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Dark Race
Bill's head sagged over the handlebars and he turned the pedals mechanically.
He found the race boring. No one was willing to take the initiative.
The race would continue monotonously and be decided by a mass sprint.
Making a move had crossed his mind but he had quickly dismissed the thought.
The lethargy of the race had dragged him into its vortex and he had drifted
to the back of the pack. He looked up at the fields and farmhouses and
recognized a large red barn. There was a crossroads coming up in less
than a mile. He mentally calculated a route home. It would be a
leisurely twenty-mile ride which, he decided, was better than continuing the
race. He slid his hands over the brake levers but quickly regripped the
bars when he felt his bike shudder. It was neither the solid jar of hitting
a hole nor the instability of being brushed by another bike; rather, it felt
as if the frame had vibrated of its own accord.
Although the sensation passed, Bill continued to feel uneasy. He glanced
at the rider in front of him. The jersey was not what he remembered.
He took a second look and realized that neither the name lettered on the back
nor the color was familiar. Bill frowned and sat up. He knew all
the riders and clubs in the district. His curiosity turned to alarm as
he looked over the
pack and recognized no one.
"First time with us?" A voice filtered through Bill’s shock.
"Er . . . what?"
"First time with us?" the large, raw-boned rider beside Bill repeated.
"What's going on here?" Bill asked, his voice a bit unsteady.
"I've never seen you or any of these guys in my life. I was riding
in a race and I know exactly who was --"
"Calm down, calm down." The rider laughed. "It's
not as serious as all that. You'll get used to riding with us after a
while."
"I was about to drop out," Bill said, "and I think I'll do just
that."
"I'd advise looking around first."
Bill glanced to either side. Instead of the familiar farmhouses there
was a dense forest of dark evergreens. There wasn't a forest of evergreens
within five hundred miles of his home. He realized with a sinking feeling
that he had no idea where he was.
"You see what I mean?"
Bill did not reply.
The other laughed again. "I'm Marino, by the way."
"Charmed," Bill said dryly.
"As I told you, you'll get used to riding with us, but it won't be easy.
Things can happen pretty fast, like this jump coming up."
"Jump?"
The other riders, who had apparently been ignoring the conversation, suddenly
increased their cadence and the pack moved ahead as a unit.
"Yeah, jump," Marino called over his shoulder.
The suddenness of the move caught Bill by surprise and he found himself twenty
feet behind the pack. The fear of being left alone in the unknown forest
pumped adrenaline into his system. He sprinted, almost catching the pack
and, for a short time, he was able to match the pace. But he couldn't
regain the last few feet, and soon the pack began to pull away until it disappeared
from sight around a curve. Alone, Bill continued to ride hard. Not
knowing where he was, his only chance was to stay as close as possible to the
pack. He prayed that the road did not branch. Bill glanced over
his shoulder and found that he was not alone: a rider was directly behind him,
his front tire only inches from Bill’s rear wheel. Glad to share the work,
Bill pulled to the side, hoping the other would take the lead and allow Bill
to slipstream. The other moved beside him and Bill froze in surprise.
He had never seen such a bike in a race. The upright handlebars and the
primitive shift levers on the seat tube made the battered bike a museum piece.
The rider himself looked as though he had been riding for a long time.
Fatigue lined his thin face and his skin was weathered to a leathery dark brown.
His eyes, however, were a piercing black and flashed with animation. The
rider gave no sign of noticing Bill.
"I told you there'd be a jump."
Startled by the unexpected voice, Bill turned to the other side, where Marino
was riding. "I didn't see you drop back," he said.
Marino grinned. "Like I said, it's a hard group to ride with.
Come on. I’ll pull you back to the pack. There's a climb coming
up and you'd better be with the others at the start."
"Thanks, but what about this guy?" Bill nodded toward the third
rider. "Is he in this too?"
"He is and he isn't. But come on, we've got to get going."
Marino picked up speed and Bill fell in behind. The mysterious rider
made no effort to match their pace.Once back in the pack, Bill worked his way
forward. By the time they started up the first ramp of the climb, he was
near the front. The road wound its way up a steep headwall in series of
tight hairpin turns. The intensity of the ascent shattered the pack into
small groups and individuals. Bill rode alone. It was hot, the air
lying still as though paralyzed by the sun. Bill could feel the heat pressing
down directly from the sun and rising off the black asphalt, trapping him between
two shimmering walls of fire. His legs, lungs and back ached and sweat
ran down his forehead, stinging his eyes. His mind screamed for relief
-- the top, a breeze, a crash, anything.Suddenly a rider, standing up and pumping
hard, passed him. Bill could hear the other's ragged breathing.
