 14 – he’s starting to cry! Don’t be scared, we won’t hurt you."

"Look, a red dinosaur," another chimed in, and then pointed to the port-a-potties. "The antique class is over there."

"Hey, get him out of our class," one rider complained to the starter. "We don’t want him getting in the way."

"He’s legal, it’s been cleared," the starter responded. "Just get yourselves ready."

The riders put their helmets on, then their gloves, and began to start their bikes. Ike just did what they did, but when he started kicking Vinnie, she wouldn’t start. He tried turning off the gas, then kicking again. Turn the gas back on – nothing. Mr. Gonzales suddenly appeared from out of nowhere and told him to pull the bike off the line. Embarrassed, Ike refused.

"Pull the bike back off the gate, pronto. Just trust me!" Mr. Gonzales shouted over the noise of the other bikes. Reluctantly, Ike backed it off.

"Now let’s push-start it, that way!" Mr. Gonzales instructed "Put it in second, then drop down on the seat and let out the clutch when I say!"

They rolled out away from the gate, then in front of the gate, center stage, where everyone was watching. Ike had never been so embarrassed.

"Okay, drop!" Mr. Gonzales shouted, huffing and puffing as he pushed from behind, his cowboy hat falling off behind him.

Ike plopped down and let out the clutch. Nothing happened; there was no sound but the hum of the dead motor turning over. When they slowed to a stop, Mr. Gonzales ordered, "Push it off to the side, I gotta change the plug."

"We don’t have time for that!" Ike protested.

"We’ve got two minutes. Hold the bike."

Mr. Gonzales ran over to grab his bag. The starter held up two fingers to the riders on the gate, causing some of them to shake their heads in frustration. When Mr. Gonzales got back, he already had the new plug out of the box and the wrench in his hand. He popped the spark-plug cap off and fit the wrench in under the tank. He bumped it with the heel of his hand and clicked the ratchet at warp speed. He exchanged plugs and tightened the new one. He stuck the cap back on, and stepped back.

"Start her up!"

She started on the first kick, but ran wide open.

"Let off the throttle!" shouted Mr. Gonzales.

"It’s stuck!"

Mr. Gonzales worked the throttle loose and revved it down. He reached into his bag for the WD-40 and sprayed away the mud, and then wiped it with the rag. He blipped it a couple of times and stepped back. Ike put her in gear and launched over to the gate, taking his position. The starter pointed down the line and the racers nodded, one at a time, including Ike. Then the starter held up the "two" sign, then turned it around to the "one," then sideways. He scurried out of the way as the gate dropped. And with that, Ike launched into his dream of becoming a motocross racer.

Chapter 3

When the gate dropped, Ike let the clutch out too fast and killed the motor. He glanced up helplessly as his entire class roared away. Instinctively he reached down, pulled open the kick starter and gave it a swift kick. But it was in gear. He pulled in the clutch and kicked again, sparking the 125 to life. He tore across the gate and down to the first turn. Two riders who had tangled in the chaos of turn one moments earlier were just getting up.

‘Two down, 15 to go,’ thought Ike as he laid the bike down low and gassed around the turn. His adrenaline was flowing, and now Ike was fully alive. All the problems of school and home, and his own struggles with identity, were pushed into the recesses of his mind; and in an instant he had changed to "Dirt Bike Ike" – at one with his bike, free as a bird, master of his own destiny.

But he was not yet at one with the track, as this was the first time he had ever ridden here. The turns that were similar to Sam’s track were easy, even natural, for him. But the jumps – oh my goodness, he was not used to those.

He approached the first double jump and backed way off, which caused him to come up short. He landed into the face of the second jump, springing him off the bike. His legs flew up into the air and over the back of the bike, but he hung on to the bars with all he had. By sheer will power, he stayed on the bike as the back end popped up like a bucking bronco. Bike and rider finally landed, nose first, off balance, on the front side of the jump and veered into the fencing. Spectators fled as he barely regained control, but not before he’d slid into the fence, stalling the bike. After wasting a few valuable moments trying to get Vinnie restarted, she finally woke up. He darted back out onto the track. Before the next big jump, the leaders had already completed their first lap and caught up behind him.

‘Aw, man, I’m a lap down already!’ he thought as he backed off the throttle again. The two front-runners held the throttle on, passing him, one on either side, sailing over his head. ‘No! This ain’t happening!’ He gassed Vinnie and tried to keep up with them. He soon fell into a rhythm and began to keep pace with the leaders. It was a good feeling, riding at the same speed as the fast guys, and he started to settle down and think.

‘Okay, I’m okay. I can do this. Vinnie is as strong as these bikes, and I’m not too tired. Let’s just see what they do.’

Then came the big triple.

‘I know they’re not gonna try this. I’ll just settle for the double,’ Ike thought as they made the turn for the jump. He remembered his practice speed and backed off; standing up, he cleared two of the jumps like he had learned to do at Sam’s track, but the two leaders went for the whole thing! The first one cleared the triple, but the second one came up a bit short and cased the crest of the third jump, popping his body into the air, just like Ike had done a few minutes earlier. Ike knew the out-of-control rider would have to slow down to recover, so when he cleared the double, he sped up over the final jump and went around the wounded rider and passed. Ike could hear the crowd moan as they watched that rider crash off to the side of the track.

‘Focus on the leader,’ Ike thought as he picked up his pace to close the gap. The KTM was almost one turn ahead, but Ike was sharing the same straights with him. That inspired Ike to hold the throttle on a little longer into the turns, like Mr. Gonzales had taught him.

He was picking up a little time on the leader when they approached jump nine, the big tabletop. Ike chose the line he’d found during practice and hit the jump in third gear. The front end began coming up too high on him, and he held his breath. Finally it started coming back down, and Ike looked for the landing. The turn! He had forgotten about the turn right behind it! He locked his brakes and lost control of the bike as it started sliding onto its left side; then it hit a rut and pitched him over the right side, sending him into the fencing for the second time! Right when he tried to get up, another rider cleared the jump, but missed Ike’s head by an inch. Ike dropped back down. He turned and crawled off the track. Mr. Rick was there in an instant.

"You all right?"

"Yeah, I think so," Ike moaned. He tried to get up, but he felt a sharp pain in his left ankle. He dropped back down after putting weight on it.

"My ankle hurts."

"Just stay down. Wait for the medic."

The flagger was waving the yellow flag on top of the jump while the medic arrived to check him out.

"Where does it hurt?" asked the first responder.

"My left ankle."

"Let’s take off your boot."

Mr. Rick and the medic carefully unbuckled the boot and slid it off. The medic examined Ike’s ankle.

"Ouuuuuch!" Ike yelped, trying to hide the pain as he leaned back.

"It’s all right, almost there." The medic removed the long sock and began to press gently on Ike’s ankle in various places. "Tell me where it hurts."

"Right there!" Ike yelped as he sat back down again in pain.

"Right there?"

"Yes!"

"You’re gonna be okay; it’s just sprained," the medic stated calmly. "No broken bones, but your racing day is over."

The two men helped Ike up and put their arms around him to help him back to the pits.

"I’m okay, give me my bike!" Ike demanded, throwing off their arms and taking a step toward his bike. But his ankle couldn’t hold his weight and he collapsed in a heap.

"You’re not goin’ anywhere on that bum ankle, champ," the medic stated firmly as he reached down to help him up.

Mr. Gonzales had just arrived.

"He okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, he just sprained his ankle," Mr. Rick said. "Can you grab the bike? I’ll help him up."

They helped Ike up, and Ike put his arm around Mr. Rick’s shoulder as they headed back to the pits. When they got there, they sat Ike down in a chair and got some ice and put it in a towel.

"Prop it up and put this on it."

"Here, I’ll take care of that," Mr. Gonzales said, taking over. "You go watch Sam race; she’s on the gate."

Mr. Rick scurried off to take his place in the mechanics’ turn. A loud roar from the 13 motorcycles announced the dropping of the gate.

"And they’re off!" the announcer shouted. "Raven Regal and Kate Sterling are out front. Where is Samantha Abernathy? She won the first moto in a vicious battle with Regal and Sterling. There she is in midpack; she got hung up in traffic. Samantha is the fastest girl in Louisiana and won’t like it back there. Watch the number-63 KTM cut through the pack!"

"You okay?" Mr. Gonzales asked Ike.

"Yeah, you can go watch – I’ll hold this," he said glumly as he grabbed the ice pack.

Mr. Gonzales shuffled off to the fence line to watch.

Chapter 4

Ike had no choice but to just sit there in pain and listen to the announcer over the PA.

"Samantha Abernathy continues to cut through the pack, picking off riders left and right; while out front it’s a dogfight – or should I say ‘catfight’? – between Regal and Sterling! Regal shows a wheel to Sterling and Sterling slams the door shut with her Yamaha. Now Regal and Sterling are drag-racing down the back straight and it’s a game of chicken into turn eight. Who is going to let off first?"

The announcer took a breath, and then continued to describe the action.

"Sterling sticks just enough of her front tire in to claim the inside line, then takes Regal up to the top of the berm and sends her over! Man, that was a dirty move!" Then the announcer started shouting excitedly, "Regal goes off the track and gets stuck on a hay bale, while Sterling motors off alone! Wait, here comes Abernathy, flyin’ up into second place like a cat with her tail on fire. Last lap – can she catch Sterling?"

Ike grabbed a broom and limped over to the edge of the track to watch. Everybody was along the fencing now, watching the best race of the day. Sterling came zipping by Ike wide open on the number-33 Yamaha, railing the top of the berm to take the white flag. Sam whizzed by next on her KTM, her long blonde hair flying straight back. Meanwhile, Regal had finally gotten her Kawasaki back into the race.

The announcer continued: "Samantha Abernathy has her KTM almost within striking distance, as Sterling looks back over the tabletop. Regal is back into the race but fading in third; looks like she’s injured – bike, body or pride."

Ike watched Mr. Rick waving to his daughter furiously as she went by, pointing to the leader. Ike wondered what he should yell or signal to her. This was all so different than riding in the woods. It was 100 times more exciting, but he was clearly disoriented at his very first motocross race, at least as a competitor.

He didn’t even notice the pain anymore, as he was mesmerized by the action. As the riders approached the number-nine tabletop and turn, Ike wondered how Sam would handle it. She was the most experienced rider in the class and had raced on many different tracks around the country on her unsuccessful run to a National Championship last year. Surely she had something up her sleeve.

The announcer was rocking now: "Sam Abernathy has Kate Sterling in her sights. The Louisiana champ pulls up behind the Oklahoma champ. Something’s about to happen! They both launch up the giant tabletop together, side by side! Sterling has the inside-line advantage into the short hairpin right behind the jump. Are they gonna stop in time?"

Sterling was half a bikelength ahead. Ike watched Sam maneuver her bike in the air. She locked the back brake, freezing her rear wheel in the air, and turned her front wheel left into Sterling’s bike. That brought her front end down, turning her into the inside line like a gyroscope and giving her a split-second’s advantage on braking as they landed on the downhill side of the big jump. Sterling had overjumped slightly and lost time getting her front wheel down to start braking, while Sam had already landed smoothly on the big jump, front wheel first, and she went hard on both brakes.

The announcer was frantically translating the action.

"Abernathy gets on the brakes first, hard! She just misses Sterling’s rear wheel and dives inside the hairpin. On the gas first, she uses her back wheel to nudge Sterling, knocking her boot off the peg. Now Abernathy races down the next straight with a bikelength lead while Sterling has to fish for the shifter with her left foot. Two turns to go!"

The crowd went crazy. The air was supercharged with adrenaline. Ike watched with admiration as Sam expertly negotiated the remaining obstacles and cruised to the finish line for the victory.

The announcer was bellowing into the microphone, emphasizing each word: "Samantha Abernathy takes her Calais Motorsports KTM to victory over Kate Sterling from Ponca City, Oklahoma! The 16-year-old ‘Bayou Cat’ from Calais, Louisiana, wins both motos today to remain undefeated in the Women’s class for 2009!"

As she eased off the track, Sam looked back for Kate Sterling and offered her a thumbs-up. Sterling just passed her rudely and gave Sam a thumbs-down and rode away.

Ike hobbled back to the pits, now remembering the pain and muttering an "Ow, ow, ow!" with each limping step, and then dropped into a chair to wait. Moments later, Sam puttered up and parked her bike. She removed her goggles, helmet and gloves. Her face was dirty and streaked with sweat, but that didn’t change the fact that she was pretty – very pretty.

"Nice ride," Ike commented.

"Thanks," she replied, playfully slapping Ike on the shoulder with her gloves and then tossing them on the table and grabbing a drink from the ice chest. She took a long draw and then assessed Ike’s situation.

"What’s wrong with you?" Sam asked, pointing to his ankle.

"It ain’t nothin’, just a bump. I’ll be okay."

Sam wiped her face with a towel and then took another long swig of water. Her dad came running up with a wide grin.

"Way to go, Sammie, you burned ’em! That’s my girl," he boasted proudly, giving her a big bear hug.

Mr. Gonzales came up next, hooting and hollering as he ducked under the canopy, clapping his hands.

"Bravo, bravo," he celebrated. "That was some great riding!"

"Thanks," Sam responded, smiling. "I’m glad you liked it."

She dropped down wearily into the chair next to Ike’s.

"We should go out and celebrate on the way home – don’t you think, Ike?" Mr. Gonzales suggested, turning to Ike.

"I don’t know, my ankle is hurting," Ike whined.

"How about a couple Tylenol and some pizza?" Mr. Rick offered.

Ike had to think about that. "Pizza?"

"At Doc’s in Morgan City."

"Doc’s Pizza? I guess I can tough it out," Ike said, nodding.

Suddenly, Kate Sterling came riding up on her little pit bike.

"That was a dirty move, Samantha," she accused. "I would have won that race!"

"I barely bumped you," Sam retorted defensively.

"Oh, yeah? You almost took me out!" Kate snarled angrily.

"…And what did you do to Raven Regal?" asked Mr. Rick.

Kate just stuck her nose up in the air and motored away.

"I won’t forget that!" she threatened over her shoulder.

"I won’t either," Sam answered back.

"Yes, you will," her dad warned.

"No, I won’t," Sam hissed angrily. "I put a clean pass on her. Didn’t you see it?"

"Yep, I saw it," he answered, holding his ground. "It was the best pass you ever made. Just aggressive racing, like I taught you, not dirty. But you’ve got to let the anger go."

"He’s right, Sam," Mr. Gonzales offered gently. "If you don’t let it go, it will fester inside of you until it comes out in some other unhealthy way."

"I don’t care what ya’ll say," Sam fumed. "She’s got one coming."

"She’s got lots coming, from several riders. Don’t let her drag you down into that!" her dad scolded.

"I’m the one out there riding, and I’ll ride like I want!" she shot back, angrily turning and storming off to the camper.

"Okay, we need to start picking up," Mr. Rick said glumly, turning to pick up his towel. "I’m gonna go get her trophy, since she’s not in a trophy mood. I’ll be right back."

"Does this mean we’re not getting pizza?" Ike asked.

"It depends on who cools down first," Mr. Gonzales replied wisely.

Chapter 5

The ride home was long and quiet. Neither Sam nor her father cooled down. They weren’t talking, although Mr. Rick had tried. Everyone was in a thoughtful mood, replaying the events of the day in their minds. Mr. Gonzales had commented on the positives of the race, but nobody felt like responding. Mr. Rick drove the rig all the way home, while Ike and Sam surrendered to weariness and fell asleep.

The next day at school was a drag for both Ike and Sam, as they were still exhausted, both mentally and physically, from the race. Still, word got around that Sam had won her race, and people began talking. This led to comments about how Ike had fared as well. This was not good news, as far as Ike was concerned. Jimmy Plaisance, who’d missed the race due to a football game, used the reports of Ike’s mishap against him, as usual.

"Hey, Ikey, gotta stop for the turns, buddy!" Jimmy laughed, taunting Ike in front of the other students at lunch.

"Yeah, he got lapped in the Beginner class!" Ben announced. Normally Ben was pretty friendly with Ike, but he was desperate for some "cool" points, and since he was jealous about Ike’s new racing hobby, he didn’t mind trying to take him down a peg.

When Ike and Sam had solved the Gaudet-Piazza crime a few months ago, they were given the status of town heroes, but a couple of the kids felt like that status should be temporary, and they began to work behind the scenes to humble those heroes – especially the girls.

With boys, what you see is what you get. But girls can be sneakier, with their hidden agendas and an ability to manipulate. When it came to Sam, it was almost a conspiracy – and not just because she was pretty, and the new girl, and now a heroine, but because she was stealing the boys’ attention. Some of the text messages and e-mails going around about her got downright nasty.

The whole tense situation made Ike and Sam social outcasts in their own school, and in such a small community, there were very few other places to go. This isolation drove Ike and Sam into a kind of "us versus them" mentality. They could not go to the teen hang-outs and fast-food joints without feeling others’ jealousy. Among the adults of Calais, they were held in higher regard, as most of the parents understood and appreciated their position. They were still grateful for how these kids had handled themselves during last year’s crime investigation that had brought down the crooked chief of police and councilman who were smuggling drugs. But some parents were as insecure as their kids and would do anything to raise their kids’ status. It was almost a sickness. More and more, Ike and Sam began to withdraw into their training for motocross. Their interest in school faded and their grades began to drop.

One day, Sam got the idea that they could reclaim their social status at school by going to more after-school functions. She targeted the homecoming dance as a possibility.

"Ike, let’s go to the homecoming," Sam suggested one day after a brisk practice session.

"The game?"

"All of it – the game, the pep rally, the dance…"

"Whoa! Hold it right there. I don’t do dances," Ike interrupted, with conviction in his voice.

"Why not?"

"I just don’t."

"Ike, have you ever, uh, danced?"

"Nope."

"Come on, Ike! It’s not that hard," Sam reasoned, as they pushed their bikes off her practice track. "I can teach you."

"When alligators can fly and crawfish can boil themselves."

"We’ve been frozen out for long enough," Sam said. "I’m sick and tired of it. I want to go have some fun with other people. Uh, not that you aren’t fun, but I miss socializing. We need to bounce back into the scene."

"That’s easy for you to say," Ike protested. "You have social skills, you’re aggressive, you’re pretty, you’ve got personality – you’re a champion."

"Are you feelin’ sorry for yourself again? You sell yourself short."

"No I don’t."

She stopped and grabbed his bike by the handlebar to get his attention.

"Ike, break out of that negative thinking! You’ve got lots to offer."

"No I don’t."

"You do."

"Don’t."

"Do.

"Name one thing!" he challenged, looking fiercely into her eyes.

"Okay – you’re kind."

"Soft," Ike countered.

"Intelligent."

"Spacey," Ike shot back.

"Intense."

"Hard-headed."

"Strong."

"Dumb."

"Deep thinker."

"Withdrawn."

"Creative."

"Don’t follow the rules."

"Crafty."

"Sneaky."

"Committed to your mother."

"She’s the only family I’ve got left."

"There’s Mr. Gonzales."

"I’m all he’s got."

"Ike Hebert, that is enough!" she said, her voice rising in anger. "There are people that love you. You’re being obnoxious!"

"Do you love me?"

Sam paused.

"You see? You had to stop and think."

"Ike, I do love you."

"You do?"

"Well, not that kind of love."

"What kind do you mean?"

"Well, not the romantic kind. I think I’m too young for that."

"No you’re not," Ike countered. "I’ve seen the way you look at Dave Remington."

"Ike, you can’t be serious," she said, starting to blush.

