I was by myself the first time I rode. Dad had promised to take me, but a Saturday meeting popped up. Kids were on the track riding, and cars and station wagons were scattered across the parking lot. Fathers and sons worked on bikes. Others sat in lawn chairs next to open tailgates and drank Cokes.
Jerry, the guy who ran the track, had an easy smile.
I rode up to him and asked, “Can I ride the track?”
He wasn’t much taller than me and looked like he’d served in the Navy, crewcut and Popeye forearms. He stared at me for a moment and then down at the bike. “I suppose,” he said and sat on a stool next to a blue custom van. It had a crescent moon-shaped window on the back corner. The side doors were open and a clotheslines stretched across the top. A pair of jeans, t-shirt, and socks were hanging to dry. Inside, white shag carpet lined the floors and walls, and he even had a bed across the back of the cargo area. It looked like a Hot Wheels car. “Practice sessions are five bucks,” he said.
“I don’t have any money.”
“First time here?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Alright. You can owe me.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“It can be dangerous.” He paused and then pointed toward the track with his chin.
I gave a nod and pedaled up to the starting gate. I imagined myself at the beginning of a heat. Normally there’s a bar at the gate, and all the racers press their front wheels against it and wait for the starter to begin the race by dropping it. I only had my imagination. I aimed my bike down the track, banked through the first big berm, and rode the whoopty-doos until they bucked me off the bike. Wiping out wasn’t a big deal, and neither was my torn jeans and bloody knee, but Jerry walked over to the track’s edge and waved me over.
“You alright?”
“Yeah. No biggie,” I said.
He looked at my knee and winced a little bit. “Come over to the van. I got some Bactine.”
If he’d said methylate, I would’ve begged off, but I went over. Jerry was an adult with Bactine and that reminded me of someone I could trust. He cleared his laundry and had me sit down and roll up my pants leg. He opened the passenger door and brought out a small Igloo cooler, opened it, and handed me a can of Coke. I didn’t think twice. The day was hot, my knee hurt, and I was in the shade. He scooped a handful of ice from the cooler and rubbed it on the wound. His hands felt sure and steady, though calloused. The wound wasn’t much; a few scrapes went deep, but mostly it was road rash. He wiped it off with a rag and then sprayed the Bactine on it. It stung for a moment and then cooled.
“You live nearby?” he asked.
“A couple miles down the road,” I said.
“Think you’re okay?”
I nodded, downed the Coke, and stood up. I belched long and proud and walked over to my bike.
“You’re good,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said. I got on my bike and rode around the course one more time before heading home.
Over the next two months, I went to the track every chance I had. I mowed yards, babysat, and saved my money. Racers had to have helmets, though Jerry let us practice without them. He said it’s okay to break the rules sometimes.
*
Mornings, I ride my bike to school and Mom sleeps in. She works nights now. The apartment isn’t bad, but it’s not great either. I have to bring the bike inside each night or it’ll get stolen, even if it’s locked up. I’ve seen cut chains lying on the ground like dead snakes. One day bikes are there, and the next day they’re gone.
A couple of blocks away from the apartment complex in a regular neighborhood, I ride on the sidewalk and see a big pink slug squirming. I almost run over it but swerve just in time. I circle back around and stop next to it. It’s a baby squirrel that’s fallen out if its nest.
I wonder if I should pick it up and then look into the branches of the tree above. I listen for squirrel chatter, a grieving parent, but there’s nothing more than the usual birdsong. If I had a shoebox, I reason, I could scoop it up and take it to Mrs. Dobson who teaches science. She’d know what to do. I look around at the homes and hope for someone to come out and get their newspaper, to make their way to their car, or to head off to work, but there’s no one.
I pick it up and its fleshy muscles writhe in my hand. I almost flinch and drop it but then get a grip and slide the baby into my jacket pocket. Its body presses against my stomach as I pedal. I should speed up to be on time, but that little body slows me down as it wiggles. I start to hum a song and it quiets.
Mrs. Dobson’s car, a green Toyota with a gray fender, is in the parking lot. As soon as I pull up the last bell rings. I lock my bike and go to first period. Science isn’t until third, so I wonder if I—or it—can wait. The vice-principle waves me through the front door and closes it. I go to first period.
Just before class change, I realize the little guy hasn’t moved in a bit. Maybe it’s sleeping. The pocket is warm and dark, and maybe being next to my body helped calm it down. My hand wants to investigate, but I think better of it, imagining a giant’s fingers plucking me from the cocoon of my bed. Still, the urge to know burns. I decide it’s better to be late to second and go to the science classroom. Like Jerry said, sometimes it’s okay to break the rules. Fourth graders are walking in when I get there, and Mrs. Dobson is at the front of the classroom near the overhead projector.
