Life never does a damn thing you tell it to, but a dirt bike can be tamed.
You can slip inside the soul of 220 pounds of metal, plastic, and 91 octane and know what it's like to fly across the ground. You can match your heart to the speed of a masterpiece and leave life behind.
Curtis launched the bike through the air and cut the throttle.
For a moment, he lived only in the jump, in that sacred space between flying and falling where the air was just the whoosh flowing past him. Then the back tire touched ground and he and the bike were one creature, sucking up the impact, knees and suspension giving to the limit, then winning.
He cracked the throttle and peeled off into the woods, clenching his legs into the gas tank as the bike tried to bolt from under him. He blasted through the winding trail, ripping through pools of sunlight and shadow, his hands claw-curled and numb on the vibrating handlebars. The bike singing brap brap braaap—a gleeful top note over a grumbling baseline and the gunshot heartbeat of the exhaust—his heart pounding thunk thunk thunk as the humps and bumps sent him skipping over the dirt-packed and stone-strewn incline.
He should head home. But, no. Just a little longer. A little longer without responsibilities, without that house, without crazy.
His chest burned with anger, like a sharp-splintered hand had reached up to steal his joy. He wasn't ready to return—fists knotted and heart braced—to the everyday nightmare that was his life.
He retaliated by throwing the Beast to the right, crashing like hell on wheels through a dangerously overgrown trail he'd never taken before.
Trees sped past, curves coming up hard and fast. Branches whipped his arms, and a grim laugh built at the back of his throat as he almost lost control on a hairpin turn. He jammed into third and pinned the bike up the hill into a large open field. There was the final flight of speed down that long straight stretch, the air a growing shhhhhhh in his ears, the sting of it pulling water from his eyes.
For that moment, there was just the sharp thrill of skating on the drop-off edge of his skill and the bike's headlong rush to crash.
Take it to the brink—and win.
He dumped the clutch and let the back tire dig down, ripping a rut from solid ground. When he finally cut the engine, waves of heat radiated from the CR500's core, a mastered animal panting out its exertion.
He threw his leg off the bike and stretched, riding boots covered in dirt, his bare arms damp with sweat. The dust-covered Beast stood obediently in its rut, tick tick ticking quietly into submission, the rhythm of metal and moving parts cooling, contracting.
His arms were rubbery and his core ached, but he smiled, satisfied, that dark ache in his chest ridden to exhaustion.
Almost.
It was an airless kind of fall day, a moment caught in the breath between seasons where the whole world turned sepia, unwilling to take that final gasp into the bleak grey of November. Almond-colored grasses rose knee-high from patches of rust-toned lichen, but today, their familiar rattling tones were silent, the usual nodding sway perfectly still.
No wind, no movement.
Straight ahead, a small copse of trees no different from any other. But those trees were moving. And a sound—as if a freight train were barreling past just out of sight.
The hairs at the back of his neck prickled. He looked around uneasily, but he was completely alone.
Curtis approached the circle of trees. Tangled willows and slim white poplar beckoned. The sound of the wind grew steadily, but his skin told him there was no breeze.
He shook his head, rebelling against the impossibility.
The edge of the copse was like standing at the brink of a rushing ocean tide. The leaves shivered and shook all around him, the branches tossing side to side. He stepped into the circle of trees and felt wind against his skin, whistling into his eardrums, coaxing him on.
He moved forward, his chest pounding chuk-chuk-chuk, a sudden desperation to reach the center of the copse, to find the heart of the thing. Dark need slipped past the reins of control and his pulse raced.
But all around was a howl, a shrieking voice that slid into his ears, slipping down into the darkness at the back of his eyes. The world was tipping, spinning on end all around him. He fell to his knees, grabbing his head—no, no.
Pain sliced his skull, whispering words he couldn't understand. His mouth parted in a scream that never came.
The pain stopped all at once.
He gasped for air, supporting himself on his knees and palms for long moments, dry fragments of leaves pressing into his skin. He tasted the scent of nature folding into decay, fought to keep the dread in place between his breaths. One, two. One, two.
He pushed unsteadily to his feet, pieces of his mind blunting together, fractured and smoking—something not quite him pressing at the seams.
The wind was still circling, stirring the leaves and branches.
I'm not like my father, he thought, the long-held fear finally breaking free in all its gruesome terror. Please. I'm not sick like him.
He turned his eyes on the woods.
Just get out of here. Get out.
He put one foot in front of the other, ignoring the screaming in his guts that ordered him to stay.
He reached the edge of the copse and fought the urge to look back—and the certainty that there were words on that wind.
His eyes were on his bike. One foot in front of the other.
Just get out of here.
There was no wind on his skin now, but he could still hear it calling.
Hands on the bike, leg hammering the kick-start. Gunshot roar of the engine.
He tore across the open field like death was right behind him. The void chased, and his bones wanted to crash down into the darkness like a jumper swaying at a cliff.
He made the tree line, felt the familiar cool of the forest settle around him.
He tried to feel like he hadn't shattered in the heart of that copse, like something inside him hadn't changed forever.
But that was a lie.