"Look, you’re turning red. It’s Dave, isn’t it?"

"Ike, you’re trying to make something out of nothing."

"You call sitting near him in every class ‘nothing’?"

"Ike, are you… jealous?"

"No. I don’t care."

He began to walk his bike over to the hose to clean it.

"You are! You’re jealous!" Sam declared, gleefully razzing him.

"Now you’re making something out of nothing."

"Sam! Time for supper!" Mr. Rick called out, stepping onto the porch.

"I’ll be right in, Dad!" She turned back to Ike and said, "This conversation is not over."

"Yes it is."

"No it’s not," she teased, smiling.

"I’m outta here," Ike said, trying to hide his smile. He gave up on washing his bike, put his helmet on, and started Vinnie. He revved it loudly and shouted, "Conversation over!"

"No it’s not!" she yelled back.

Ike just revved the bike louder and cupped his hand to his ear.

"What? I can’t hear you!"

"Not over!"

"What?" he revved it even louder.

"Ike, are you over-revving that bike?" Mr. Rick yelled from the porch.

"No, sir, I was just leaving," Ike replied, putting Vinnie in gear.

"See, you can hear. Not over!" Sam yelled.

"Whatever!" Ike yelled over his shoulder, gassing the bike and shooting roost all over Sam as he pulled away.

Chapter 6

Calais High School was abuzz with the events of early January. There was Homecoming Week, the big pep rally, the parties, the game and, of course, the dance – which Ike was able to talk Sam out of… barely.

A month later, excitement began to grow on campus for the Valentine’s Weekend activities. On the Friday before Valentine’s Day, students gave out cards. As usual, the popular students got plenty of cards and waved them around in everyone else’s faces like trophies. Some of the girls got flowers. Sam got the most from potential boyfriends. This didn’t help her position with the girls at all. But it was good for her ego.

There was nothing to help Ike with his ego problems. He got a few cards, but he figured they were just "pity cards" to keep him from feeling left out. His mom could not reason with him. It was as if he wanted to be depressed, and couldn’t be talked out of it.

Ike and Sam didn’t get in much practice during this time because the weather was so bad. Rain and cold, wet cold, and then rain again. The motocross races that were scheduled for late January and early February were canceled, taking away some of Ike’s and Sam’s motivation to train and practice. Sam began spending more time on the computer, taking special courses to help with the SAT. She wanted to go to LSU and get into pre-med.

Ike had no illusions about going to college. While Sam was in classes for gifted students, Ike was in Special Ed, with all the stigma and baggage that went with it. He could barely read and he processed information slower than the other students, so he missed so much of what the teacher said. He didn’t raise his hand to ask the teacher to repeat anything because it seemed to call attention to his slowness, thus giving the class one more excuse to laugh at him. He had stopped asking questions in the second grade. He could not wait to get out of school. He just wanted to get a job, to work with his hands. He was good at fixing things or putting mechanical stuff together.

So Ike puttered around on his BMX track, expanding it into an MX track, with little jumps he could build with his shovel. He worked after school at Mr. Gonzales’ junkyard, which was being converted into a motorcycle shop. But when his grades fell, Mr. Gonzales fired him, at least until his grades improved.

"Bring your grades up and you can come back to work," Mr. Gonzales had told him the last time he was there. "That’s the deal, remember?"

Ike hadn’t been back in a month, choosing instead to sit around and play video games. When the last report card came, his mom had taken away his games. When that didn’t work, she took away his bike. Ike still refused to study, but not riding his bike was starting to get to him.

Finally, when he’d had enough, he started working harder, doing some reading for English class and writing a few papers. In math, he started paying closer attention, but it wasn’t enough. He finally gave in to Sam’s pestering and allowed her to tutor him after school. But it came with a price: He grudgingly agreed to take her to the Valentine’s Day dance. With a little homework, he was able to bring up his grades just high enough to get his bike back. But because of the weather, he wasn’t able to ride much. He got tired of cleaning the mud off the bike.

On February 14th, a cold front had moved through south Louisiana that brought bone-chilling, wet cold, driven by a fierce north wind. It was as if the frigid air was battling with the humidity of the Gulf for the rights to drive the residents of Calais inside. Ike hated staying inside. He was just not an "inside" person. At least school got him out of the house. But it wasn’t that much better there, because, for Ike and Sam, it was almost as cold inside the school as out, as they braved the stares and comments of the popular kids of Calais High School.

Ike dreaded the upcoming dance, but he sucked it up and soldiered on. On dance night, Ike’s mom and Ike picked up Sam, and after a few pictures at the Abernathy house, they were driven to the dance. Ike forced his mom to drop them off around the corner so no one would see that she was bringing them. This was way embarrassing for Ike, since most of the coolest sophomores and almost all the upper classmen were already driving, and many had their own cars and trucks.

Ike felt really uncomfortable in his coat and tie. The last time he’d dressed up was for his father’s memorial service, when he was only six years old. On this night, he had argued with his mother about what to wear. He’d been holding out for his cleanest jeans and favorite racing T-shirt, but she was having none of it.

Ike had secretly practiced dancing with his mom, demanding she tell no one. But she told Sam anyway. Tricia and Sam were always scheming to help Ike, although he claimed they were only trying to control him. Ike had a real problem with people telling him what to do. He had a real problem controlling his need for freedom. Though he still hadn’t grown much taller, he was starting to deal with the new surge of hormones and muscles and a desire for adult freedoms, but he didn’t yet have the maturity to handle these things. This was becoming a dangerous combination, and a new sense of rebellion began to creep into his attitude. Then he made the deadly mistake of comparing himself with others. He began to cover his insecurities with disrespect – for others and himself.

With all the baggage Ike carried, it was no wonder he didn’t want to go to the dance, where the boys with more maturity – especially the older ones – seemed to be on display for the girls to scheme about. It took all his confidence and self-discipline to walk into the gym.

Sam had cleaned up nicely, thanks to a trip to the hair salon. Her hair was pulled up in the back, with some strands dangling alongside her face. A touch of makeup, along with some of her mother’s jewelry – especially the long earrings – turned the tomboy into a doll princess. She wore a red-sequined, black lace dress with a handkerchief hemline to her knees, with matching black stiletto pumps. She was dazzling, and the boys noticed. Boy, did they notice! Ike felt like he had walked into a trap and soon began to resent Sam – for dragging him here, for dressing him up like some kind of formal monkey, and for creating a drama that he didn’t understand, making him play a game he wasn’t good at. But it was too late now.

Chapter 7

Ike’s nightmare began right away, as the boys started elbowing their way in to speak with Sam. Ike took it too personally, since he had brought her. Then, when the music started, Ike hesitated in asking Sam to dance, and the competition began. Boy after boy asked Sam to dance, and being the physical competitor that she was, Sam accepted every offer and tried to outdance the other girls. She was in such good shape that she never tired.

"Come on, Ike, let’s dance," Sam offered several times throughout the night.

"No. We’ve had this conversation," Ike argued, drowning in his insecurities and self-pity.

"Ike, I know you can dance. Your mother taught you."

"She told you that?" Ike asked angrily. Someone overheard Sam’s remark, and the news spread around. Pretty soon the troublemakers were using it to assert themselves.

"Hey, babe, how ’bout dancing with me?" Jimmy asked in his most manly voice.

When Sam got up from the table and took his hand, Jimmy glanced over his shoulder and winked at Ike, who was fuming. It was a slow song, and Ike watched as Jimmy tried to put his hands in different places on Sam’s back; she removed them twice.

‘The next time he does that, I’m gonna spring outta this chair and kick his butt,’ Ike decided, sliding his chair back and repositioning his feet, not taking his eyes off of Jimmy, who just smiled at him from over Sam’s shoulder. But Jimmy didn’t do it again. When the song ended, Jimmy tried to move Sam’s head in for a kiss, but she turned and walked out of his embrace as if nothing had happened. She walked back over to the table and sat down and looked at Ike.

"Don’t even think about it," she warned, her eyes glaring, knowing what Ike was thinking.

"It’s too late," Ike said, looking back at Jimmy.

Jimmy just smiled at him and turned away, coolly striding back over to his big group of friends. He said something Ike couldn’t hear, and they all looked at Ike’s table and laughed. Ike’s face started turning red. He could feel the anger rising inside of him. He was now on a hair-trigger, ready to explode.

"Come on, Ike, let’s go get some fresh air," Sam insisted, getting up and taking his arm.

"Good idea," Ike mumbled, responding to her gentle touch.

He proudly walked her to the door, with Sam’s hand under his arm. He thought they probably looked like the couple on a wedding cake, all dressed and proper. As they reached the door, Dave Remington was standing there, tall and clean, in a red-and-black suit that seemed to match Sam’s.

"Are you leaving?" he asked Sam.

"No, just going for some fresh air," Sam responded with a coy smile.

"It’s really bad out there," he added with a look of concern.

"That’s okay, we’re athletes in top physical condition," she asserted playfully.

"I can see that," he croaked nervously.

Ike noticed that Dave was turning red. Sam brought her hand up to pull a trail of hair behind her ears, and blushed. Ike immediately stepped between them and glared at Dave as he walked by, pulling her along.

"Excuse us, please," he ordered gruffly, as he led Sam outside.

They stopped just outside the door under the porch, in the only spot that was still dry. The cold rain was coming down in sheets. Ike and Sam inhaled the cold air for a few long, silent, tension-filled seconds, not knowing what to say.

"You all right?" Sam asked, nudging up closer, trying to get warm.

"Yeah. It’s just that… well, nothing."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, Ike," she probed. "I’m your best friend. Talk to me."

Ike looked her squarely in the eyes.

"You wouldn’t understand."

"Try me."

"This, all this…" he pointed inside the gym, "It’s… uhhh… not… cool," he complained, fumbling for words.

"Yes it is, it’s very cool."

"To you. You’re, like, the star attraction."

"No, I’m not."

"You are. Don’t you see how the guys are looking at you?"

"No. Well, yes, kinda. But they’re just being boys. Besides, they’re not used to seeing me dressed up with a little makeup, that’s all."

"No, it’s more than that."

"Ike, it’s your imagination again."

"What’s wrong with my imagination?"

"What’s wrong is, you work yourself up into a believing something that isn’t true."

"I don’t do that," he said defensively.

"Yes, you do." Sam changed her tone. "Now look," she said, moving in a little closer to straighten his tie. "You’re looking pretty sharp tonight, and I have noticed that you are turning a few heads yourself."

"Those are just guys who can’t believe I’m wearing a tie."

"No, silly – the girls," she giggled, giving him a playful slap on the shoulder.

"They can’t believe I’m wearing a tie."

"Maybe not, but they’re impressed."

"No they’re not."

"They are. They think you’re cute."

"No they don’t, and I’m not ‘cute.’ Don’t call me that," he argued.

"Oh, yeah, you’re kinda hot."

"Hot?"

"Yeah, hot. You have this quiet strength coming from those blue eyes and a serious, intense look on your face that’s attractive," she said as she straightened his collar.

"I do?"

"You do," she said, a little lower.

Ike couldn’t hold back any longer. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her in for a kiss. But she didn’t kiss him back.

"What? What’s the matter?" Ike blurted, moving back, annoyed by the rejection.

"I… I’m not your girlfriend, Ike."

"You just said you’re my best friend. You’re a girl. So that means you’re my best girlfriend. You just said that seconds ago, and you gave me the look," Ike insisted, voice rising.

"No, no, no. It doesn’t work like that," Sam pleaded, as the look on her face changed. Suddenly she was a cross between Ike’s mom and his schoolteacher. "Yes, I am your best friend, but not your girlfriend," she clarified. "There’s a difference."

"Okay. What is the difference? Explain to me the difference."

She pulled away.

"Friend is friendly; girlfriend is… well, different."

"In what way?" Ike asked, beginning to lose patience.

"In every way!" she countered defensively.

"Name one."

"Okay: They don’t kiss like that."

"Why not? They do in the movies," Ike pointed out.

"This is not a movie!"

"I know that. But why won’t you kiss me?"

"Because, I… don’t see you that way," Sam confessed, turning away.

"What way is that, Sam? Huh? I want to know. I really would like to know how you see me."

She turned to face him with fire in her eyes.

"I see you as my friend, my teammate. Kind of brotherly-like, you know?"

"I. Am. Not. Your. Brother!" Ike yelled each word separately, stepping back into the rain without caring.

Mr. Dansberry, the school principal stuck his head out the door.

"Everything all right out here?"

"Yes, we were just coming back in – weren’t we, Ike?" Sam responded, turning to look at Ike, who was getting wet.

Ike hesitated. It was too much for him to handle, going back into the dance. There was really no reason to go back in. Not now.

"Ike, you coming back in?" Mr. Dansberry asked respectfully.

Ike took a deep look into Sam’s eyes. He saw pity. That was not what he wanted to see. He wanted to see what she showed Dave Remington.

"No, I’m… not feeling that good. I think I have to go."

Sam looked into Ike’s eyes and saw hurt, pain, and the sting of rejection. She tried to fix it.

"Come on, Ike," she teased and winked. "I’ve got something to show you."

That had always worked before. This time, it didn’t.

"Why don’t you go show Dave?" he spat sarcastically.

Dave stuck his head out, having listened to the whole conversation.

"Did someone call me?" he inquired expectantly.

"NO!" all three snapped at him in unison, causing him to retire quickly back into the gym.

"Come on in, Ike," Mr. Dansberry offered. "It’s warm inside. You’ve got friends inside…"

"No, I don’t," Ike cut him off. "Not a single one," he stated slowly, looking directly at Sam. Then he turned and walked away, into the rain.

"Ike, don’t... don’t do this," Sam pleaded and went after him, starting to get wet herself. She grabbed him by the arm, but he just shook it off.

"Leave me alone," he demanded, and quickened his pace.

She just stood there, looking at him, "You want me to, uhhh..?"

"Just leave me alone!" he yelled, waving his arm without turning around.

"Come on in, Sam," Mr. Dansberry advised, opening the door wider. "Leave him alone. He’s got to think things through."

As he walked, Ike started feeling guilty about his words. Also, the cold water was getting through his clothes, shocking him into realizing the reality about what he was doing. He began to have second thoughts, so he turned to try to salvage his position. But what he saw hit him like a bolt of lightning. Through the open door he could see bright lights, decorations, the red hearts hanging from the ceiling, the music, the warmth, the sounds of people laughing – but worst of all, he saw Dave Remington take off his coat and put it around Sam as she entered the gym.

The desire to go back in, to try to break through the social blockade, to belong, to be friends – it all went away in an instant.

"That’s a picture of my life, right there," he muttered to himself.

He looked up and saw the rain dropping from the darkness like so many icy missiles. They stung his face in disrespect. He growled at the heavens, then yanked his coat off and tossed it aside, and then pulled his tie off and crumpled it into a ball and tossed it at the garbage can. He missed and angrily kicked the can over, spilling old motor oil all over his pants.

"That’s just great!" he screamed at the heavens. He jammed his hands into his pockets – and tore his pockets. He just turned into the dark night and began putting the dance as far behind him as he could, trudging wearily toward home.

Chapter 8

The cold rain turned into sleet when Ike was about halfway to the house. He welcomed the pain. In a way, it felt good. But the sloshing of water in his new shoes was causing his feet to slide back and forth, forming blisters. He just shivered his way home. He wondered why Sam had turned against him. He wondered why his life was always like this. Why did he have to be so short, so ugly, so dumb, so skinny, so awkward, and so shy? Why wasn’t he good with girls? Sure, he’d had a good run last year, when he and Sam had solved the crime and helped clean up the dirty cops for the town. Sure, it was fun riding in the victory parade down Bayou Castine. He especially enjoyed the festival, with the music, the booths, the food – and the newfound respect. He really liked seeing Mr. Gonzales on the stage that night, receiving the key to the town. What had he done with that key? He had cleaned up his junkyard, turned it into a motorcycle shop, and his business was thriving. Riders came from as far away as Florida to have their bikes tuned. And now that Ike’s mom was helping him start an online business, Mr. Gonzalez had to hire more help. He was too busy for Ike now. That’s what it was: Everybody was too busy for him. They’d forgotten what he had done for them. They’d forgotten about Ike Hebert Day. In just a few short months, he had gone from hero to zero, and nobody cared.

Ike bounded up the porch steps and out of the cold rain. He took off his muddy shoes and wet socks and threw them on the rocking chair. Then he opened the door and walked in. His mom was watching TV, and when she saw him, she froze in horror.

"Ike, what happened?" she gasped, jumping up and coming over.

"I just walked home."

"In this rain? Are you crazy? Son, all you had to do was call and I would have picked you up!"

"I have two legs."

"You’re shivering! You’re gonna catch a cold if you don’t get warm. Let me start you a bath."

Ike didn’t argue. He just stood there a minute, feeling like a drowned puppy. He was weak now and resigned to sickness. Maybe he could get some time off from school. He waddled into the bathroom, where his mom had started the bath. She turned on the bathroom heater and pulled out some more towels. When she started drying him off, Ike stopped her.

"Mom, I can do this. I’m 16 now, remember?"

"But you’ll always be my baby," she said, starting to unbutton his wet shirt. "You’re freezing," she said with alarm, feeling his face. "Oh, baby, why’d you do that?"

"Stop calling me ‘baby.’ I am not your baby!" Ike yelled, fending her off and pushing her out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

"Call me if you need anything," she said sweetly through the door. "Are you hungry?"

"No. Just leave me alone," Ike moaned, testing the water and adjusting it. He couldn’t summon the energy to undress, so he just stepped into the tub in his clothes. Then he stopped and listened.

"Mom, are you still by the door?"

"No," she blurted apologetically, slipping quietly back into the living room.

The hot water felt good and it warmed his body, but his soul was still numb. He slipped in all the way up to his neck and just stared at the ceiling. Then he closed his eyes. For 20 minutes, he just lay there, letting his mind wander.

"Honey, are you all right in there?"

"Yes, Mom, I’m all right," Ike droned without even opening his eyes.

He had one thing on his mind: escape. ‘If I could only get outta here, then I could start all over,’ he thought. ‘Get away from school, from Calais, from the kids, from everybody – especially Sam.’ All the insecurities of the last few years were coming back to his mind like flies being drawn to garbage. The memories came from as far back as 10 years before, when his father had left for the final time. It was as if Ike was drawing every negative thought from the deepest recesses of his mind to join in the pity party. First it was the "what if’s?" Then the "why me’s?" Finally it was the "if only’s." His fertile imagination became his torture chamber. When he was finally buried beneath a load of his own shame, he let out a painful moan: "Oh, God…."

Then, mercifully, he fell asleep.

He dreamed he was in a boxing ring, fighting a faceless opponent. A dim light was suspended from the ceiling over the center of the ring. Faces in the crowd were cheering, but not for him. Instinctively, he knew he was losing the bout. He was out of strength and couldn’t defend himself. Every time he tried to block a punch, it went through his defenses and landed – on his face, in his stomach, and when he turned, he took blows to his kidneys. The pain was intense.

He was backing into a corner and his hands began to drop. Then came the final blow: an icy, sharp uppercut that rocked his head back. He bounced off the ropes and fell forward. He didn’t even try to catch himself. He just let himself fall. He hit the canvas hard. What a relief to just lie there as the referee began counting…

"One."

Ike had no desire to get up.

"Two."

He thought about school and what the kids would say at his funeral.

"Three."

He thought about his track, how he might never ride on it again.

"Four."

He thought about Vinnie, the race bike he and Mr. Gonzales had pieced together from old parts. It was just sitting in the garage, waiting for him.