“You’re an hour early, Jodie.”
“I found something,” I say.
She puts her transparencies aside and raises her eyebrows. “Show me.”
Kids always bring her things: rocks, leaves, fossils, seashells. I lift the right corner of my jacket up to her. “Look in the pocket.”
She holds my look for a moment, but then she leans over and peers into the dark pocket. “What is that? A hamster?”
I twist myself out of the jacket and bunch it up under the pocket and offer it to her. “I think it’s a baby squirrel.”
She removes it from the jacket and cradles it. “Its eyes aren’t even open.” Mrs. Dobson takes it over to the counter by the window, where the fish aquarium and the egg incubator sit. “I think it’s still alive.”
“Yeah,” I say, a bit annoyed. “It was when I found it. It was in first period. I felt it move,” I say.
One of the fourth graders drifts over, a boy with shoulder length blonde hair. “What is it?” he asks.
The bell rings and Mrs. Dobson shoos me off to class. “Go,” she says.
In the next class I get a tardy and have to sit in “the box,” which is a chair at the back of the room that has a square of red tape on the floor around it. People look back and snicker at me, but I don’t care. I reach into my jacket pocket where the baby squirrel had been and feel around. No liquid or slimy stuff, and no fur; just an empty pocket. I wonder what is going on in the science classroom, if Mrs. Dobson is showing it to second period, if that nosey fourth-grader is holding it. Something tightens in my chest, and I want to be there. I found it. It’s mine.
It didn’t make it. I could tell by the look on her face when I walked into third period. Parents and teachers get this look on their faces when they know they have to tell you something bad. Sometimes they try to soften you up. Like when dad drove me by the BMX track the first time. Kids were racing and flying through the air on their diamond-framed bikes. He knew I’d love it. We sat in the car watching, and then he gets this look on his face. “Listen, Jodie,” he said. “We need to talk. Your mom and I…” All of a sudden I was in an Afternoon Special, and this was the divorce talk.
Mrs. Dobson straightened herself and walked over to me. “Jodie—”
“I figured,” I say.
“It’s okay to be upset, Jodie,” she says.
I decide no one at school will see me cry over a rodent. It wasn’t a pet; I hadn’t named it, even if I had been humming the theme to Rocky on the ride to school with the little guy in my pocket. My mind turns back to the BMX track. I think about Bell motorcycle helmets with visors and goggles. I think of anything else.
“Jodie,” she says.
“I know,” I say.
She looks at me like she’s trying to see through something. I feel her sense of responsibility tugging at her. Adults always think they have to do something.
“I’m all right, really.”
“Come see me after school,” she says.
After last bell I walk to her classroom, but she must’ve forgotten because the lights are out and the door is locked. I wait ten minutes and then head to the bike rack. My sneakers echo in the empty hallways. I exit through the front doors, and I see the blond-haired kid from second period science. He’s sitting on the steps. The busses are gone, walkers are halfway home, and riders have been picked up by parents.
I know that feeling of being the last kid picked up. How your butt feels on the concrete steps, how time stops, and how every car you hear gets a knee-jerk glance. I walk past him and don’t say a word. Sometimes it’s best not to say anything.
“Sorry about your squirrel,” he says. “The janitor came and took it.”
“No biggie,” I say and walk to the bike rack. I undo my padlock, wrap the chain around the seat post. I can feel his eyes on me, but I get on the bike and ride off without a glance back. Thoughts about the track and how it feels to ride fast and jump through the air float through my head. I pedal through these dreams and in less than half a block from the school the chain jumps the sprocket. I get off the bike and flip it over. I kneel next to it and wonder if someone messed with it in the rack. I put the chain on the back sprocket and start to turn the crank when I hear a familiar noise.
Ford Mustangs, the old ones, have a distinct sound. Dad drives one with a 289 V8 engine. It’s blue. And that’s when I see it. It’s his car. His blue Mustang. He’s behind the wheel, but he’s not looking at me. His Ray-Bans are pointed at the school. Has he come to pick me up? He hasn’t done that since the divorce. Did something happen to Mom?
His car pulls into the circle drive in front of the school. The blonde-haired kid gets up from the steps and opens the passenger door and sits in the seat I used to ride in. It’s only a moment, but I see him turn and look at the boy, and then he hits the gas and the tires squeal. A small cloud of smoke and exhaust forms, and they disappear behind it.
I turn the crank, get the chain back on the sprocket, and ride.
I’m a latchkey kid because of the key around my neck. Mom isn’t waiting for me at home; no one is since dad left us. So I decide to ride back to my old neighborhood to see the old house. It’s still there, but it’s not the same. I go to a friend’s house. His yard is empty and the garage is closed. I ride to another friend’s house and only find a barking dog.