"Come on!" Marino shouted between gasps. "You can't let
up now!"
Bill responded and matched Marino's speed. Although both his body and
mind rebelled at the increased pace, the lash of Marino’s words drove him forward.
His pain increased until he was floating in a red fog of agony. He was
near collapse when suddenly his feet spun rapidly. He was at the pass.
He frantically shifted gears and fell in behind Marino as they began the descent.
Soon the wind was tearing at his jersey as he plunged down the steep, winding
road from the pass.
The roadside was a collage of color, and the feeling of raw, uncontrolled speed
flowed through Bill. He vacillated between exhilaration and fear.
A steep, tight curve was shooting toward them. Involuntarily Bill’s hands
moved over the brake levers and applied pressure. But Marino, his hands
locked on the bars, flashed ahead and into the turn. For an instant Marino
hung suspended in the apex of the curve, leaning far to one side, his jersey
dangerously near the pavement. Bill watched in horror, waiting for the
crash. Marino, however, took his bike smoothly through the curve.
Bill released his brake levers and shot after him.
At the bottom of the descent the pack soon reformed. It was a mild, sunny
day and the riders rode easily along the coast. Fisherman, working beside
their beached boats, looked up to wave and shout a word of encouragement.
Bill could see the riders and the open sea beyond as though he were to one side
and above the pack. Although he was not close enough to distinguish individual
characteristics, he did recognize Marino, who was talking to another rider.
Bill knew from Marino’s gestures that the discussion was serious. Although
Bill could see only the back of the rider to whom Marino was talking, the jersey
was familiar. Bill moved closer and he could see the intensity in Marino’s
eyes. Marino was clearly saying something vitally important. Suddenly
Bill realized that he was looking Marino directly in the face.
"Do you understand?" Marino asked, an earnest expression on his face.
"Yes I do," Bill heard himself say. "Now, if I can just
do it."
"If you understand, you can do it. In fact, it’s already done."
"We'll see."
"No -- you’ll see." Marino smiled and laid a hand lightly on
Bill’s shoulder. "Good luck."
Bill nodded and increased his pace. No one responded and he moved ahead
of the pack. He rode with his head down, concentrating on his cadence,
and soon he was alone. Bill lost track of time. He had no idea how
long he had been
riding. He was tired -- more tired than he had ever been -- but he knew
that he had no alternative but to keep going. When he finally looked up,
he saw the road thinning to a line and vanishing into the horizon. Surrounding
him was a naked wasteland, unbroken by either hills or valleys. Hanging
heavy in the air, and filtering through the concentric spheres of fatigue encasing
him, was the silence.
Bill felt the lightheadedness that comes from prolonged overexertion.
He neither knew nor cared how far he had come or how much further he would go.
He was conscious only of the fragile world of motion which he had created.
A tremor on the edge of his mind intruded into his tightly closed world.
The disturbance persisted and grew to an uneasiness. Glancing over his
shoulder, he could see another rider in the distance. There was not enough
room in his world for two. Instinctively Bill reacted against the intrusion
by increasing his pace; nevertheless, the other continued to draw nearer.
It was not until the rider was practically on his wheel that Bill recognized
the emaciated rider on the antique bike.
Eyes wild, Bill was off his saddle in a desperate sprint. The other,
however, was soon directly behind him. Bill continued his futile attempt
to escape. Finally weariness overtook him and he resumed his previous
pace, the other rider staying directly behind him. Neither uttered a word
as they continued to ride through the sterile landscape. Soon the sun
dropped beneath the horizon and the light faded. When day returned there
was only one rider. In the stillness, the lone rider -- his face set with
determination -- raced down the road toward the horizon. His pain sublimated
into the silence and, in the light of the pale sun, he cast no shadow.
Peviously published in Being in November of 1992.
Don Stockard's background includes growing up on a homestead and working as a commercial clam digger, a miner and a geophysicist.
He spent ten years in school studying math and science at Carnegie Tech, Dartmouth and Caltech. He has also spent quite a
bit of time bike touring in Europe, mountain climbing and sailing. Over the last four years he has accumulated over one
hundred eighty credits, a hundred forty of which are short stories. Some recent publications are: Raskolnikovâ's Cellar
"Dark Horse" Fall, 2001 Once Upon a World "Karmic Trap" Fall 2001 Armchair Aesthete "Frozen Monk" inter/Spring, 2001.
In addition Softspin Press published a collection of his short stories in 1994.
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