"Five."

He thought about Mr. Dansberry, how he had helped him through tough spots at school, but then Ike had avoided him when he didn’t need him.

"Six."

He thought about Sam and how she had betrayed him and how much faster she was than him on a motocross bike.

"Seven."

He thought about his first and only race, and about how badly it had turned out. Yet, strangely, he had a deep desire to race again.

"Eight."

He thought about the success he’d had planning and carrying out the trap they had set for the Gaudet gang. But people had already forgotten about that.

"Nine."

He thought about his mom and how much she worried and fretted over him, but tried to keep him ten years old.

Then he heard a voice. It was faint at first, but it got louder.

"Ike, get up, son! You’re needed!"

It was coming from his corner. It took all his remaining strength to lift his head off the canvas and look through his swollen eyes at his corner. It was his dad!

"Get up, son! You are needed. There is something you have to do! Don’t quit now! You must go there and prepare! Get up!"

His dad was waving his arms frantically, but in slow motion, with an intense, worried look on his face. He was willing Ike to get up. Ike turned over and faced the light.

‘I want to,’ he thought. ‘God, please. Help me!’

Suddenly something began to rise from deep inside of Ike. It started from his gut and began to come up his throat. It came out of his mouth. It was an eagle, a big, beautiful bald eagle. It unfolded its wings and launched itself up into the air. It flew to the ceiling, looking for a way out. It was darting between the steel girders that held up the roof, hunting, pecking, trying desperately to get out. Suddenly a hole began opening up in the ceiling, as if a giant hand had peeled back the roof, revealing a bellowing storm outside. Crashes of thunder and flashes of lightning revealed the way out into the howling night. A sudden torrent of wind and rain came flooding down through the hole. And with a shrill call, the eagle launched toward the portal. Its mighty wings tore at the invisible enemy, fighting hard against the wind. The driving wind and rain pushed back against the eagle, but the eagle continued to flap its wings. Again and again it gained ground, even though the wind sent it back. It would flap its wings again and move forward, higher, two feet forward, one foot back. With a Herculean effort, the eagle finally forced its way through the hole and out into the stormy night.

The hole got bigger and bigger. Ike watched the eagle. He was mesmerized by the look in the eagle’s eyes. There was fire in there, determination. As Ike watched, the struggle went on. He began to will the eagle higher. The more he willed it, the higher it got. Little by little, Ike became one with the eagle. His spirit lifted off the canvas, out of his bloody body, and ascended into the eagle’s body. He felt the pain in the struggle and felt the wind beneath his wings. He braced himself against the cold and fought with the eagle against the wind. He noticed that the very storm he was fighting against was giving him lift under his wings, sending him higher. He gained altitude little by little. He grew tired and faint, yet he struggled on.

Then he looked down. He was higher than the trees. It was scary, but the will to climb overcame his fear. He struggled on until he was as high as the clouds. Then he noticed that he was the eagle. All of a sudden, he flew into a cloud bank, and he couldn’t see. He felt a pounding in his chest. His heart was beating like a big bass drum. The pounding got louder and louder.

He awoke to the pounding on the door.

"Ike, time to get out. Come on, son, you’ve been in there almost an hour. Are you okay?" his mom pleaded, sounding worried again.

"I’m okay, Mom, I’m getting out now."

He noticed that his hands were clenched tightly into fists. His knuckles were white, his arms and hands were tired. He relaxed his hands and looked at them. Suddenly he realized that these hands would take him to his dream. Ike felt the fire inside of him. It was the fire of desire. The desire was to work, to train, to win. Ike got up out of the tub and back into the race of life.

Chapter 9

After a couple of fairly uneventful days at school, during which he kept his head down, focused intently on his work, and avoided Sam, Ike began to feel lonely. He needed to talk to someone. The weather was still too wet for practice, so he rode his bike over to Mr. Gonzales’ shop.

What a change from the old junkyard! The old cars and trucks were gone, as well as the fence. There was a new sign out front boldly proclaiming "Competition Cycles." With the help of some of the townspeople, he had landscaped the ground and renovated the main garage and office into a showroom and motorcycle dealership. Business was up, he had hired a couple of employees, and with lots of new help came something that Mr. Gonzales had never had – organization.

Like any mad scientist, Mr. Gonzales was proficient at solving problems, but he had buried himself in his own junk. It took so much time to dig around and find his tools that it made him tired and frustrated. Now that the tools and parts were all organized and shelved, he was more efficient, and he could keep the shop clean as well.

Ike worked his way through the showroom of shiny motorcycles, enjoying the smell of new rubber. There were vintage motocross bikes, modern dual-sport bikes, touring bikes and street bikes. He walked back into the workroom, where three mechanics’ stalls were set up, complete with tools and a motorcycle platform. The work benches were clean and organized. Mr. Gonzales was working in one stall, and a new man whom Ike had never met was in another. There was no one in the last stall, although it was completely stocked with tools and ready to go. Ike ducked his head in and saw a poster of Kevin Windham on one side of the cabinet, with a large picture of Ike perched on Vinnie on the other.

"Ike! It’s about time you came to visit. What have you been up to?" Mr. Gonzales trumpeted, wiping his oily hands on a shop rag. He was smiling broadly and really looked pleased to see Ike.

"Hey, I’ve been kinda busy. You know: school, training, eating, sleeping – stuff like that."

Mr. Gonzales extended his hand for a shake, and then pulled Ike closer for a shoulder bump.

"Come over here. I want you to meet somebody," he said.

Mr. Gonzales guided Ike over to the man in the other stall for an introduction.

"This is Ronnie Simon, an old friend. Ronnie, this is the young rider I was telling you about," Mr. Gonzales said proudly.

"Ike? I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Ronnie, but everybody calls me ‘Crip,’" he grinned, pointing to his right leg; then he knocked on his thigh, and Ike could hear the sound of wood.

"Hi, uhh… Crip. I’m Ike Hebert. I live a few miles down the road."

When they shook hands, Ike felt the man’s hand was as strong as an oak as Crip shook, not farmer-style, up and down, but just a firm clasp, in a you-can-trust-me-forever kind of way. Crip had dark features and high cheekbones like an Indian, but with blue eyes. He had no facial hair, but sported the longest ponytail Ike had ever seen on a man. It was held together by leather bands. He was average in size, but wiry-looking, like there was hidden strength beneath the faded denim work shirt. Crip’s hands were dark and weathered, with bulging knuckles. Instead of the usual Leatherman folding knife in a pouch on his belt like most men in this area carried, Crip had a hunting knife with a worn animal-horn handle in an old leather sheath with turquoise beads. It was not big, but not little – just intimidating.

Mr. Gonzales saw Ike eyeing his knife and said, "Crip is half Choctaw. He used to be a Marine scout and sniper in Vietnam."

Ike’s eyes grew wide in amazement.

"You were a Marine sniper? How many Viet Cong did you cap?"

Crip obviously didn’t like where this was going, but he handled it patiently, as if he’d had plenty of practice.

"It’s not how many lives you take, son, it’s how many you save. I used my rifle to save American soldiers. That was my job. I just did what I was trained to do, and survived. And now I’m here, helping an old friend," Crip said, putting a hand on Mr. Gonzales’ shoulder. "I heard you saved his life, Ike."

Ike glanced at Mr. Gonzales, who just nodded, giving Ike the go-ahead to tell the story.

"Uhh, Mr. Gonzales has a tendency to exaggerate," Ike replied, looking into Mr. Gonzales’ eyes as if asking him not to put him on the spot like that.

"Well, exaggeration is not bad in the hands of a man like that," Crip said, nodding toward his old friend. "He uses exaggeration to encourage others."

"I never thought of it that way," Ike said. "But that’s true."

"So, Ike, what brings you here today?" Mr. Gonzales inquired.

"Oh, I dunno, just came to visit."

"When do you want to come back to work?"

"Doing what?"

"Are you willing to sweep floors, pick up tools, take out the garbage and keep the place clean, like before?"

"Sure. I’m on top of that. I need some cash."

"Good. Then you’re now my new mechanic. You’ll be working with Crip. He’s a wealth of information. He’s the only one I know who has more experience with motorcycles than I do. He can teach you a lot about life, too," Mr. Gonzales said, turning to Crip with a wink and a grin.

"Wait – I thought you just wanted me to sweep floors and do the dirty work," Ike asked, confused.

"No, I just wanted to know if you were willing to do that work. And since you aren’t too proud to do that, then you are ready to be promoted to mechanic. It’ll mainly be oil changes and tune-ups at first; and every job will be inspected by me or Crip before it goes out. But this is how you learn…"

"I know, I know, by doing," Ike interrupted. "You’ve told me a million times. Where do I work?"

"Come see."

Mr. Gonzales led him over to the empty stall.

"This one is for you," he smiled. "It’s ready to go."

Ike was astounded. He felt almost as excited as when Mr. Gonzales showed him his first dirt-bike project.

"I, uh, I mean… this is way cool!" Ike gasped, walking over to the bench.

"Look, in this box are your metric tools. Allen wrenches, feeler gauges, pressure gauges and small specialty tools in the top drawer. Punches, cold chisels and drift pins in the right drawer, and in this one," Mr. Gonzales opened the left drawer, "micrometer, precision tools and spoke wrenches."

He opened the first big drawer.

"Screwdrivers, flat-head and Phillips."

He opened the next drawer.

"Wrenches, box end, open end and adjustable, but don’t get too happy with those crescents; you know what I told you about those."

"I know: last resort. They round the bolt heads."

"Good. Now here is the pliers drawer: channel locks, vise grips, needle-nose, circlip pliers, and dikes," he explained, closing the drawer and opening the next. "And here are your sockets, ratchets, breaking bars and torque wrench. In this bottom drawer are your hammers, pry bars, tire irons, big punches and hand impact."

He walked Ike over to the rolling cart.

"In here I’d keep my most-used tools in the top so you can grab them quickly, for whatever job you’re working on. In this display stand on this side, you’ll see the T-handle wrenches. If you look down on the bottom of the cart, you’ll see the air impact gun and sockets. The standard tools are in the red box. Any questions?"

"Yeah – where are the lubricants?" Ike asked, looking around.

"Good question. Look in this cabinet," replied Mr. Gonzales, opening the cabinet door to reveal shelves filled with brand-new cans. "Up here are your cleaners and solvents. Next are your spray lubricants. Then your oils, premix, fork oil, crankcase oil, etc. And finally, down here, your spray paints."

"Where are the rags? I can’t work without rags. Gotta keep the nails clean, ya know?" Ike teased, holding up his hands.

"Are you being smart with me?"

"I’m always smart."

They both laughed.

"That you are, that you are," Mr. Gonzales smiled, pointing to the rag bin. "Put your dirty rags over there when you’re done."

Just then the intercom buzzed and the receptionist said, "Call for Mr. Gonzales on line two."

Mr. Gonzales just smiled and answered the phone on the shop wall.

"Competition Cycles, Victor speaking."

Ike tuned him out and began exploring the rest of the shop. There was a bench with the acid for filling and charging batteries. He saw a parts washer, a sand blaster, a tire machine, and a wall full of small drawers. He began opening the drawers and discovered the best collection of nuts, bolts, screws and washers he had ever seen.

Mr. Gonzales hung up the phone and turned again to Ike, indicating the small hardware.

"How you like them apples? I’m tired of digging all over the shop, then robbing another bike to get a bolt."

"Man, you’ve got it goin’ on," Ike said. "When do I start?"

"You’re already 15 minutes late. Can you get those clothes dirty?"

"Sure, I don’t care," Ike shrugged.

"No, I mean does your mom want you working on greasy motorcycles in those clothes?"

"Oh… Yeah…. I’d better go home and change."

"Here, I have something that should fit you. That should tide you over until the uniforms come in next week."

"Uniforms! Uniforms! Victor Gonzales is issuing uniforms? Now I’ve seen everything!" Crip shouted, and gave out the deepest laugh Ike had ever heard. But then he started coughing, and coughing and coughing. He slipped into the bathroom, coughing up congestion. Ike could hear him hacking and spitting.

"He’s smoked too long," Mr. Gonzales whispered under his breath. "Between that and the Agent Orange from the war, his lungs are in bad shape."

"What do the doctors say?"

"He refuses to go to doctors. He always goes to his friend, a corpsman."

"What’s a corpsman?"

"It’s a Navy medic assigned to the Marine Corps. He’s the only doctor Crip trusts. But if you ask me, I think he’s just scared of what the doctors will say."

"Ain’t skeered," Crip said with a raspy voice, having sneaked up behind them.

"Hey, how’d you get there so quietly?" Ike blurted, surprised.

"You know, that’s the thing about training: Once you get it, you always got it. Get it?"

"Got it," Ike reacted, looking at Mr. Gonzales with a look of apprehension.

Chapter 10

Ike had begun to feel much better about himself since he started his new job. His long talks with his two mentors had straightened out some of his wrong thinking. Mr. Gonzales had made a sign and put it up in Ike’s stall; it read: "Fall down six times, get up seven!"

Ike began to feel a new self-respect as he hung out with these wise and experienced men. He felt valued by them. He looked forward to going to work after school, and in a couple of weeks he had saved some money. Eventually, Sam and Ike starting talking again, and they were able to patch over the problem they’d had at the dance. They started practicing together about twice a week. Ike trained at home on his workout bench and on the chin-up bar mounted in his doorway to his room. He rode his bicycle to school. When he was teased about it, he would just say, "Gotta train."

When he was with Sam, they just talked about motocross or school, but never about the dance or relationships. Ike had put up an emotional wall between them, and as for Sam, she just didn’t want to hurt him again, either. They were almost becoming friends again, but in a guarded way. Still, Ike didn’t trust her.

"Are you coming with us to the race up in Kentwood this weekend?" Sam asked one evening after a brisk ride on the test track.

"Nope, I’m gonna ride up with Mr. Gonzales," Ike said. "I’m kind of riding for his team now."

"You’re still riding for Calais Motorsports, aren’t you?"

"Sure, I wear the gear and still have the decals, but I added Competition Cycles to my sponsor list, too."

"I see. When are you guys goin’ up to the track?"

"Sunday morning. What about you?"

"We’re taking the camper up Saturday. I want to get some seat time in on that track. It’s big, fast and rough. You sure you don’t want to come up with us and get a good look at the track?"

"No. Gotta work. I got three jobs I have to finish before we close on Saturday."

"Okay. Well, I’ll see you up there. Are you gonna pit with us?"

"I don’t know. We’ll see," Ike grunted noncommittally.

"Ike."

"Yes."

"Why are you being this way?"

"What way?"

"This – you know, distant to me."

"I’m not distant."

"Yes, you are. You’ve withdrawn from me."

"No. I’m standing right next to you."

"You know what I mean."

"We’re friends. Isn’t this what you wanted?"

"Yes, but we could be closer than that. You act like I have the swine flu or something."

"You don’t have the swine flu, you have germs. They’re worse! You’re a girl!" he teased.

"Yeah, well then, I’m gonna get them on you," she teased, and began to wipe her hands on his jersey. He took her hands off. She put them back on. He grabbed her wrists to keep them off of him. She rotated her hands into his and suddenly they were holding hands, face to face. For a brief moment they just looked into each other’s eyes. Invisible sparks flew, but both pretended that nothing had happened. Ike let her hands go and walked away.

"Gotta go."

"What, homework?"

"Something like that."

"Ike?"

"What?" he barked, turning around.

"That was the first question I ever asked you and you answered the exact same way," she explained in a sweet voice. "Remember, at the Bayou Kitchen, when we raced home from school?"

"So what’s your point?"

Ike just waited, showing no emotion. He wasn’t about to go there.

Sam was stunned. She just stood there, trying to think of what to say.

"So I’ll see you Sunday," he said, and he turned and walked away.

This time Sam let him go.

Chapter 11

The next day, Ike felt a little guilty about the way he’d treated Sam the day before. Then he thought, ‘She had it comin’,’ and he felt much better, and thought no more about it. Today was Friday, and he tried to concentrate on his weakest point – taking tests. He tried pulling out his notes and studying, but his mind drifted again and again to racing. He was excited about the upcoming race this weekend and thought about going up a day early with the Abernathys for practice. It was true that he needed to get in some time on that track. He had never even seen it before. It was the roughest and most feared track in the state. They said the jumps were bigger than houses, that they sent you as high as the trees. He heard there were fifth-gear straightaways and serious elevation changes, which was unusual for Louisiana. It was known as a Pro-style championship track.

He turned his attention back to school, trying to keep his mind off the distractions so he could finish the tests. He had one in every class, but he had studied for them. He was doing fine until third period. That’s when he saw it happen.

Sam walked into the room holding hands with Dave.

Ike couldn’t believe his eyes. He had heard the rumors and had been able to deal with it, but seeing it flaunted right before him was a different matter. And she looked right at him when she walked in!

‘Now she’s playing hardball!’ he thought.

He looked down and continued to study his notes, pretending that he didn’t see. But out of the corner of his eye he saw Dave linger at her desk, holding her hand, until he took a seat behind her. Ike’s hand started shaking, and he had no earthly idea why.

The teacher walked in, drawing Ike’s attention back to the task at hand. Then he heard the most dreaded words a student can ever hear: "Okay, students, clear your desks and take out a pen and a cover sheet."

Ike broke out into a cold sweat.

‘What am I doing? I studied – kind of... I can do this.’

He had thought about making a cheat sheet, like some students did, but Mr. Gonzales had warned him: "If I ever hear of you cheating, on the job or at school, you’ll be fired, immediately. Do you understand?"

Ike cleared his desk and put his head down to think. But all he could think about was Sam. He sneaked a sideways glance at her and caught her sneaking one at him. They both looked back down at their paperwork.

After school, Ike tried to slip away quickly before Sam could flaunt her new boyfriend before him. As he was unlocking his bike, he heard Dave’s voice: "’Bye, Ike, have a good weekend." And he drove by in his shiny, powder-blue Mustang convertible, with Sam sitting right next to him.

Then Jimmy Plaisance drove by right behind him in his big four-wheel-drive wannabe-monster truck and stopped, his four friends poking their heads out of the windows to jeer.

"Hey, Ike, need a hand with that lock?" Jimmy needled. "Hey, wasn’t that your girlfriend I saw in the Mustang with Dave Remington?"

"Shut up," Ike snapped as he pulled the chain through the bike stand. But his bike just fell over on his foot, and he let out a yelp of pain. Jimmy and his buddies just laughed as the truck sped away, rap music blaring.

Ike kicked his bike in frustration. Then he picked it up and threw it down again. Mr. Dansberry drove by in his Jeep and stopped to check on him.

"Hey, kind of rough on your bike today, huh, Ike?"

Ike just looked at him.

"Girls," he finally spat. "I just don’t get it."

"And you never will," Mr. Dansberry promised. "That’s part of the fun, the mystery. Just buckle up and enjoy the ride."

"I think I’ll stick to motorcycles."

"Do that for as long as you can. Are you racing this weekend?"

"Yes, in Kentwood."

"You keep it up on two wheels!"

"Thanks, Mr. Dan – you, too. I mean four wheels – uh, for you, I mean," he stammered sheepishly.

"I know what you meant. Have fun."

"Oh, that I will, that I will."

When Ike got to the shop, he went right to work. He had to change the oil and service two street bikes and a four-wheeler. He knocked the jobs out quickly and then began to gather his things.

"Are you coming in tomorrow, Ike?" Mr. Gonzales asked.

"I was thinking about going to Kentwood to practice."