I ride to “the trails,” bike paths in an empty field at the edge of the old neighborhood. Sometimes my friends hang out there, but not today. Still I pump the pedals hard, build speed, and launch off a small dirt mound. After I land, I skid and push out the rear wheel and pull a 180. No one sees it. The sky is overcast and a breeze bends the tall grass in the field. I pedal along the brown dirt path and follow it into a tree break next to a deep, dry, creek bed. The path dips into the gully—branches and trash are strewn along the banks—and I speed down, across, and then up the other side. I almost fall at the edge, but right myself, and then I look back down at what I rode through.
I hear a faraway air horn. Semis don’t come through this neighborhood, so I figure it’s from the interstate. In my mind’s eye I remember how close I am to the track. It hits me suddenly. It’s not a practice day, but I wonder if I could ride anyway. Break another rule.
Rather than find my way back to the roads, I bushwhack cross-country and work my way towards the access road to the interstate. Cars fly by as fast as those on the highway, but I make it to the track. A rusty chain blocks the entrance, so I lift the bike and step over it. No one is around.
I get on the bike and roll up to the top of the starting gate and pedal hard down the hill without imagining a race day. The fans are not in the bleachers, Jerry’s voice isn’t on the PA, and fathers and sons are not making last minute adjustments to sprocket sizes or air pressure in the tires. Only the colored pennants flap in the breeze.
I pedal through the first berm. It’s tall and swings me around into the flat with woopty-doos. I pull my front wheel up over each bump, keeping my back wheel on the ground and my feet pumping. I take the hairpin at the end of the flat too fast and lose my line. I recover and pedal harder and go over two table-top jumps, round another hairpin, and then pedal through the straightway finish. I’m winded and the back of my throat is raw. I sit astride the bike and catch my breath. I take in the track while I rest my foot on the pedal, and it feels sure.
I hear the crunch of gravel under car tires, and I turn to see Jerry’s blue van. It stops at the chain across the entrance. He opens the door and stands on the running board and waves.
I wave back and realize he’s waving me over. So I ride to his van.
One hand rests on the top of the door and the other in on the roof. “Can’t be out here when the chain is across the driveway.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“I know you kids like to ride—”
“I’ll go,” I say.
“I drove the earthmover that cut this track out of a grassy field. Built it out of nothing,” he says. He taps his hand against the roof of the van, on beat, and looks at me, gauging what he can do, what he can get away with. I’ve seen those gears turn in my father’s eyes. “You’re a rabbit,” he says, “I’ve seen you ride.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“It’s not a compliment. Rabbits don’t win.” He winks. “They run scared.”
The colored pennants ripple in a gust of wind and the temperature drops a few degrees. The clouds that had made the day overcast have darkened and an approaching afternoon storm rumbles with distant thunder. We both turn to the sound and look to the sky.
“Looks like rain. Need a ride?” He points to the van with his head. “Plenty of room for you and the bike.”
My legs are tired, and the apartment is farther away than our old house. I look towards the track. He made berms and he made jumps. He made a place where people come together. But… “I’m not sure my mom—”
“She wouldn’t have to know.” He shrugs.
I nod. “Still, it’s just down the road. I’ll be fine.” Our eyes hold each other for a moment, like he still has something to say.
“Don’t you owe me something? We don’t have to get anyone else involved.”
“Someone else?”
“The police. You were trespassing. You could call it practice, but you’d still owe me.”
The nose of Jerry’s van sits between the iron posts that hold the chain I’d crossed. Beyond the posts, the fence spans for a mile in both directions. There is no easy way out. He looks at me like one of my teachers when they know I know the answer. I feel small and helpless. The wind kicks up, lightning flashes, and a moment later thunder follows. I only see one choice. “A ride would be good,” I say.
His face brightens, and he slaps the roof of the van. “Alright then. That’s what I’m talking about. Let me back her out a bit.” He pops into his seat and puts the van in reverse. A gap opens between the chain and the van, and I hoist the bike over. Jerry puts the van in park and walks around to the back of the van. This is it.
I hop onto my bike and my knees pump so hard gravel spits from the back tire. I turn the wrong way onto the one-way access road, and I ride the narrow shoulder as oncoming rush hour traffic speeds by. Jerry yells something at me, but I can’t hear it. I don’t look back but know he’s watching me. A crack of lightning lights up the sky and the rain comes. It pours big drops that feel like soft marbles pelting on my face and arms. I pedal harder and push through the wind, the water, and the tears.
Watch this fucking rabbit run.