"Well, that’s a good idea, but I’ll pay you overtime to take on a special job."

"What is it?"

"Come see."

Ike followed him into the showroom. There was a modern Honda with a "for sale" tag on it.

"Ohhhh… Ahhhhh… tight!" Ike proclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement.

"It’s a 2006 Honda CRF250 four-stroke. A guy traded it in this morning. Want to ride it?"

"Sure. I’ve only ridden Sam’s 250F twice. But it’s a KTM."

"It’s not as peaky as your two-stroke. It’s got a wider powerband, and the best part is, it has much more suspension. Go ahead, take it out."

He didn’t have to be asked twice, and in 15 minutes Ike had his gear on and had motored out to the field behind the shop, where they had cut a little track. He went through the gears a couple of times and was amazed at the Honda’s power. And the ride was so plush.

Mr. Gonzales and Crip came out to watch. Ike rode over to them and killed the motor.

"Well, what do you think?" Mr. Gonzales asked.

"It’s way stronger than Vinnie, and the brakes almost put me over the bars."

"It should be better; it represents 25 years of improved technology," Crip explained. "And, it has more stability."

"Ike, I’ll make you a killer deal on this bike," Mr. Gonzales proclaimed, "if you want it."

"Like what?"

"Five hundred dollars, plus A’s on your report card," Mr. Gonzales proposed.

"I don’t have that," Ike complained.

"He’ll give you more overtime and side jobs and we’ll take it out of your pay," Crip added. "If you work hard, you’ll have it paid off in two or three months."

"So by spring it’ll be mine?" Ike guessed.

"Yep, if you play your cards right," Mr. Gonzales answered with a nod and a smile that was contagious.

"I’ve got $127 saved already!" Ike proclaimed, lifting his arms in victory.

Crip stepped up and grabbed his handlebars to get his attention.

"You’ll have to get used to two main differences: starting and jumping."

Ike’s heart sank when he heard jumping. It was his Achilles’ heel.

"What do you mean, ‘jumping’?" Ike asked, folding his arms defensively.

"Listen carefully: Never – I mean never – chop the throttle going up a jump," Crip cautioned, pointing a finger in his face. "If you do, the back pressure from the four-stroke motor will grab the jump and send the front wheel down. You might not recover."

"Okay. Sounds simple. Don’t chop the throttle on a jump," Ike acknowledged.

"…And don’t grab the front brake in the air," Crip continued, touching the front brake. "Keep your fingers off it; otherwise you’ll end up with your face stuck in the dirt."

"Got it: Don’t chop the throttle or grab the front brake in the air."

"Easier said than done," Mr. Gonzales said, adding firmly: "Now you have to practice on it to get used to the different ergonomics. I recommend you don’t go race tomorrow."

"What? You know I’ve been waiting for this race since January," Ike whined.

"I have two words for you: New. Bike."

"…And new track," Crip chimed in "Deadly combination. One is bad enough. But trying to race with a new bike on a new track is like going to a gunfight armed with a knife."

"I can handle it," Ike protested.

"I know you can handle it," Mr. Gonzales replied. "What I’m worried about is your fierce, competitive nature getting you in trouble."

"I thought that was good," Ike contended, with palms upraised.

"It is, when it’s controlled, but you’re still a beginner," Mr. Gonzales warned.

"I’m not a beginner!" Ike crowed. "I’ve been riding for almost six months."

Both men tried hard not to laugh.

"How many times have you raced?" Mr. Gonzales said, challenging him.

"You know the answer to that."

"There’s your answer. Now if you want to ride the modern bike, you need to change the oil, tires, and clean the filters. But you can’t bring it up to Kentwood tomorrow."

"That an order?"

"That’s an order," Mr. Gonzales stated with finality.

"Can I race Vinnie?"

Mr. Gonzales looked at Crip and then nodded.

"I don’t see why not. But remember: You don’t have near the suspension that the modern bikes have. It hasn’t been a problem so far, but now you’re gonna race on a real track with giant jumps. You can’t jump with the modern bikes."

"Whatever you say, chief," Ike mumbled, and he began to roll the modern bike inside.

Mr. Gonzales looked at Crip.

"Was that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?"

"I think that was a ‘whatever.’"

"That’s what I thought," Mr. Gonzales conceded. "What do you think?"

"About what?"

"About Ike."

Crip paused, and then began to walk toward the shop.

"He’s just like we were when we were younger."

"Oh, no, "Mr. Gonzales sighed. "We’re in for a bumpy ride."

"I wouldn’t have it any other way," Crip replied, and they laughed all the way back inside.

Chapter 12

Ike was totally intimidated by the Kentwood track. They were right. The jumps were huge. The track was fast and rough. There were two serious injuries during practice. He had followed a few riders around during the practice session, just to get a look at the track, but he still didn’t have it memorized. To make matters worse, half the sophomore and junior classes and some of the seniors from Calais High School had shown up to watch Sam race. Now they would see what a goon he was. He wanted to crawl under a rock. But there weren’t any rocks around.

"What’s wrong, Ike?" Mr. Gonzales probed, sensing trouble brewing.

"I don’t like the track," Ike whined.

"It’s not a beginner track."

"I’m not a beginner. I told you!" Ike said, his voice rising.

"Okay, which jumps are you not clearing?"

"All of them!" Ike reacted in a frantic tone, as he tossed his goggles down and dropped into a chair.

"Hold on – wrong attitude to race with," Mr. Gonzales observed.

"Well, give me another one," Ike retorted sarcastically.

"Okay. First and foremost, I’ll be praying for your safety."

"What else?"

"I’ll give you a strategy I used when I was outclassed or uncomfortable, but you’re not gonna like it."

"What is it?"

"Will you follow it?"

"You tell me what it is and I’ll tell you if I’ll follow it."

Mr. Gonzales thought for a moment and then said, "Let everybody take off from the gate."

"What?!"

"You heard me. Just let them go. Wait a split second for them to clear, then you take off in last place."

"Thanks a lot, ‘Mr. Wisdom.’ Got anything else in your bag of tricks?"

"Hear me out," Mr. Gonzales insisted. "If you don’t think you belong in the front, then you wouldn’t last long in the front, even if you got a great start. If you start in the pack, they’ll push you faster than you want to go over the jumps. So let them go. Then go after the guy in front of you. When you catch him, you go after the next one, and on down the line until you find where you belong in the pack. You can then ride your own race at your own pace and hit the jumps like you want. No pressure. You’ll gain confidence that way without riding over your head."

"Wait a minute, I think you’ve got something there," Ike conceded, his tone changing as an idea formed in his mind. "I can come from behind to win."

"Theoretically, if you go fast enough."

"What? Don’t you believe in me?" Ike challenged.

"Oh, I believe in you. But you’re just not ready to go full out yet – not on this track, anyway."

"I hate it when you say that."

"Say what?"

"‘Not ready yet.’"

"Hey, we’re all a work in progress. Don’t rush it. You’ll win. Believe me, you will win, and soon. Just do me a favor."

"What’s that?"

"Don’t show off today."

Mr. Gonzales held his eyes firm, waiting for an answer.

"Is that an order?"

"No, that’s a request, from a friend."

"I’ll think about it."

"Good. Now get dressed."

Ike took Mr. Gonzales’ advice and let everyone take off. He pretended to have motor problems, because the kids from school were watching him. Then he tore away from the gate like a jet taking off from an aircraft carrier. He caught the first rider in turn two, and he caught three more in the next turn.

‘This isn’t so bad,’ Ike thought, ‘and all I have to do is just ride my own race.’

He caught four more riders by the end of the first lap. On lap two, he passed three more, and on lap three he passed four more riders as they began to tire. But now they were getting harder to catch. He had no idea what place he was in until he saw Crip standing in a turn, holding up three fingers.

‘What? I’m in third place? Can’t be!’

Ike was going faster approaching the jumps and becoming more comfortable with his lines. On the next big jump, he looked ahead on the track and saw the two leaders. He put his head down and went to work. He tuned out the crowd, the photographers, the flaggers – everything. He hyper-focused on the track. Everything else faded away. He didn’t have to think about Vinnie because he was already one with the bike. He was glad he hadn’t tried to race the new bike today.

At the white flag, he had caught up with the second-place rider. He found even more speed and soon was right on his rear fender. The pass came easily, because when the rider heard him, he overshot the turn, and Ike went by.

‘Use both brakes, knucklehead,’ Ike thought, silently lecturing the rider who hadn’t even touched his front brake.

By the last turn, Ike was within sight of the leader and was bearing down fast. But time ran out and he had to settle for second.

"Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout!" he shouted through his helmet, oozing with newfound confidence.

When he arrived in his pit, Sam, her dad, Mr. Gonzales and Crip were all waiting for him. They all applauded. Sam handed him a towel and water as soon as he took off his helmet.

"Now you got it! That was magnifico!" Mr. Gonzales shouted proudly.

"Yeah, you didn’t even look like it was your first ride on this track," Sam declared.

"I just can’t wait for the second moto. I’m gonna race him straight up this time!" Ike predicted.

"Now you feel like you belong in front. So now, if you get a good start, you can hold the lead – unless you make a mistake, of course," Mr. Gonzales warned.

"Not gonna happen. No mistakes. The race is mine to win," Ike boasted.

"I believe you," Mr. Gonzales seconded. "I predict a win."

"I’ll go a step further: I’ll guarantee a win," Ike proclaimed.

They all looked at one another, wondering if Ike had gone too far.

Ike saw the worry on their faces and added: "Don’t worry. I don’t have to push it. I’m only gonna go out for a Sunday ride, and I’ll probably end up at the finish line first."

They all breathed a sigh of relief.

Ike watched Sam win her race easily. Sam knew this track well. She had simply secured the holeshot and checked out, in both motos, thrilling the students of Calais High School with a wheelie at the finish line. Kate Sterling had crashed while trying to keep up with Sam in both motos and had tried to start trouble afterward in the pits, but Sam kept her cool. Sam’s other serious rival, Raven Regal, was at a race in California.

Now it was Ike’s turn. His classmates were gathered along the fence and invigorated after Sam’s big win. Now they were expecting the same thing from him, and he wasn’t about to let them down.

When the gate dropped, Ike was off in a flash, but he missed a gear, allowing three riders to beat him to turn one. So he settled into fourth place and went to work. He had the track dialed in – or so he thought. He was faster than the other riders, having learned to enter the turns and get back on the gas faster than these beginners.

By the second lap, he had passed the two riders in front of him and begun to watch the leader. It was a Suzuki RM-Z with a wild rider on it. The Suzuki rider was riding the ragged edge and was out of control on the rough straightaways, but he managed to stay in front of Ike by outjumping him.

By the last lap, Ike was tired of getting the Suzuki’s roost in his face, and he was determined to take the lead. He planned to change his line on the big ski jump; up until now, he had been letting off and rolling it, and then jumping the second jump. On the last lap, Ike pushed hard to the outside and cut back to the inside approaching the ski jump. He pulled alongside the Suzuki as they launched into the air, flying high – higher than Ike had ever been. It was exhilarating, and Ike braced for the landing. But Vinnie was not built for this type of jump, and when she landed, she revolted, bottoming out the suspension and bouncing back up into the air, sending him flying off the bike and into the woods. As if in slow motion, Ike began to realize that he was going to crash, and he started yelling, "Ahhhhhhhhh!"

And that was the last thing he remembered.

Chapter 13

Ike was awakened by the voices of nurses as they fussed over his covers. His head felt like a tank was sitting on it. He looked up at the IV pole that held the clear bag of drip and followed it down to where it entered his left arm through the needle inserted into and taped to his skin. Then he made the mistake of moving, and a sharp pain shot through his right side.

"Ahhhhgggg," he groaned, wincing as he tried to settle back into a comfortable position.

"Settle down, flyboy," one of the nurses said, smiling, as she stepped closer to the bed. "Let me check that bandage."

"Bandage?"

"Yes, the one on your head," she said softly as she gently adjusted something on his head. "I hear you took a nasty spill."

"I remember having to step off my bike and then going into the trees," Ike recalled.

"You hit your head pretty hard, so you need to stay as still as you can for a while. My name is Linda, and I’ll be your nurse. The doctor will be in to look you over in a little while."

"How long have I been here?"

"You were brought up from the ER last night."

"What’s wrong with me?"

"Well, you’ve got a laceration on your right side and some serious bruising there, possibly broken ribs, and a concussion. You’ve also got a gash on your head and a possible concussion. You’re scheduled for a CAT scan and X-rays this afternoon."

"Can I sit up?"

"The doctor has ordered you to lie still and rest."

"Why can’t I sit up if I’m still?" Ike pressed.

The nurse just put her hand on her hip and looked at him and shook her head.

"So you’re going to be one of those kinds of patients, huh?" she scolded, but with a smile. "All right, if you don’t mind the pain."

"Oh, I can handle pain," Ike bragged.

"Okay, here’s the control for the bed," she replied, digging it out from under the sheets and handing it to him. She started to show him how to use it, but Ike stopped her.

"I know how to use a remote," Ike protested, and he took the remote from her hand and pressed a button. The TV came on. He pressed another, and the channel changed. He finally found the one that rotated the bed up, and he heard the hum of a little motor under the bed and he began to rise. Suddenly the pain increased with the height of the bed, and he had to stop.

"Uh, I think this is high enough," he said through clenched teeth.

Nurse Linda just smiled that knowing smile, with her hands on her hips.

"There are a couple of people here to see you, so let’s get your blood pressure and take your temperature."

After the nurse was done, she stepped outside the room and, after some mumbled conversation, in walked Ike’s mother, Mr. Gonzales, Sam and Mr. Rick. They had concerned looks on their faces, especially his mom, who made her way to his bedside first.

"Ike, honey, how are you feeling?" Tricia asked with all the nervousness of a worried mother, as she touched his hand.

"I’m okay. Just a little… dizzy."

The others nodded to him but kept their distance at the foot of the bed.

"The doctor says you hit your head pretty hard, and might have broken ribs," she added, looking at the bandage on his head.

"I’ll be okay, Mom. Don’t worry," he said, grimacing as he tried, unsuccessfully, to reposition himself in the bed.

"Do you want to sit up?" his mother asked with a nervous glance, looking for the nurse.

"Just a little bit, right here; my butt is tired of being in this position," Ike complained, trying to move, but he was stopped by the pain.

"I’ll help," Sam volunteered, stepping to the other side of the bed. Between Sam and Tricia, they got him repositioned with a minimum of moans from Ike, as he again tried to hide the pain. When he was finally situated, he looked at Sam.

"Have you ever been in the hospital?" he asked her.

"Once or twice," she replied. "One time was for a broken arm and the other was a broken femur."

Ike’s mom looked at Sam with horror on her face and then cast a glance of accusation at Sam’s dad. Mr. Rick just raised his hands and shrugged.

"Hey, I can’t talk her out of racing," he explained. "It’s what she wants to do, and it teaches her about the consequences of her decisions."

"I’d say. So it’s the old ‘tough love’ huh?" Tricia shot at him, disbelief in her voice. "Ike, I think you’ve done enough racing on those motorcycles."

"Aw, Mom, I’m just getting started," he pleaded. "It’s what I love. It’s who I am."

Tricia stepped back and pointed to the hospital bed and around the room.

"And this is what you love and who you are?" she countered, accusingly.

"No, this is the consequences of not listening," Ike admitted, looking at Mr. Gonzales, who just raised one eyebrow and looked out the window nonchalantly.

"What? What did you not listen about?" Tricia demanded, digging deeper into the issue.

"You want to tell her or should I?" Ike asked Mr. Gonzales, trying to shift the pressure onto him.

"Oh, you’re doing fine," Mr. Gonzales answered, gesturing for Ike to continue.

"He warned me that I should not jump Vinnie on those big jumps," Ike said, trying to cover the pain of the throbbing in his head.

"Did you?" Tricia probed.

"Yep." Ike shrugged guiltily. "But I needed to make a pass."

Mr. Gonzales and Mr. Rick swapped knowing glances. Tricia noticed the silent exchange between them.

"What? You can tell me," she said.

"Well, Ike is, uh, how should we say…"

When Mr. Gonzales paused, Tricia interrupted him.

"Too wild? I can see that!" she snapped angrily.

"No, not wild, just competitive," Mr. Gonzales explained. "He wants to win. All champions have that drive to succeed. That’s what drives him to train, to practice, to do his schoolwork…"

"Well, he hasn’t been succeeding in that area too well lately," Tricia complained.

Just then there was a knock on the door, and Dr. Denton came in. He was a short, African-American man with a rounded face and sparkling, lively eyes.

"How is Evel Knievel doing?" he asked with a smile as the others stepped back from the bed.

"I’m okay, I guess. Just tired of this same position," Ike answered, gently moving his lower body into a new position on the bed.

"Well, that is the hard part – staying in one position all day. But you can turn over as much as you need to, as much as your ribs allow. May I check that bandage?" he asked, setting his clipboard down on the table.

"Sure," Ike mumbled, as he sat up a little.

Dr. Denton peeled back the bandage over his left ear, revealing a cut with sutures. Part of his hair was shaved off where the bandage was taped. It was leaking a little blood, which caused his mom to cringe.

"Well, we’re doing okay here; nothing that a little bed rest can’t cure," Dr. Denton explained, putting the bandage back. "How are the ribs?"

"They hurt," Ike replied, patting his side softly.

"They’re supposed to. That’s your body telling you to slow down so it can heal," Dr. Denton said matter-of-factly. "Good thing you were wearing a helmet."

"How’d he get the cut on his head?" Tricia asked.

"The helmet broke," Mr. Rick said. "He landed against a big pine tree."

"What was a pine tree doing on the track?" Tricia asked in alarm.

"It wasn’t near the track," said Mr. Rick, glancing at Mr. Gonzales. "He came off the jump and went off the track."

"So if he wouldn’t have been wearing a helmet…" Tricia said, her voice trailing off.

"He’d be dead," Dr. Denton finished her sentence with finality. He picked up his clipboard and turned to leave the room. When he got to the door, he paused and added, "You should find a safer sport."

"He is," Tricia replied, looking at Ike.

"No, I’m not," Ike argued.

"Yes, you are," Tricia countered.

"Mom, I am a motocross racer. Dad would approve, and you know it!" Ike said, his voice rising.

"But he’s not here now, is he?" Tricia said, her voice, like her anger, edging up another notch. The others excused themselves from the room. "Ike, can’t you see what you’re doing to yourself?"

"It’s my body, and I want to race," he argued, trying to hide the pain as he moved too sharply.

"See? That’s my point. You are hurt, Ike. Hurt!"

"Not that bad."

"‘Not that’…? ‘Not that bad’? Ike, do you hear yourself?"

The nurse came back in and got between them, shuffling the sheets.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"I’m okay," he said, glaring defiantly at his mom.

"You need to rest now. Okay, visiting time is over," the nurse said, turning to pull the curtain around him. Tricia got the hint.

"’Bye, honey. I love you. I’ll talk to you later."

Tricia turned and left the room.

When they were alone, Nurse Linda handed him a little cup with a pill and instructed him, "Take this and wash it down with water. Sounds like you’re in trouble."

"No trouble. She’s not taking motocross racing away from me," he stated in a firm, steady tone.

"But she’s your mother."

"But I’m a world champion motocross racer."

"The world champion wouldn’t have let his bike buck him off the track and into a tree."

"National champion?" Ike tried.

Nurse Linda just nodded "no."

"State champion?"

Nurse Linda just stared at him, unconvinced.

"A swamp panther?" Ike tried, raising his fingers into an imaginary paw and hissing like a cat.

"Uh, no."

"An alligator?"

"An alligator wouldn’t have ended up in the hospital with broken ribs."

"A raccoon?"

"Well…" she paused and thought. "You do have some darkness under your eyes, and a tendency to forage food from visitors in here."

They both started laughing. That’s when Ike really, really started to hurt.

"OWWWWWW!" he exclaimed, grimacing, and grabbed his side.

"No more laughing for you," Nurse Linda scolded him. "Now let’s put the bed back down and get some rest."

"Yes… ma’ am," Ike sounded out the words slowly between gasps.

Chapter 14

Tricia Hebert brought her son home later that week, and on the way she gave him an earful in the car. They went at it, back and forth. Forth and back they went, all the way into the house. Tricia had all the arguments one would expect a mom to make: "You’ll get hurt worse; we can’t afford the doctor bills; what about your future?"

Ike countered with typical teenage rebellion: "You can’t make me; Dad would have let me; it’s safer than football; it was just a freak accident."

And then it turned ugly.

"You don’t care about my dream! You’re trying to take my life away. You’re just scared and don’t want to have to worry!"

Tricia and Ike began to drift apart. It seemed that almost every time they talked, it would end in an argument. Ike’s desire for independence, combined with his raging hormones was sometimes more than he could handle. He wasn’t used to being a man-boy, and Tricia wasn’t used to dealing with teenagers. The climate in the Hebert house grew icy – almost as cold as the climate at school, at least for Ike, who now hated being at school and being at home. His last two refuges were the motocross track and Mr. Gonzales’ shop. But Mom had hinted that she might make him quit working there so that he would stop racing.

‘If she tries that, I will definitely run away,’ Ike thought.

The only two people who seemed to understand him were Mr. Gonzales and Crip, and he got to see them every afternoon. It was as if they were his real family.

The next Monday afternoon, when Ike came into work, he walked right up to Crip’s stall and announced, "I’m quitting school."

Crip just kept working, as if he hadn’t heard.

"Hand me that pry bar, please," Crip asked, in his usual deep, raspy voice.

Ike turned to look on the bench.

"Where is it?"

"Just hand me the pry bar," Crip asked again, his tone getting more intense.

Ike whirled around and looked in the toolbox.

"Hurry up, I can’t hold this engine up much longer," Crip said, his voice rising with impatience.

"Where is it?" Ike pleaded, opening and closing drawers all the way down the toolbox.

"Ike, I need it now!"

"I can’t find it!"

By now, Ike was into the other box, opening and closing drawers, starting to slam them.

"Hey, easy on my boxes! Just get me the bar!"

"How about a breaker bar?"

"Did I ask for a breaker bar? Don’t make me drop this motor!"

"What about a big screwdriver?"

"That’s how you ruin a good screwdriver. If you don’t hand me that pry bar in 10 seconds, I’m gonna kick your butt!"

"But I can’t find it!" Ike blubbered, his voice getting louder as he started digging through boxes and tossing shop rags out of the way.

"Five seconds!"

"I’m trying!"

"Okay, that’s it. Get out the way!"

Crip dropped the motor on the stand and came around the bike. He brushed past Ike and opened the bottom drawer. He reached in, pulled out the pry bar and shook it in Ike’s face.

"What good are you if can’t even find a tool?" Crip snapped, his eyes full of fury.

"I didn’t know where it was," Ike said defensively, and a little fearfully.

"You didn’t know? You didn’t know? So you don’t know everything, do you?" snapped Crip, reaching up for the rope hanging on the wall behind his toolbox. "Turn around," he ordered Ike.

"What are you gonna do?" Ike protested, but before he could utter another word, Crip had tied his hands behind his back and run the rope around his waist and between his legs.

"Crip, stop!" Ike cried out, trying to get away, but he was no match for the strength and speed of Crip’s hands. In five seconds, Crip had tossed the rope over a rafter and hoisted Ike six feet off the ground. Then Crip tied it off, picked up the bar and raised it back as if to beat Ike.

"Crip, no!" Ike was near tears. "What are you doin’?"

"What is nine times seven?"

"What?"

"You heard me. What is nine times seven? How about seven times eight?"

"I, uh, 56? No, I mean 63! I think. Get me down! This hurts!"

"You think? You don’t know? How about a noun, what’s a noun? How about a verb?" Crip demanded.

"A noun? Uhhh – a person? Wait, it can be a thing, too. Can’t it?"

"You don’t know? How about the capital of Florida? Where does the Mississippi start? What are the time zones in America? Who makes the laws in our country? Who are our representatives? What’s the difference between an appellate court judge and a Supreme Court judge? Huh? You think you’re ready to be a man in this country? Do you?"

"I, uh, don’t…" Ike stammered.

Crip continued: "How old do you have to be to sign a contract, vote, drink? Do you know how to write a check, balance your checkbook, where to pay your bills? Do you know how much it costs to run a household, to pay property taxes, sales taxes? Huh? You think you’re ready to be a man? Can you write a simple business letter? Huh? Answer… now!"

"I, uhhh, I can write," Ike answered with confusion in his voice. He knew he was beat.

"Do you know the differences between Democrats and Republicans, North America and South America, carbon monoxide and carbon dioxide?"

"I know that one," Ike offered quickly.

"How about the difference between a warm front and a cold front, the North Star and Venus, a hurricane and a typhoon, a balance sheet and an income statement, AC and DC current, Shakespeare and Thoreau, Hitler and Stalin, a city councilman and a mayor, where our taxes go? Well? I’m waiting!"

Ike was fighting back tears, and he was hurting. Mr. Gonzales walked in and looked up at Ike.

"Crip, what are you doin’? You cut that boy down!"

Crip whipped out the knife so fast Ike didn’t even see the motion. He just stared at the big blade. Ike tried to use humor to disarm him: "Is that thing sharp?"

Crip just stared at Ike, then looked at the knife. He slowly moved it to his arm and shaved off a patch of hair. Then he looked at Ike, and in one swift motion he slashed the rope, which severed like a thread, dropping Ike to the floor like a bag of potatoes.

"Oh, all right, I guess he’s got the point." Crip conceded, sheathing his knife.

"What’s the point?" Mr. Gonzales asked Crip as Ike struggled to sit up.

"He wants to quit school," Crip spat out.

"String him back up," Mr. Gonzales stated angrily. Then he looked at Ike sadly, shook his head, and then turned on his heels and walked out.

Crip smiled and retied him, hoisting him back up.

"No! Don’t do it, Crip!" Ike protested with all he had.

"You gonna quit school?"

"No, I said I was thinking of quitting school!"

"No, you said you were quitting school. I know what I heard," Crip replied, raising him higher.

"Okay, okay, I meant to say I was thinking of quitting. I was just thinking of it!"

"Well, you let me know when you finish thinking of quitting school."

"Okay, I’m not quitting, honest. I won’t quit school."

Crip started lowering him. When Ike’s feet touched the floor and he started untangling the rope, Ike added, "At least not until next year."

Crip quickly wrapped the rope around Ike’s leg and hoisted him back up again. This time Ike was dangling upside down, swinging his arms, trying to pull himself upright, to no avail.

"Okay, okay, I won’t quit until I’m a senior!"

"No," Crip corrected him, "you won’t quit until you graduate from high school. That’s what you need to be a responsible man in our country today."

"Okay, okay, no quitting. Just get me down!"

"You’re gonna graduate?"

"Yes, I’ll graduate!"

"You sure?"

"I promise. I promise!"

Crip started letting Ike back down. Right before Ike touched the floor, Crip started tickling him.

"No, quit! Not that! Crip! Help! Mr. Gonzales!" Ike yelled hysterically between squeals of laughter.

Mr. Gonzales came back in and saw what was going on.

"Crip, let me help you with that," he said, and then he pulled off Ike’s shoes and started on his feet. Ike went wild. He started squirming like he was being electrocuted. They all were laughing so hard, they were crying. They finally let Ike down, and he collapsed into an exhausted puddle on the floor. Crip went into a coughing fit and had to go to the bathroom and spit up his congestion.

Mr. Gonzales sat down on the floor next to Ike and looked at him, seriously.

"Do you understand why you can’t quit school?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"How much do you have left in this school year?"

"Oh, about two months."

"I’ll tell you what: If you give 110-percent effort for the next four weeks and bring up your grades, I’ll send you on a vacation."

"Where to?"

"It’s a surprise."

"With who?"

"It’s a surprise."

"For what? Wait, I know. Let me guess. It’s a surprise?"

Mr. Gonzales just nodded with that "I know something you don’t know" look.

"Can you give me a hint?"

"I’ll say this: It will do you good, the place will do you good, the person you’re going with will do you good, you need them. You need this experience."

"But… what? I mean, where…?" Ike stammered.

Mr. Gonzales just put his finger to his lips and shook his head "no."

"It’s a surprise."

Chapter 15

Ike had never been so focused in his life. He rose out of bed at 6 a.m. to jog a mile. Then he showered, ate a healthy breakfast, and packed his schoolbag with the homework he’d completed the night before. He rode his bicycle to school and got to every class on time, with all his books and papers ready to go. The only thing sharper than his attitude was his pencil. For the first time, school became more than a dreaded prison; now it was a mission to be accomplished. He asked to be moved to the front of the class, where he could pay better attention. He even began asking questions. Some of the classes even became interesting, as he focused on the subject matter instead of what was going on in the back of the classroom.

After school, he’d ride the long way home, even using some trails through the woods to simulate motocross racing. After doing two hours of homework, he’d go to work at the shop. There, he worked with focus and intensity, finding he did less daydreaming. After work, he’d practice on his modern dirt bike, riding two 20-minute motos on the shop’s test track. There was only one thing that wouldn’t come together for him: jumping. After the crash, he had a fear of launching off a big jump. He had lost an edge in speed as well. Every evening, after the shop closed, Mr. Gonzales and Crip would come out and watch him practice.

"What do you think?" Mr. Gonzales asked Crip.

"Something’s wrong," Crip replied, with his hand resting on his chin as he studied Ike’s riding.

"You mean his fear of jumping?"

"Well, that’s obvious, but there is something deeper. You can see it in his entry speed into the turns."

"He’s lost ‘the edge,’ hasn’t he?"

"Yep, but it’s even deeper than that."

"Have you tried to talk to him about it?"

"Yep, but he just doesn’t seem to understand," Crip replied. "It’s like an unseen enemy. I’ve seen it in battle many times."

"Can you name it?" Mr. Gonzales asked, turning to look at his old friend.

"Yes," Crip said, nodding toward Ike. "But it won’t change a thing until he names it."

"How can you get him to name it?"

"The only way to get him to name it is to have him confront it, head on," Crip said. "For that, I’ll have to put him in a position to discover it for himself. Then he has to be motivated enough to conquer it."

"How do you make him motivated enough?"

"He has to be so angry or sick and tired of it that he is willing to put his pride away and ask for help."

"How do you do that?"

"Put him in a position of desperation. Let him use up his own strength and see his weakness, his need for help. Usually, life has to do that over a period of years, or through trials, for men to see their need, before they are willing to look up for help, depending on how prideful they are."

"But we don’t have years," Mr. Gonzales noted.

"Then I’ll have to put him in a situation to break him."

"You’re not gonna crush his spirit, are you?" Mr. Gonzales gasped, alarmed.

"No. I already made that mistake before with someone." Crip paused, a distant memory capturing his thoughts; he gazed up at the purple and pink streaks the setting sun was painting in the sky. "It’s like breaking a bronco. You’ve got to break his strength without putting the fire completely out. Then, when he has given over control, the fire can be rebuilt and his passion can be sent in the proper direction. After that, success will motivate him to keep going in the right direction – his direction."

"You learn that in boot camp?"

"That was my first exposure to it," Crip admitted, "but Marine boot camp was kind of extreme. They would crush your individuality so they could rebuild you into a team that thinks together. Ike isn’t quite ready for that. He needs a softer version that doesn’t go so far."

Just then, Ike crashed. The two men went running over to him. He was lying on the ground, trying to catch his breath. He held up his hand to tell them to hold on a minute, since he couldn’t talk. The men stooped down to examine him.

"Are you all right?" Mr. Gonzales asked, panting.

"I… uhhh…. wait," Ike gasped, trying to catch his breath.

Mr. Gonzales and Crip just looked at each other and then back down at Ike and waited. After a few moments, Ike’s breath came back and he could talk.

"I… got the wind knocked out…." he said, sitting up and unstrapping his helmet.

"What happened?" Mr. Gonzales asked.

"I tried to hit that jump right there and I guess I let off near the top of the face. Then the front end dove down and sent me over the bars."

"You chopped the throttle on the jump face?" Crip asked harshly.

"Not chopped, but, well, kinda backed off."

Ike just looked at them. They looked at each other and then back at him.

"What?" he asked, casting a questioning look at them. "You said not to chop the throttle in the air."

"Ike, you can’t jump that way," Crip warned.

"What way?"

"Half-hearted. You have to commit to the jump, first with your heart, then with your head," he explained.

"What? What are you talking about?" Ike mumbled.

"You throw your heart over first and the rest will follow."

A look of confusion crossed Ike’s face. Crip tried again.

"Let me put it another way: You have to have the will, then apply the proper knowledge."

"How do I, uh… get that?"

"By learning to jump the little ones first. Then, step by step, you take on the bigger ones as you grow in confidence. That’s your heart. And knowledge, that’s in your head."

Ike just looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face.

"Come on, let’s go put the bike away," said Mr. Gonzales, as he helped Ike to his feet. "I think you’ve had enough for one day."

Crip went over to pick up the bike.

"Bent your bars," Crip called out. "Broke your clutch perch, too."

"You can fix it tomorrow," Mr. Gonzales told Ike. "Did you finish your homework?"

"No, I have to write a book report."

"Do you have the book picked out yet?"

"No."

"Can it be any book?"

"‘Within reason,’ she said."

"Mrs. Fisk?"

"Yeah."

"I’ve got a book for you to use. I’ll clear it with her myself," Mr. Gonzales offered confidently.

"What if she won’t allow it?"

"She will."

"What is it?"

"Against All Odds."

"Who wrote it?"

"Chuck Norris," Crip interjected. "Good read."

"You mean ‘Walker, Texas Ranger?’ Isn’t he an actor?"

"He was in the Air Force in Korea, where he learned karate from the masters – old school. Then he taught himself more, not just about karate, but life. He was the undefeated six-time World Professional Middleweight Karate Champion. I used to train with him in the ’70s. He’s a champion, and not just in karate – a real straight-up dude."

"So this book report is a… kind of a setup, huh?" Ike guessed slyly.

"That’s right. We’re setting you up for success. Got a problem with that?" Crip asked, challenging Ike.

"No, just asking," Ike conceded in a cooperative tone.

They looked the bike over carefully until they were convinced nothing else was broken.

"I’ll get right on that book," Ike announced.

"Tonight!" both men echoed.

"Tonight," Ike agreed, and they all started walking back to the shop as the sun was setting.

"Who’s the champ?" Mr. Gonzales challenged, ducking down into his fighting stance.

"I am?" Ike guessed, giving the bike to Crip and hanging his helmet on the handlebar. They stopped walking as Ike sparred with Mr. Gonzales. They boxed around a little as Ike probed his defenses with darting jabs and crosses. Mr. Gonzales just bobbed and weaved while casting smiles at Crip.

"Who’s the champ?" Mr. Gonzales snorted again.

"I am!" Ike responded, sending an overhand right that clipped Mr. Gonzales’ ear. He just turned and blocked.

"Hey, you’re just letting me win!" Ike protested.

Suddenly Mr. Gonzales let loose a volley of left jabs to the gut that brought down Ike’s arms and then planted a knuckle thump on his forehead. The tap was a little too hard, and it put Ike on the ground. Ike immediately grabbed his head.

"Hey, that hurt!"

"Sorry, I meant to pull it, but you moved your head right into it," Mr. Gonzales clarified apologetically as he reached down to help Ike up.

Ike clasped his hand but sent out a ground kick to his knee, and with a tug he put Mr. Gonzales flat on his face!

"What?" Mr. Gonzales spat out as he went down.

"What!" Ike shouted back at him, his arms raised in victory.

"What!" Crip shouted. "Nice move, Ike. Now who’s the champ, Victor?"

Crip howled at Mr. Gonzales, who took his time getting up.

"Uh, he just hit my bad knee, that’s all."

They laughed as Ike helped Mr. Gonzales back to his feet.

"Who’s the champ?" Ike said smugly to Mr. Gonzales.

"You are!" Mr. Gonzales conceded with a grin, looking first at Ike, then at Crip.

"Only one little problem now," Crip cautioned.

"What’s that?" Ike asked, proudly taking the bike.

"Payback!" Mr. Gonzales hooted loudly. "And it’s comin’ from the boss!"

They all laughed again as they continued back to the shop.

Chapter 16

Ike had a good week in school, making A’s and B’s on his quizzes and tests. He was starting to feel good about himself and his schoolwork, but he couldn’t get used to seeing Sam and Dave together – holding hands in the hallway, talking closely near the lockers, sitting together in the courtyard during lunch; Ike was beginning to feel like a man without a home. His closest friend was his dream of racing, and sometimes he wondered if that was really enough.

On Wednesday, he was getting some books out of his locker when he noticed in his peripheral vision some of the older guys gathering around behind him. The girl next to him had her locker open, and he checked the mirror she had hanging on the inside of the door. He could see the face of Jimmy Plaisance nodding and smiling that cocky grin to the other guys as he drew up behind Ike. At least Ike had a split-second warning before he turned to face him.

"Hey, rookie," Jimmy taunted as he turned around.

"Me?" Ike asked.

"Yeah, you. Do you see any other rookies around?" Jimmy said, turning and smiling to his friends.

"Well, the reason I asked is because I’m not a ‘rookie,’" Ike responded confidently.

"Sure you are," Jimmy said, badgering him. "You think you’re a motocross racer, but you’re just a little beginner poser."

The "bad boys" were chuckling and nodding in agreement. The crowd was getting bigger.

"I’m not a beginner," Ike noted, disputing Jimmy’s claim. "Anyway, everybody had to start somewhere. You were a beginner once."

"Nope. I was never a beginner. I was born to roll in the Expert class, after a very, very small learning curve," Jimmy boasted with a prideful nod to his friends.

"So, what’s your point? I’m late for class," Ike said impatiently, turning and grabbing another book out of his locker.

"Point? He wants to know what the point is," Jimmy echoed to the crowd of onlookers, buying time to think up something else. "My point is that not only are you a beginner rookie, now you’re turning into a nerd."

Jimmy knocked the books out of Ike’s hand, glaring at him, trying to pick a fight. Ike resisted the temptation to take a swing at him. The first thing that went through his mind was the vacation that Mr. Gonzales and Crip had promised him. He was already in trouble, and a fight would probably get him kicked out of school. He coolly reached down and picked up his books. Jimmy put his foot down on his math book before Ike could pick it up. Just then the tardy bell rang, and some of the students turned and rushed into the classrooms.

"Get your foot off my book," Ike demanded.

"You get it off," Jimmy said, challenging him.

Ike snatched the book out from under Jimmy’s foot and then sidestepped the push he knew was coming. Jimmy was slightly off balance, but he attempted the push anyway. When Ike’s body wasn’t there to catch his push, Jimmy fell against the locker. Unfortunately for him, his fingers curled around the opening of Ike’s locker right as Ike slammed it shut.

"Ahhhhhgggggg!" Jimmy wailed, causing heads to peek back through open doorways.

"What’s the matter?" a teacher demanded from two doors down.

"Nothing," Jimmy growled painfully, holding his hand and glaring at Ike.

"Jimmy keeps putting his appendages where they don’t belong," Ike announced.

The kids laughed; even a couple of Jimmy’s buddies couldn’t help but chuckle. Jimmy stepped in front of Ike, blocking his escape.

"I’ll see you after school," he swore under his breath, just low enough so the teachers couldn’t hear.

"I have more important things to do than wrestle around with you on the playground," Ike quipped, turning and walking away.

At 3:15, as Ike was walking to his bicycle, he noticed a crowd of students gathered around it, with Jimmy’s little gang right in the middle. Jimmy had his feet up on Ike’s bike.

"Why am I not surprised?" Ike groaned, walking up and unlocking his bike as if they weren’t there.

"You’re not surprised because you know you have this coming," Jimmy warned, as he took off his letter jacket and handed it to one of his boys.

"Oh, and what is it that I’ve got coming?" Ike replied, turning around with his backpack on his shoulder.

"This!"

Ike turned just enough for Jimmy’s punch to glance off Ike’s backpack. His fist landed with a thud on the corner of one of the books. Jimmy shook his fist in pain.

"It pays to bring your books home to study," Ike stated coolly. "I’m going to work; you finish your fight without me."

"What? You don’t want to fight?" Jimmy blurted out, turning to face him. "Scared? You are scared. Everybody knows you’re afraid!"

"I’m not scared!" Ike countered.

"Yes you are," Jimmy accused, with a mocking attitude. "You’re afraid, a chicken!"

"Name something I’m afraid of!" Ike challenged him.

"You’re afraid to jump! You’re afraid of me. You’re afraid of Sam’s boyfriend. You’re afraid to go out for football…"

"I’m not afraid of anybody!" Ike interrupted, his voice rising.

"All right, that’s enough!" Mr. Dansberry commanded, walking up to the scene.

The crowd of students quickly dissipated as Mr. Dansberry faced Ike and Jimmy.

"What is going on here?" he demanded.

"Ike hit me with his backpack," Jimmy accused.

"In the hand?" Ike shot back, glaring at his accuser.

Mr. Dansberry looked at Jimmy’s right knuckle and saw it was bleeding.

"Who started this?" he asked.

They both pointed at each other.

"Let me remind you boys that there is a camera right over there," he cautioned, turning and pointing to the top of the light. "Now, you wanna tell me what really happened?" he repeated, this time looking squarely at Jimmy.

"Ike smashed my hands in his locker today," Jimmy complained.

"I already know about that. Saw it on tape, as a matter of fact. I think after what you’ve been doing to Ike, you owe him an apology," Mr. Dansberry advised, looking Jimmy in the eyes, expectantly.

Jimmy knew he was cornered. He was a lot of things, but dumb wasn’t one of them.

"I’m sorry, Ike," he offered half-heartedly.

Ike just looked Jimmy in the eye and studied him. Then he extended his hand.

"Apology accepted," Ike responded cautiously.

Jimmy looked at Mr. Dansberry, who was watching him closely, so Jimmy shook hands, but Ike noticed a sharpness in the shake and a fierceness in his eyes that communicated that Jimmy was only sorry about being caught, and that the trouble was not over.

"Okay, now don’t you boys have some homework to do or something?" Mr. Dan hinted pointedly.

They took the hint and turned and went their separate ways.

Ike straddled his bike and began to peddle home. His mind was in high gear.

‘Man, that was close. He’s comin’ back for more from another angle, though. Maybe I am scared. How can I get rid of this fear? Can people see it that clearly? I’ll show ’em. No, they’ll discover for themselves. Wait a minute – I don’t have to prove anything to them. But I want to. Why does it always have to be something? Why can’t they just leave me alone? I just want to race. Maybe Jimmy’s just jealous. Of what? He’s a star on the football team and an expert motocrosser. He has a nice truck, friends and girlfriends. I’ve got none of that. Why would he be jealous of me? Oh, well, can’t let that distract me. I’ve got more important things to do.’

The next day at school, Ike heard that Jimmy had been suspended for three days. This confirmed what Ike already knew: He had done the right thing by not being lured into a fight. Jimmy’s friends were mad at him, though. One even pushed Ike into the locker with his shoulder, but Ike just rolled his eyes and let it go. One good thing came out of it, though. His old friend Ben came over to sit with him at lunch.

"Hey, Ike, mind if I join you?" Ben inquired, as he put his lunch tray down next to Ike’s.

"If you can elbow your way through the crowd," Ike responded sarcastically, making fun of his isolation.

"Uh, Ike, I’ve been meaning to say something to you," Ben confessed.

"Shoot," Ike replied, opening his milk.

"I’m sorry for what you’ve been going through. I think most kids are just jealous of the attention you and Sam got when ya’ll solved the crime."

"Maybe so," Ike muttered while chewing on a roll.

"Think I could come practice with you sometime?" Ben proposed, with a piece of turkey hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Sure, anytime," Ike agreed with a smile. "Well, anytime after five; that’s when I get off work."

"Hey, you gonna eat that?" Ben pried, eyeing Ike’s brownie.

"Nah, you can have it. I’m in training anyway," Ike explained, picking it up and tossing it on Ben’s tray.

"Training? For what?"

"Racing. I’m trying to get myself ready to move to the Novice class."

"You’re not going to the National Championship this year?"

"Didn’t qualify."

"Oh, yeah, the crash," Ben remembered.

"Yeah, but I’ll be ready for next year. I’ve got to work on my jumping."

"I know the feeling."

They both stared ahead and chewed.

Suddenly Sam and Dave came walking up.

"Is this seat taken?" Sam asked.

Ike just looked at her, then at Dave.

"No, help yourself," he replied, moving his milk and napkins.

"Hi, Ike," Dave uttered cautiously.

"Hi, Dave, Sam," Ike returned the greeting courteously.

"Ike, I like the way you handled yourself with Jimmy yesterday," Sam offered cheerily. Ben and Dave both nodded.

"Yeah, you were so cool about it," Dave mumbled.

"You didn’t get all caught up in the male-ego trap," Sam declared.

"What exactly is the male-ego trap?" Ben asked.

"That’s when a guy’s scared somebody’s gonna think he’s a wimp, so he kind of goes off and does stupid stuff, so nobody will think he’s scared," Sam explained. "Then sometimes, when it starts working for him, he turns into a bully. Then he goes after guys he thinks are scared so he can get easy ‘cool points’ to impress others, so people will think he’s tough." She looked around and then continued. "But, he’s the scaredest one, because he goes to the greatest lengths to establish himself in a position of power over others."

She waited for their response.

The boys just sat there, trying to process what she’d said. Finally, Ike broke the silence.

"So, where’d you read that? In one of those teen magazines?" he asked mockingly.

"Simple observation," Sam stated, matter-of-factly.

"Can you, uhhh, run that by me again?" Ben gulped, clearly confused.

"Please, I’m tryin’ to let food digest here," Ike choked gruffly, while chewing a mouthful of meat.

"Sam, you are so smart," Dave sighed, clearly kissing up.

Ike turned and mimicked Dave’s words to Ben sarcastically. Then he turned back to the food on his plate. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Then Ike looked up from his plate and decreed, "There will be a test on the male ego tomorrow."

Ben snickered. Sam narrowed her eyes at Ike. Dave tried to hide his chuckle with a cough.

"Read chapter 12 in your ‘Girls Are So Much Smarter Than Boys’ textbook," Ike razzed with a smile as he got up while gathering his milk carton and fork. "I’ll see you ya’ll tomorrow." Ike finished off his milk and wiped his mouth as he got up to leave. "I gotta go hit the books."

Then he turned back to face Sam.

"Sorry, Sam," Ike added, "I couldn’t resist."

Sam just sat there, fuming under a fake smile.

"You done with that?" Ike asked, reaching for Ben’s lunch tray.

"Sure," Ben answered with a surprised look, leaning back out of the way. Ike reached for Sam’s trash, too.

"I’ll get that," she objected.

"No, I got it, I’m on my way to the trash anyway," he insisted, picking it up.

"You done?" Ike inquired about the crumbled-up paper bag in front of Dave, and reached for it.

"Uh, yeah," Dave answered in a confused tone, "but I’ll get it."

Dave picked it up before Ike could reach it.

"No, really, allow me," Ike retorted good-naturedly, making a quick stab for it, catching a piece of it.

"No, no, I got that," Dave insisted, pulling it back, causing a little game of tug-of-war over the trash. They smiled at each other momentarily; while Sam and Ben looked on, their heads moving back and forth as if they were watching a tennis match. Finally Ike tore off a piece of the bag, and the sudden slack caused Dave’s hand to recoil and he popped himself in the mouth with his own fist. Sam and Ben flinched, their expressions echoing the look of pain on Dave’s face.

"Sorry, Dave," Ike lied. "I’ll see ya’ll tomorrow."

Ike gave them an over-the-shoulder smile as he headed to the trash cans.

From that moment on, Ike had friends. Not just hangers-on, or acquaintances, or people with hidden agendas who wanted something from him – but real friends he could rely on; all for just putting away his pride and being himself and being friendly.

Chapter 17

The next week, Ike crashed again, this time breaking his wrist. At least it was his left wrist, which did not affect his writing hand. This sparked a major argument with his mom. She had given him a new rule: No more motocross racing. Not now, not ever. He had countered with his usual arguments, but to no avail. She was not going to budge. She was like that; once she got an idea in her head, nothing on earth could make her change her mind. So Ike tried something different: He stopped arguing with her and began to think about it as he got back into his routine. He prayed about it. He searched for the answer – hard. He decided to ask advice from Mr. Gonzales and Crip.

"What do you think I should do?" Ike inquired one day after they locked up the shop.

"She’s your mother, and so she has responsibility for you," Mr. Gonzales pointed out. "In her mind, motocross racing is bad for you. You have to respect her authority, even if you disagree."

"True," Crip added. "So you’re not gonna ‘argue’ her out of it, no matter how passionately you make your case. She’s gonna have to change her mind about racing, when she sees how it benefits you."

"How do I do that?" Ike pleaded.

"You’re gonna need help. We’ll have to go talk to her," Mr. Gonzales answered.

"Whoa! I’m not good at talking to women," Crip protested.

"Not ‘you and me’ we, but ‘Rick and me’ we," Mr. Gonzales clarified. "Rick is a single parent, too, and uses racing to help parent Sam and keep her out of trouble. He’s a great example for how motocross can be used to help kids grow up."

"I think you’ve got something there, Victor," Crip smiled.

"Totally. Let Mr. Rick and Sam talk to her. She loves Sam," Ike added.

"It’s settled, then," Mr. Gonzales said. "We’ll go do something with her that she likes to do, like, uhhhh…"

"Eat," Ike interrupted. "She loves to eat. Seafood – let’s have a crab boil!"

"A crab boil, with a barbecue. I’ll grill some of my famous chicken," Crip declared.

"Oh, you guys have never experienced pure nirvana until you’ve had Crip’s barbecued chicken," Mr. Gonzales smiled, licking his lips.

"That’s slow-roasted, hickory-smoked, secret-recipe barbecued chicken," Crip clarified, boasting, "The generals used to fly me into Saigon just to grill on my custom-built 55-gallon drum pit. They said the war would stop when it was time for Crip’s smoked chicken."

"Ask him to tell you the story of how he used his grilling prowess to escape from a Hanoi prison camp," Mr. Gonzales suggested.

"Uh, that’s classified," Crip stated flatly. "I can’t discuss that."

"Aw, come on, Crip," Ike pleaded. "I won’t tell anyone."

"You don’t need to know everything that happens in war. Let’s just say I softened ’em up with the food, then zigged when they thought I would zag."

"Okay, so it’s settled then," Mr. Gonzales interrupted. "How about this weekend?"

"Fine with me," Crip agreed.

"We’ll be there," Ike said. "Just need to check with Sam and Mr. Rick."

"I’ll give him a heads-up call and let him know the lay of the land," Mr. Gonzales said.

"But what if she still won’t let me?" Ike asked worriedly.

"Ike, there are no rewards without risks," Mr. Gonzales said. "She is your mom and you’ll have to obey her until you move out of the house."

"Until I move out of the house? So that means if…"

"Don’t even think about movin’ out until after you graduate," Crip ordered. "You don’t run from problems. You solve them."

"Yes, captain," Ike said, standing and saluting briskly.

Instantly, Crip was on him before Ike could blink his eyes. Crip took advantage of Ike’s arm being up on his forehead and whipped Ike around and pinned the other arm up into a full nelson. He just held him there while Ike struggled.

"Crip, let me out," Ike gargled, in pain.

"Speak up, I can’t hear you!"

"Let me go!"

"I won’t let you go until you learn your lesson."

"What lesson?"

"What lesson do you think?"

"I don’t – ouch! – I don’t know!"

Crip tightened his hold.

"You’d better come up with something!"

"I, uhh, I need to quit saluting?"

"Try again."

"I need to listen to my mom?"

"Close."

"I need to show respect to adults?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I’m sure!"

"What about your teachers?"

"Yes, even my teachers!"

"What about us?"

"Yes, of course!"

"Of course what?"

"Of course I need to show respect to you guys!"

"Do you know what you’ll get back?"

"No, what?"

"It starts with an ‘r’…"

"I don’t know… uh, rain, rings, rest, ravioli?" Ike chortled.

Crip’s grip tightened again.

"Owwwww! Okay, respect!"

Crip loosened his grip and let him go. Ike dropped his arms and started rubbing his neck.

"That hurt!"

"Pain is the best teacher in the world. As you get wiser, you can learn the easier ways. But with that immature foolishness you’ve got right now, pain is the quickest teacher," Crip scolded.

"Maybe I don’t want to learn that much," Ike quibbled.

"When you stop learning, you start dying," Mr. Gonzales added. "Now you’d better go home and pray that God softens your mom’s attitude, and we’ll do what we can."

"I don’t know if I can even lift my arms to pray," Ike whined.

"It’s not the position of your body, it’s the position of your heart that counts. Now go do your homework and we’ll take care of the rest," Crip ordered.

"But what if she doesn’t go for it?" Ike asked.

"You must learn to walk in faith, not fear," Mr. Gonzales replied. "You are focusing on your fears and will bring them down upon you if you believe the worst. Now, instead of looking at what bad might happen, look at what good could come of it – expect it, act on it. Let go of fear and think in faith. Here, I’ll show you."

Mr. Gonzales disappeared into the back room and came out with a box. He handed it to Ike.

"Go ahead, open it," he said.

Ike just looked at him, then at Crip, then at the box. He popped the cardboard lid off and pulled away the packing. He smiled as he pulled out a brand-new full-face Shoei helmet.

"What’s this for?" Ike asked.

"That’s for you to wear," Mr. Gonzales answered. "You are starting to go faster and need more protection."

Ike just stared at it in disbelief.

"Well, put it on," Crip suggested.

Ike looked the colorful paint job over carefully, checking the little vents in the front and sides. Then he pulled the helmet on over his head.

"Looks good," Mr. Gonzales observed.

"It will look better when he’s going fast," Crip answered.

"I like the cool designs on it," Ike mumbled with a muffled voice from under the helmet.

"I like that it’s the best helmet made and will protect that great mind of yours," Mr. Gonzales said.

"Great mind? Yesterday you said he was hard-headed," Crip said, turning to look at Mr. Gonzales quizzically.

"That’s why God gave him a hard head: to protect that great mind," Mr. Gonzales answered.

"Can I take it home tonight?" Ike asked excitedly.

"Uh, no. I don’t think your mom is quite ready to see that just yet," Mr. Gonzales remarked. "We’ve got to give prayer a little time to work on her. We don’t want to jump out in front of God. It’s a mistake I’ve made way too many times."

"Me, too," Crip agreed, taking the helmet from Ike. "How about you leave that in your stall for a few days and just look at it to keep you focused on what can be."

"And I’ve got something for you," Ike announced.

Crip and Mr. Gonzales just looked at each other and shrugged.

Ike pulled a folder out of his book bag. Then he slipped a report out with red ink markings on the top. He proudly presented it to Mr. Gonzales, who looked it over and flipped through the pages. Then he showed it to Crip, who took the report and read the teacher’s note on the top:

"Very good work, Ike. I’ve noticed a vast improvement in your attitude and work the last few months. I hope you stop by and tell me about it. I always thought you were capable of work like this. Good choice of book, too. Take Chuck Norris’ advice and you’ll see more success come your way. Good luck with the racing. I think it’s done you good."

Mr. Gonzales and Crip stood up and high-fived.

"Well, now, I think your mom is ready for this!" Mr. Gonzales exclaimed excitedly.

"That’s just what we needed," Crip echoed with a grin, "an ace in the hole."

Chapter 18

The barbecue went well, except for one thing. Ike’s mom refused to agree to let Ike race, despite the best efforts of all involved. Mr. Rick and Mr. Gonzales reasoned with her about how it was good for Ike and showed her the teacher’s notes and even had the teacher call her while Crip boiled crabs and grilled his magical chicken. But she was dead-set against it. It was as if there was an unseen enemy lurking deep inside her that they couldn’t get to.

Ike got into another argument with her and then stormed out of the house. All the guests picked up and left. Now there was only one person left that might talk some sense into her – Sam. She had missed the barbecue due to a track meet.

Everyone fell into their routine again as the weather began to warm with the coming of spring. A dark cloud of depression began to cover Ike again as the thought of not being allowed to race began to sink in. Tricia still allowed him to ride, though. So he practiced on his modern bike and Vinnie every chance he got. It seemed to help his mood. But as he tried to keep his grades up, he had trouble concentrating.

The arguments in the Hebert household became more frequent and more volatile. At best, there was an uneasy truce between mother and son. At worst, it was like two enemies trying to live in the same house. There was no end in sight except one: the end of the school year.

Sam had been busy with school and racing. She made the honor roll at school, won some gold medals at the track meets, and continued to win every motocross race. But everything was not well with her. Someone had started rumors about her and Ben, her and Dave, and her and Ike – even her and Jimmy Plaisance! If that wasn’t enough, Kate Sterling had bad-mouthed her in a magazine interview that became the talk on motocross message boards around the nation. Kate had accused her of using performance-enhancing drugs and cutting the track during races.

Sam soon become discouraged and began to make excuses to get out of going to the races or to school. At the last big race, someone put sugar in her fuel tank and the bike stalled on an approach to a jump, sending her over the bars. She landed on her right shoulder, dislocating it and breaking two fingers.

After two days in the hospital, Sam made a decision. When Mr. Rick came to visit, she just came right out and said it.

"Dad, I’m quitting motocross."

"But why?"

"Because it’s not fun anymore," she admitted. "You told me yourself: When it’s not fun anymore, I should quit."

"Yes, but that meant if you wanted to pursue something else or if you got burned out, not quit when it gets hard. What you’re doing is quitting because it’s getting tougher, and that’s just wrong."

"But it’s my body, my career, and I’m tired of you pushing me. I’m tired of training. I’m tired of having to eat the right foods and sacrifice other things. I just wanna be a regular teenager like everybody else."

"Honey, listen," her dad said. "When you start comparing yourself to others, you are making a mistake. Because that’s a game you’ll always lose. It’s human nature to compare your worst side with their best side, or your best side with their worst side. And even if you do come out on top, it will only lead to conceit and arrogance."

"But I just want to be normal," she whimpered, as she tried to move into a more comfortable position in the hospital bed.

"What is ‘normal’?" he asked. "Do you mean ‘average’? Because most people settle for just being average out of laziness. They don’t want to pay the price it takes to reach their dreams. They want to do just enough to get by or get what they want. You can be average if you want. We’ll sell the bikes and trailer and gear and you can just concentrate on the little stuff that other teenagers concentrate on – getting people to like them, going out to party on the weekends, staring at themselves in the mirror and worrying about blemishes, gossiping, fighting with parents…"

"Okay, Dad," she interrupted. "I get the picture. But aren’t we fighting now?"

"No, we’re discussing."

"Arguing."

"Okay, arguing. But arguing is healthy if we stay on the topic and don’t attack each other personally."

"All right, back to the topic. I’m quitting racing."

"No, you’re not."

"Yes, I am."

"No, I’ve got too much invested in you to quit now," he said, his voice rising. "Besides, you are only two races away from qualifying for the National Championship."

"I don’t care about that anymore," she whined.

"Yes, you do. You’re just tired of the sacrifice and now you want to quit right before the finish line."

"Dad, I’m tired. I’m just so tired!"

She couldn’t hold back any longer; she began to sob. Mr. Rick reached over to grab the box of tissues. He pulled a couple from the box and kneeled next to the bed, getting level with her tear-stained face.

"I know, honey," he said tenderly. "Just promise me one thing."

"What’s that?" she sniffled, as she took a tissue to wipe her eyes.

"That you won’t make an important life-changing decision while you are tired and hurting, okay?"

"Okay."

"Those are some nice flowers you got here. Who sent them?"

"Ike."

She wiped her eyes and began to regain her composure.

"Ike? What about Dave Remington?"

"Oh, he’s a jerk," she blurted. "We broke up when he heard the rumors. He just wanted some of my popularity anyway. So when it was gone, so was he."

"So he wouldn’t believe you?"

"No one would, at least not if they wanted to kiss up to the ‘cool kids.’ Ike was the only one."

"I think you’ve got a good friend there. But he’s having struggles, too."

Mr. Rick got up and went back to his seat.

Sam thought for a moment and then asked, "Dad, why won’t his mom let him race?"

"Because she loves him and wants to protect him," said Mrs. Hebert, answering Sam’s question as she entered the room. "I can’t stand to see him get hurt."

She looked at Sam with concern.

"Are you all right?" Tricia asked.

"I’m just tired," Sam replied, "tired of everything: tired of school, tired of racing, tired of being me."

"Are you really thinking of quitting racing?" Tricia prodded, a shocked look on her face.

"Yes, I’ve had enough. It’s a rough sport anyway. I might try something like painting or cheerleading."

There was a long silence as Tricia and Rick just looked at her and glanced at each other, trying to hide their chuckles. Everyone in the room knew the obvious, but no one wanted to say it. So it went unsaid.

Chapter 19

Things had gone downhill for Ike since he’d had to stop racing. The weeks dragged on, and he’d begun to isolate himself. The walls he put up caused the destructive thinking to come back. By May, he was in a full-blown depression.

Ike just stared at his mashed potatoes. He knew he should eat them, and the banana, but since he wasn’t in training anymore, he just picked up the cookie and stuck it in his pocket. He got up, took his tray to the window and dropped it off. He trudged out of the cafeteria alone, as usual.

In his depression, and with Sam out of school, Ike didn’t care to pursue any new friendships. It took too much energy, which he didn’t have. He had to concentrate on just putting one foot in front of the other in his now pointless routine. The only thing that kept him going was the thought of getting his own truck. It made work seem worthwhile. He needed to have some wheels under him, and he had outgrown the bicycle. This summer he would have freedom: freedom to go where he wanted, when he wanted, with no one telling him what to do. He wanted to get away – away from school, away from home, away from Jimmy Plaisance and his bullying goons, and away from Calais. Maybe he could start all over in New Orleans or Lafayette.

When school was over, Ike got the job of telling his mother he had failed 10th grade. She had already known, but she wanted him to tell her. They didn’t fight about it; they were too tired of fighting. Tricia was weary of being a parent of a teenager and Ike was ready for a change. But there was no way out and they were at an impasse. That’s when Ike quietly packed his backpack and walked out. He didn’t really intend on coming back. He left a note that simply read: ‘Sorry about being a bother to you. I love you, Ike.’

Ike hitchhiked to New Orleans. When he got to town, he walked into the French Quarter and began the darkest two weeks of his life. It only took three days to run out of money. Then he got beaten up by another homeless man who stole everything, even his backpack and wallet. He resorted to digging in trash bins behind restaurants for his food. He learned to panhandle the tourists for pocket change and began to hang with a lower-level street gang that seemed to like him. His mood began to improve as he finally felt a sense of belonging, camaraderie – like the family he’d always wanted.

But the fun didn’t last long. One dark, rainy night, the gang was arrested when they set off a car alarm while trying to jack a stereo. Ike went to jail. For the first time in his life, he had really lost his freedom. With his one phone call, he contacted Mr. Gonzales.

"Mr. Gonzales?" Ike asked as the call went through.

"Yes? This is Victor Gonzales."

"Hi, this is…"

"Ike? Is that you? Where are you?" Mr. Gonzales grilled Ike frantically.

"I’m in the juvenile detention center."

"For what?"

"Burglary."

"What? You?"

"Yes sir."

"Why?"

"I gotta eat."

"But not that way. I’ll be right over."

In two hours, Mr. Gonzales was there, talking to Ike.

"Now what happened?"

"I, uhh, don’t really know," Ike confessed. "I guess I was just tryin’ to grow up."

"Are you done with your experiment, or should I leave you in there to see if your hypothesis is correct?"

"My hypothesis was wrong," Ike admitted. "This was not the way to live. Maybe there’s a better way."

"You know there is. What do you want to do now?"

"Well, I don’t really want to go back to Calais, but I don’t want to stay here."

"What do you suggest?"

"I don’t know," Ike said, and then paused. "Can I stay at your place until I figure something out?"

"You’ll have to apologize to the judge and work off your bail and fines," Mr. Gonzales insisted. "But I think we can work something out."

"Can I go home tonight?"

"No, you’ll have to spend a night or two, but I think I can have you out by Tuesday."

"Tuesday?" Ike groaned.

"Yes."

"But… why not tonight?" Ike stammered.

"Because sometimes the wheels of justice take time to roll," Mr. Gonzales said. "Just sit tight. You’ll be okay."

"I guess I don’t have a choice," Ike sighed.

"I guess you’ve put yourself into a position where your choices are very limited," Mr. Gonzales scolded. "I’ll see you tomorrow, one way or the other."

It took Mr. Gonzales two days to get Ike out of jail, and it took meeting with the judge and agreeing to have Ike released into his custody. By the time Ike was able to walk out into the street and look up into the daylight, he felt like a new person. The feeling of freedom was like none he had ever had in his life. His mom, Crip and Mr. Gonzales took him to a restaurant to discuss his future.

"Ike, we’ve been talking, and we’ve decided it’s time for you to take your trip," Mr. Gonzales began.

"My vacation?"

"It’s not going to be a vacation," his mom corrected him. "It’s going to be an ‘attitude-adjustment’ trip."

"I don’t mind what you call it, I like going on trips with Mr. Gonzales," Ike pressed, excitedly.

"I’m not going with you," Mr. Gonzales stated steadily, looking into Ike’s eyes with sadness.

"Then who am I going with?" Ike asked, perplexed.

They all looked at Crip, who was looking Ike dead in the eyes. Suddenly Ike realized who he would be traveling with.

"Oh, no, not Crip," Ike objected.

"Why not Crip?" Tricia countered. "He loves you."

"You mean like lions love rabbits?" Ike snorted.

"Crip has something planned that you’re gonna love," Mr. Gonzales explained.

"Like getting beat up or hung upside down?" Ike argued, his voice tinged with fear.

"No, like a visit to his people in Springfield, to get a fresh perspective," Mr. Gonzales replied matter-of-factly.

"Louisiana?" Ike groaned.

"Yes," Mr. Gonzales replied.

"For what?"

Finally, Crip spoke up.

"To help you grow up. Son, you need to learn discipline, and I’m gonna help you."

"You mean like ‘Marine Corps’ grown up or ‘Indian’ grown up?" Ike asked sarcastically.

"Both," Crip stated crisply. "Now let’s get goin’. We’re burning daylight."

"But what if I don’t want to?" Ike debated, folding his arms defiantly.

"Oh, you’ll want to. We’ll make sure of that," Crip barked with authority.

"Who’s ‘we’?" Ike challenged.

"Me, Crip, your mom, and the judge," Mr. Gonzales responded firmly.

Ike looked from face to face. He knew he was cornered and out of options. The trip was better than jail, and better than going back to Calais.

"I’ll agree on one condition," Ike negotiated.

"No conditions. You just go," Crip ordered.

"Wait," Tricia said, and then asked Ike, "What’s your condition?"

"That I can bring my modern bike. I want to ride while I’m there."

Tricia and Mr. Gonzales looked at each other, and then at Crip, who nodded.

"Okay, we’ll agree – on one condition," Crip countered.

"What’s that?" Ike retorted, distrustfully.

"You’ll do everything – I mean everything – I say, when I say it, without whining or complaining," Crip proposed.

Ike thought for a moment, looking at each of their faces, measuring their will.

"Okay," Ike conceded, trying to hide the reservations he felt.

"Wait, I’m not done. If you don’t, you’ll face consequences. If you step out of line, you’ll face consequences. I’ll be legally responsible for you, and your butt will be mine for one month," Crip said, looking over at Tricia.

Tricia looked at Mr. Gonzales with alarm. Mr. Gonzales slowly began to nod.

"That’s the ticket that will take you to the next level, Ike," said Mr. Gonzales. "Tricia, I know you’re not completely comfortable with this, but I would trust Crip with my life, even my own son’s life. His techniques are sometimes a bit… barbaric, but his heart is true and his mind is sharp. He’s helped me out many times, and he’ll help Ike, too."

Tricia looked from one man to the other, but she saw no signs of anyone backing down.

"Okay," she consented reluctantly, "do what you need to do."

"One more thing. I’ll need power of attorney. Just a precautionary measure in case he needs medical care or anything," Crip explained.

"What do you mean ‘if he needs medical care’!?" Tricia gasped.

"What he means, Tricia, is that it’s time to cut the apron strings," Mr. Gonzales clarified.

She studied Mr. Gonzales in disbelief, but he stared her down. Then she looked at Crip, who nodded. Finally, she looked at Ike, who just shrugged.

"I see," she said, bristling defensively.

"It’s okay, Mom, I can take anything he wants to dish out," Ike pledged, patting her arm. "I’ll be all right."

Tricia looked again at Ike, then Mr. Gonzales, then Crip, and then back at Ike.

"You’ll bring my boy back to me?" she asked Crip softly.

"No."

"What?" she exclaimed.

"I’ll bring a man back to you. We’ll leave the boy somewhere in the swamp," Crip vowed with a smirk.

A smile began to form on Mr. Gonzales’ face. Then one appeared on Ike’s face. The smiles turned into laughter. The laughter finally rubbed off on Tricia, who just shook her head.

"Men," she groaned, rolling her eyes.

Chapter 20

Ike stared out of the window of Crip’s pickup truck as they ambled north on Highway 1, past the docks and boathouses along Bayou Lafourche. The morning sun was cresting the trees, and most of the shrimp trawlers and crabbers were out in the marshes and the Gulf of Mexico by now.

Ike’s mind began to wander.

‘Some of my cousins and uncles are already offshore, workin’ in the sun. What are Crip’s relatives like? What kind of work do they do? What kind of work would Crip be doing if he hadn’t gone to war? Why did he choose to make a living fixing other people’s motorcycles?’

Ike leaned his head against the window and drifted back to sleep.

Two hours later, Ike was awakened by the slowing of the truck. They pulled up to a little country convenience store in a clearing in the woods, just off the asphalt road.

"Gotta get some gas," Crip said. "You want anything?"

"No, I’m good," Ike mumbled, repositioning his head on the door and closing his eyes.

"Crip! Long time, no see, cuz," said a tall, muscular Indian, greeting Crip with arms extended.

"Too long, dog, too long," Crip replied with a wide grin as they embraced, finishing with a forearm shake and broad smiles. "How’s everybody?"

"Same ol’, same ol’ – hangin’ in there. They all been askin’ about ya’, especially Ziptie."

"Funny you should mention him. I’m on my way to see him now. Where is he?"

"Where he always is: at his dirt pit. He’ll be happy to see ya’. Hey, who’s the young buck?"

"Oh, that’s Ike. I think he’s bein’ a little shy."

"You takin’ him in there, too?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Don’t you remember what happened last time you brought a stranger in?"

"Hey, how was I supposed to know he was a low-down mule for that drug lord? There’s still hope for this one. He isn’t spoiled yet."

"How do you know this one will be any different?"

"You gotta try."

Crip finished pumping the gas and replaced the pump nozzle, and then screwed the gas cap back on. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of bills, counted out the thirty-six dollars and handed it to the attendant.

"This one is different," Crip explained. "I know him. And it’s a personal favor for a friend."

"Oh, boy, here we go again. Crip tryin’ to save the world. Good luck with that."

"It’s not luck I need, it’s Him," Crip smiled, pointing up.

"Always. Semper Fi!"

"Ooh-Rah!" Crip added as they shook forearms again.

Crip limped around to the driver’s door and opened it. He had to drag his wooden leg in behind him and physically place it on the clutch. He carefully closed the well-oiled door and started the motor. It hummed the tune of a big V-8 with headers and glass packs.

"Man, I love that sound," Crip uttered, closing his eyes and relaxing his head against the headrest.

Ike opened his eyes and looked over. "What sound?"

"If you have to ask, you wouldn’t understand," Crip chuckled with a sly grin.

"Oh, that sound. It’s pretty cool," Ike nodded. "But not as cool as a Yamaha R6 at 10,000 rpm in sixth gear."

Ike turned to look at Crip for his reaction.

"Son, you’d be going 130 miles per hour, and you’d better be on a racetrack," Crip said, turning to look at Ike. "Does Mr. Gonzales know you did that with one of his bikes?"

"Not yet. And he doesn’t have to, does he?"

"That depends on how you act the next few weeks. Yep, it depends on you."

Crip put his glasses on and stuck a piece of gum in his mouth. Then he started snickering.

"What?" asked Ike.

"An R6 at 10,000. You’re lucky you didn’t blow the motor."

"Hey, to each his own. I like fast and you like old… what is this truck again?"

"A 1967 Ford F-100," he announced proudly.

"I bet it doesn’t even have a hemi, does it?" Ike teased.

Crip stared at Ike in disbelief. Then he nodded as if arriving at a decision.

"Buckle up," Crip ordered.

"What?"

"Buckle up."

"Why?"

"It’s the law."

Reluctantly, Ike buckled his belt. Immediately, Crip downshifted and punched it. The tires tore up the asphalt and burned rubber for five long seconds, fishtailing down the old road. When Crip shifted into third gear, Ike’s head was plastered to the headrest, his eyes wide in terror. Ike tried to peek at the speedometer, but he kept a tight, white-knuckled hold on the door handle.

"How fast are we goin’?" he gasped in fright.

"Take a look," Crip calmly replied as he shifted into fourth and let the tach wind up to redline.

Ike leaned over and stared at the speedometer, which was topped out at 110.

"I don’t think so," he shot at Crip with disbelief; then he turned and watched the trees blur past his window. "Looks like 130."

"Guess again," Crip said, looking over at Ike.

"Don’t take your eyes off the road, Crip! And slow down, for God’s sake!"

"For whose sake?" Crip snapped. He glanced at the road ahead, and then back at Ike with a mean look.

"Okay, for Pete’s sake. You’re gonna get a ticket!"

"Might. Might not."

Crip started slowing down, bringing a sigh of relief from Ike.

"If you like speed so much, why were you so afraid?" Crip asked.

"I wasn’t afraid."

"Sure you were. But why weren’t you afraid when you had that R6 up at 130?"

"’Cause I… I don’t know," Ike shrugged.

"Well, I’ll tell ya, since you don’t know. It’s the same reason your mom wouldn’t let you race. It’s all about control. You were afraid because you weren’t in control of the wheel, and you don’t trust me yet. You’re gonna have to trust me – with your life, if need be."

"‘If need be’?"

"If need be."

"Is ‘be’ gonna be ‘needed’?" Ike asked, looking questioningly at Crip.

"Might," Crip cautioned.

"‘Might’?" Ike questioned, studying Crip’s face, wondering what he meant.

"Might," Crip repeated with finality.

There was a long silence.

"What do you mean, ‘might’?" Ike pressed.

"Well, I got this here big, modern motor in this old truck for a reason."

"Oh – ‘if need be’?"

"Hey, you’re a fast learner."

Crip eased the truck back down to within the speed limit.

"So does this thing have a hemi?"

Crip laughed.

"Don’t need no hemi when you got lots of supercharged ponies that are trained to fly!"

They rode silently for a few minutes, each considering his own thoughts.

"Well, here we are," Crip announced, pointing to a sign on the right that read, "You are now entering Choctaw tribal lands."

Suddenly a police car pulled out from a little side road and turned on its lights. It came up on them in seconds.

"Who’s that?" Ike yelped in alarm, sitting up.

"My brother. Well, my half-brother," Crip answered as he pulled the truck over onto the gravel shoulder. He took off his sunglasses and looked in the rearview mirror to watch the cop get out of his car.

Chapter 21

The uniformed patrolman stepped out of his car and approached the truck. He took off his sunglasses and peered through the window. Crip rolled the window down and asked, "What can I do for you, officer?"

A look of recognition dawned on the patrolman’s face and a smile began to crease his lips.

"Well, you can start by following me to the station and getting fingerprinted."

"Fingerprinted?"

"Yeah, get those greasy fingerprints on my Harley. It’s hard to start and runnin’ rough."

"Uh, officer, may I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Why didn’t you fix it yourself?"

"I’m too busy."

"Too busy? On a reservation with less than a thousand people, mostly family, and you can’t find time to fix your bike?"

"Well, that, and I don’t have the touch, like you."

"True," Crip agreed and stepped out of the truck and embraced the officer the same way he had the other Indian at the gas station.

"What’s up, bro’? It’s been way too long," Crip announced with a broad grin.

"Way, way," the officer concurred. "You been keepin’ yourself lean and mean?"

"Less and less as I get older."

"Been keepin’ yourself clean?"

"Yep. Finally figured out the secret," Crip answered.

"What’s that?"

"The company you keep. And I’ve settled down into a steady job."

"I’ve been telling you to do that for years."

"Hey, Ike, I want you to meet somebody," Crip called, turning and peering into the car. "This is my brother, Doug."

Ike jumped out of the truck and came around to face the tall officer.

"Doug, this is Ike, a friend of mine. He’s a motocrosser."

Doug looked at Ike intently, measuring him up as he extended his hand.

"So you’re the one," he smiled as he grasped Ike’s hand firmly.

"I’m the one?"

"The one that’s coming here to train."

"To train? Yeah, I guess so. I mean, Crip hasn’t exactly explained everything to me yet."

"He’s like that. Everything’s on a ‘need to know’ basis," Doug chided, casting a wink in Crip’s direction. "It’s one of his leftover bad habits from the war."

"Hey, I’ve cleaned up pretty good. Better than most," Crip defended himself, with a push to Doug’s shoulder that sent him off balance. Doug just gave him the eye.

"At least you came back," Doug responded.

"Well, most of me came back," Crip smiled at Ike, tapping his wooden leg.

Doug walked over to the bed of the truck and studied Ike’s bike.

"What year is this 250?"

"2005. It runs good, but we gotta tune the suspension," Ike said.

Doug looked at Crip.

"Did Crip tell you what you’d be doin’?"

Doug looked back and forth from Ike to Crip as if he knew something Ike didn’t.

"Uh, no, I haven’t told him yet. Look Doug, we’ll see ya at the house this evening. Is the camper ready?" Crip asked, trying to change the subject. He reached back into the bed of the truck and unzipped Ike’s gear bag. He pulled his race boots out.

Doug took the hint and put his sunglasses back on.

"Yeah, it’s ready. Got the stuff you asked for all laid out in there. Well, I guess I gotta get back to work. You’re havin’ dinner with us tonight. Lacey is cooking your favorite meal."

"Seafood gumbo?"

"No, peanut butter and mustard," Doug stated, trying to keep a straight face.

"Oh, now you’re talkin’!" Crip celebrated, high-fiving Doug. Ike just stared at the two in disbelief.

"What, you never tasted peanut butter and mustard? You have got to get out more, Ike," Crip said, faking shock.

"Especially when you put tuna fish on it," Doug seconded.

"And lima beans," Crip added, nodding.

"And don’t forget the jalapeno peppers and anchovies," Doug called over his shoulder as he walked back to his car.

"And don’t forget the stale bread pudding for dessert!" Crip laughed.

"Your feast should be ready at about sunset, but you can come hang out earlier," Doug declared as he paused at his door.

"We’ll be there. Hey, is the peanut butter old?" Crip asked, raising his hands questioningly.

"Oh, yeah, probably over a year," Doug countered. "It’s been sitting under the house with the lid off. Probably raised 25 families of flies in there."

"Then we’ll definitely be there," Crip said with excitement in his voice, celebrating with a jubilant fist in the air. "Won’t we, Ike?"

"Uh, yeah, sure. I can’t wait to eat that," Ike said, slowly and sarcastically.

The men laughed and waved to each other as the police car pulled away.

"You guys are weird," Ike noted flatly, shaking his head.

"Son, you’ll learn that humor is the spice of life. Without it, we’d all go crazy. Now here," Crip said, tossing his racing boots to Ike. "Put these on."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

"Why?"

"The next time you ask me that question you’re gonna do 30 push-ups," Crip warned, his tone changing. "Do you or do you not want to train?"

"But, not the… this is not… the Marines," Ike offered weakly.

"Don’t knock the Corps. They have the best program in the world. Why do you think a recruit doesn’t have to go back through basic when he transfers to another branch of the service from the Marines?"

"I dunno."

"Because we do it right the first time! Now, you’ve got two minutes to get your socks and boots on."

Ike sat down and pulled off his tennis shoes. He reached into his boots and grabbed his long racing socks.

"Do you want me to put my race pants and other stuff on, too?"

"Nope. Just your boots."

"Why, uhh, I mean, what will I be doin’, ridin’?"

"Nope. Running."

"Running?"

"Running. You’ve got 20 seconds left."

Crip turned and got into the truck. He started it up and looked behind him out of the window.

"Throw your shoes in the truck. You got it easy today."

"Easy?"

"Yeah, it’s not dusty."

Crip began to pull away.

"Wait, I’m not…" Ike slapped the last buckle closed and jumped up, grabbing his shoes and socks. He took off after the truck and tossed them into the bed of the truck. Crip increased the speed and opened up a distance of 50 feet between them. And with that, Ike began a new training program that would take him to the next level of racing.

Chapter 22

After two slow miles of jogging, Crip turned down a gravel road under a sign that read, "Lejeune Dirt and Gravel." Ike was sucking wind and slowing to a snail’s pace as the boots began to feel like big chunks of concrete on his feet. Then he caught the sound of motocross bikes ahead, which gave him just the boost he needed to follow the truck through the gate and up the driveway. Crip stopped the truck under a shade tree in front of a little mobile home overlooking a big dirt pit. He stepped out of the truck to wait for Ike to cover the last 200 yards to a much-deserved rest. Crip reached into the ice chest and drew out two bottles of water. He opened one and surveyed the scene before him.

There were two dump trucks, a giant front-end loader, a back hoe and a bulldozer down in the pit. Off to the right were various older pieces of heavy equipment dying a slow, rusty death. To the left was an oval dirt track. But Crip’s gaze stopped on the field directly behind the pit, where a half-dozen motocross bikes were flying high into the sky like bouncing balls.

Ike trotted and tripped his way up to the back of the truck and collapsed on the tailgate. Gasping for air, he turned his sweat-streaked, sun-scorched face up to Crip, but words wouldn’t come out of his mouth.

"Save your breath. Here," Crip said, handing him the water and looking back at the bikes. After Ike had twisted off the cap and sucked down half the bottle, he dragged himself up onto the tailgate and leaned against the inner side of the bed.

The door to the office opened and a tall, thin man with a black cowboy hat stepped out onto the porch of the mobile home. He looked the truck over, noticed the bike in the back, and then gazed at Crip.

"Well, well. Look what the dog drug in," he drawled with a western twang in his voice. "Crip, you ol’ chunk of rawhide, why didn’t you call ahead? I would’ve iced the beer and fired the grill."

The man made his way down the steps and up to the truck. Crip turned and held his arms open with a smile.

"And you thought you was rid of me, didn’t you?"

"Nah, you’re like an old turtle. The only way to keep you outta the pond is to shoot ya’."

They embraced like long-lost brothers.

"That’s been tried, many times, and it don’t work," Crip joshed, as he stepped back to look at his old friend. "You haven’t changed a bit."

"You neither – just frozen in time," Ziptie noted, stepping back to look him over.

"Yep, except I’m gettin’ old and tired."

"I hear ya, brother."

They looked at each other for a few seconds. Then Crip spoke.

"Come over here, there’s somebody I want you to meet."

The tall cowboy followed him around the back of the truck. Ike was following them with his eyes, but his body was still slumped over in exhaustion.

"This is Ike Hebert, a friend of mine. He’s come to train for motocross. Ike, this is Ziptie. He’s the owner of this outfit."

Ike dragged his tired body off the tailgate to shake Ziptie’s hand. They looked into each other’s eyes for a split second, as if looking to see what was really inside.

"Glad to meet ya, Ike."

"You, too, uhh, Mr. Ziptie."

"You can just call me Ziptie. So, you like racing or freestyle?"

"I race, but I like to watch freestyle on TV."

"Well, you can see it live here," Ziptie nodded over toward the back of the pit.

"Ziptie owns three race teams – a flat-track, motocross, and freestyle jumping team," Crip explained.

"Cool. So that’s your freestyle team out there?" Ike assumed, pointing to the jumpers.

"No, that’s just some of the boys playin’ around. Some are on one or the other of the teams, and they just like to play out there."

"It keeps their skills sharp to ride every day with each other, just like iron sharpens iron," Crip remarked, his gaze steady on the riders.

"They’ll go from the jumps to the flat track to the MX course like a flock of birds, until they get tired or run out of gas," Ziptie said, and then pointed at Ike’s boots. "You been runnin’ in those?"

"Not my idea," Ike muttered, nodding angrily over at Crip.

"It’s a good one; I taught it to him," Ziptie bragged proudly, taking off his bandana and wiping the sweat off his forehead. "It builds the muscles in your legs so they become used to the boots – and gets your feet used to feeling the ground through the boots. Plus, you get more of a workout. Follow me, I want to show you something."

Ziptie led them around the left side of the pit, past the flat track. Once they got beyond it, they could see the motocross track. Ike’s eyes were drawn to the huge tabletops and triple jumps. He started to feel sick to his stomach. Crip noticed.

"Before we leave here," he commented, "you’ll be able to clear those jumps at high speed without even thinking about it. You’ll also be able to run a 40-minute moto full speed."

"Forty-minute motos?" Ike protested. "Are you crazy?"

"Run 40-minute motos in practice so that when you’re in a race, you can handle 20 minutes," Crip explained. "You tighten up in a race, which saps more strength and pumps up your arms."

"They used to run 40-minute motos in my day," Ziptie drawled. "That would separate the men from the boys, especially on the old machines that had only six inches of travel on front and four in back."

"I’ve raced the old bikes, too," Ike offered.

"Not the real old ones, just the Post-Vintage, ’82 model," Crip corrected. "He’s ridden the ’74, but not the real old BSAs and Triumphs. You’ve changed the track since the last time I was here."

"Yep," Ziptie confirmed. "We copied some of the Texas, Florida and California tracks as best we can on flat ground. But we keep the latest developments in for the guys to practice on. Sand sweepers and rhythm sections are real hot right now, as well as step-ons and step-offs. Supercross keeps making things more technical, and the younger riders love air time."

"Not me," Ike complained.

"That’s just ’cause you haven’t been taught yet on a modern bike. It’s all about confidence," Crip asserted, grabbing Ike’s shoulder and shaking him playfully.

"Careful, my legs are still wobbly," Ike whined.

"We gonna fix that, too," Crip forecast, winking at Ziptie.

"You gonna have to force-feed him to get him ready in just a few weeks," Ziptie cautioned.

"We’ll just get his confidence up and his technique in," Crip said. "This will be like training camp. He’ll have to come back for more practices later."

"Okay, Sean Peyton, let’s get those Saints to the Super Bowl!" Ziptie crowed with excitement.

"Hey, I got the talent standing right here," Crip boasted, putting a hand on Ike’s shoulder.

The sound of the bikes got louder, prompting the three of them to look over at the jumps. Seven dirt bikes began to make their way over toward the office.

"Come on," Ziptie urged. "Let’s go meet ’em."

Chapter 23

The riders pulled up under the shade of the moss-draped live oak. They took off their helmets and headed for the artesian well. One by one, they soaked their heads and drank their fill, and then collapsed on the ground. They were pulling off their boots when Ziptie walked up.

"Hey, guys! You have a good ride?" Ziptie queried, to no one in particular.

"It was good. Skeeter threw a chain, though," the biggest one explained.

"Ya’ll fix it?" Ziptie responded.

"Yeah, he found a 520 O ring chain in the tool shed and put it on," another remarked.

"How’d the sprockets look?" continued Ziptie.

"They were okay. I think I got a rock in there or something. The chain was old, anyway," Skeeter answered coolly.

"I’ve got someone I want you to meet. You know Crip," Ziptie said, smiling, and they all greeted Crip warmly and with respect; it seemed they all knew him already. "And this here’s Ike. He’s come to train with us for a couple weeks."

The riders just looked Ike over, cautiously. Ike nodded coolly. They stared coldly and nodded without getting up. Ike cast a sidewise glance at Crip, who looked back at him with a raised eyebrow, as if to say, "This is gonna be a tough crowd."

Ziptie rubbed his hands together and asked, "Who wants some watermelon?" That brought a raucous roar. "Robbie, go get a big one from the patch," Ziptie ordered.

Immediately a boy got up and went out to fetch the melon while the others stripped down to their riding pants and bare feet. When the boy returned, he dropped the watermelon on the ground, breaking it open to reveal the sweet red meat. There was a fight for the heart; then the latecomers settled for the rest. Soon everyone was shoving pieces in their mouths, the red juice dripping down their chests.

"So, Ike, how long you been racin’?" a rider asked.

"Oh, about two months," Ike mumbled between the spitting of seeds.

"You a beginner?" another boy probed.

"No, I’m a novice."

"So you’ve raced more than a year?"

"One month."

"But how many times have you raced?" another asked with a perplexed tone.

"Twice," Ike stated matter-of-factly.

The racers just looked at each other and slowed their eating.

"And how’d you do?" another grilled him.

"Crashed twice," Ike responded coolly, continuing to eat. His answer brought a laugh from the boys, with a few nods of appreciation.

"I heard that," one boy chuckled. "That’s how I started, too. You get hurt?"

"Sprained ankle the first time, broken shoulder and ribs the second."

"Then why are you still racing?" a boy said, needling him.

"’Cause I’m a racer," Ike asserted.

Crip chuckled. Ziptie dropped his piece of melon and the boys stopped talking and just stared at Ike. When he noticed that everyone was staring at him, Ike felt compelled to explain.

"It is what it is. I’m a motocross racer, that’s who I am. I’m going to work hard and one day I’ll be National Champion."

Everyone burst out laughing – that is, everyone except Ziptie, Crip and one boy.

"Well, Crip, looks like you got your work cut out for you," Ziptie jested, smiling at Ike.

"So I have," Crip agreed, looking proudly at Ike. "So I have."

They began to clean up at the well and get dressed in their gear.

"Come on guys, let’s hit the flat track," the biggest one suggested. Ike looked at Crip, who shook his head "no." Ike looked down, and then got up and washed his hands. One by one, the boys remounted, started their bikes, and rode away.

"Why can’t I go ride with them?" Ike pleaded.

"You’re not ready," Crip replied.

"When will I be ready?"

"In a couple days, depending."

"On what?"

"On how you respond to the program."

"What program?"

"Your program. You ask too many questions. Let’s go get settled in at the camper."

"So you’re gonna be a champion?" Ziptie drawled with a thick cowboy accent, while wiping his brow with his handkerchief. "I gotta hand it to you. You talk big. Can you back it up?"

"Sure. Just watch me."

"I will," Ziptie assured him and then tipped his hat to Crip. "See you guys tomorrow?"

"Maybe," Crip answered. "We have a few wrinkles to work out."

Crip and Ike got back in the truck and began to pull up the driveway, stopping at the rim of the hill to watch the riders flat-tracking below them. One of the riders peeled away from the group and rode up to the truck, pulling up on the passenger’s side. He took off his goggles and looked at Ike.

"Ike, I like what you said back there. If you need anything, jus’ ask for Skeeter. I live just down that road."

Skeeter reached out his gloved hand, and Ike shook it.

"Thanks, I will," Ike returned.

"Gotta go."

"See ya," Ike said, waving as Skeeter pulled away.

"Looks like ya got a friend," Crip noted.

"Yep."

"You’re gonna need him," Crip predicted ominously.

Chapter 24

Later that evening, they sat down with Doug and his wife for a meal.

"Wow, that was some good meal," Crip remarked, as he pushed back his chair and rubbed his belly.

"Yeah, that was the best Cajun Spaghetti I ever had," echoed Ike, who was already finishing his dessert, scraping his bowl with his spoon while trying to get every last bit of ice cream. "What was in it again?"

"Venison sausage and squirrel meat, with gator sauce piquant," said Doug’s wife, Lacey. "Ya’ll made short work of that batch. Next time we’ll have to clean out a whole corner of the swamp to feed you," she teased.

"So, word is ya’ll been havin’ some trouble with some swampers," Crip observed. "I heard they’re raidin’ the outlyin’ settlements?"

"I’m not so sure it’s swampers," Doug began. "This just started about three months ago. It was about the time there was a big escape from Angola prison. If my hunch is correct, it’s either those escapees or some of those foreigners that jump off the ships comin’ up the Mississippi."

"What are they takin’?" Ike asked, pushing away his bowl.

"Tools, electronics, jewelry – the usual. Anything they can sell or pawn. But they’ve been getting more brazen and even mean. Besides stealin’ stuff, they’ve even started killing dogs, cows, sheep, even cats."

"Have you tried to track ’em?" Crip asked.

Doug finished chewing, and then wiped his face with his napkin.

"Yep, but we always lose their trail in one of the pull ditches."

"What’s a pull ditch?" Ike asked, hoping he wouldn’t look dumb. When they looked at him and then at each other, he added, "Well, I don’t know."

"Little canals were dug all through the swamp at the turn of the century to get the cypress timber out," described Doug. "They all connect to main lines. There are thousands of them out there. They’ve been leavin’ hardly any sign, and dogs can’t track in the water."

"If you know what to look for, you can track in shallow canals," Crip corrected his brother.

"The conditions have to be just right," Doug argued.

"How did all those canals get there?" Ike pressed, grabbing another roll and the butter.

"You see, the Manchac swamp was purchased by northern speculators after the Civil War," Crip explained. "Folks were in dire need of money and sold out for pennies on the dollar. These businessmen and investors wanted the timber out of here. There were thousands of square miles of huge cypress trees back here."

Doug picked up the story: "Yeah, but the problem was getting it out to Lake Pontchartrain to transport it to market. Then the Illinois Central extended its railroad around the north side of the lake, to pass Manchac. That brought people and supplies in and made a way to get the lumber out. Then a new invention made a way to get the trees out of the swamp. It was a steam-powered skidder. All they had to do was dig canals through the swamp, and they could bring in those skidders on barges to drag the trees out and into the ditches."

"So the logs were then floated out?" Ike guessed.

"Right," Crip replied. "The timber was brought to loading docks, where they were stacked for transport to lumberyards. This virtually destroyed the swamp, causing lots of things to get out of balance, which then killed most of the rest of the cypress trees. So much of the swamp is now open marsh, especially closer to the lake. Then, when the nutria came in, they started eating all the vegetation, which started causing the marsh to disappear. But one thing it left was all those canals over many square miles. Anyone with a boat can disappear back there."

"Don’t get us wrong," Doug clarified. "There are lots of good people living back there, living off the swamp. They just don’t want to live in civilization, for whatever reasons. Think of the mountain men who lived off the land, hunting and trapping, then coming out once in a while to trade for stuff they need. These ‘swampers’ are like that, only instead of the mountains, they live in the swamp."

"They love freedom. Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with that," Crip added, reaching for more milk.

"How do you guys know all this?" Ike responded, clearly impressed.

"Many of them are related to us," Crip explained. "Our fathers and grandfathers worked in the swamps, logging, fixing machines, fishing, trapping and hunting, anything to make a living."

"Sounds like a hard way to live," Ike commented.

"Not if you know what to do, and it’s all you know," Doug countered.

"Not if it’s in your blood," Crip seconded. "Like you love motocross racing and that’s your calling? Same with people who live in the swamp. They love the swamp, they know the swamp, and they take pride in it. They are just part of it."

"They’re survivors," Doug stated.

"Like that song from, uhhh, Hank Williams, Jr.?" Ike joshed. "Something about a country boy?"

"‘A Country Boy Can Survive,’" Crip chuckled. "I guess it’s one of the descriptions of my people. But every region of the country has ’em, except for the overcrowded areas in the big cities. So, how close have these perps gotten to you?" Crip asked Doug, getting back to the subject.

"Actually, they hit me last week," Doug said, bristling with anger. "They stole my four-wheeler, a couple chainsaws and some other tools out of my shed, along with fishing poles, traps and my trolling motor. But worst of all, they killed my best hound. Cut his head off and hung it in the tree. They’re gonna pay for that!"

Crip looked at Doug, then at Ike.

"They made a big mistake. Now they’ve sealed their fate," Crip predicted, as he rose from the table and tossed his napkin onto his plate disgustedly.

Other books by Roy Jenkins:

Racing Fuel for the Spirit is a non-fiction, "chicken-soup-for-the motorcyclists-soul" type of book. Each page is a self-contained story with black and white pictures, a scripture verse and a memorable quote to get your day started off right. Think of it as "spiritual vitamins." A topical index helps direct the reader to issues that are of interest. It’s the author’s way to help motorcycle riders read and understand the Bible.

*Note: This is only the first half of the book.

To purchase copies click here.

Casting the Dream is the first book in the Dirt Bike Ike series. It is written for the younger teens and is in children’s book format. It has a simpler plot and contains color pictures throughout, which give it a "coffee table" look.

For more information, links or news on motocross racing in the gulf south, go to Roy’s website at www.2wheelcommunications.com.