Fast Get-Away

"Hey, Williams! You're goin' down!"
Jeff flinched, startled by the threat. He scanned the brush around his pit, but he didn't see anyone. As the next race was announced, he tried to shake off the uneasy feeling. He fired up his motorcycle and rode to the starting line, settling his fornt wheel into the groove. Who was he racing: A quick peek to his right confirmed his suspicions. Carl, his long-time rival.
Carl scowled at Jeff. "This time it's my turn to win!, he spat as he jammed on his helmet and savagely cinched the chin strap.
The official starter made sure the front wheels of the motorcycles were even and gave the okay to start the race.
The two riders now focused every nerve in their bodies on the Christmas tree. Red! Yellow! Green!
Engines roared as throttles were cranked to the max, feeding the specialized fuel through thirsty carburetors. Wide, knobby rear tires bit into the damp sand and spit it backwards up the wall of the announcers's booth. Spetators crowding the rails jostled to escape the flying muck. Moments later, they rushed back to hug the fence once again.
Jeff felt something was wrong. Suddenly, he lost control of his motorcycle and was weaving and wobbling! He couldn't stop but managed to bail off, bouncing and tumbling to the side. His bike kept sliding. It smashed into the wooden barricade sending shards of wood flying in all directions.
Jeff got warily to his feet, brushed himself down and tottered to the side of the track.
"Are you OK? Are you hurting anywhere?" the track medic yelled.
"I'll have a few bruises and I must've twisted my ankle, but nothing feels broken," Jeff replied. "The bike's in worse shape than I am. Do you think you could get somebody to wheel it back to my pit?"
"Sure, Jeff. No problem. But I still need to check you out at the first-aid station. You might have a slight concussion. That was quite a spill." The medic's voice droned on as Jeff watched Carl ride to victory.
I really have to talk with Carl about his attitude, Jeff thought, as he hobbled toward the first-aid station. Sure, sand-dragging is all about having the fastest bike and winning - if you can. But it sure as heck isn't about threats. I could've been splattered all over the track!
So, who had yelled at him before the race? And who would want to try and hurt him by sabotaging his motorcycle? Obviously, there was more to this than he first thought.
Word had spread in the small, rural comminity that the rivalry between Jeff and Carl had heated up. The next Sunday, the entire town turned out to watch the races. The population of the pits always swelled before the racing started. The spectators mingled with the competitors, looked at the different bikes, asked questions, wished good luck to friends.
Jeff was running a last-minute check on his bike. He didn't want a repeat of last week's performance. As he straightened from checking the spokes and rim of the back wheel, he looked over at Carl's pit. Carl and a friend were arguing about something. Jeff couldn't make out the words, but the flailing of arms and pointing of fingers said a lot. At last, Carl's friend stomped off.
During the week, Jeff had wondered how to approach Carl with what he suspected. Jeff had overheard Carl's friend talking to some guys from school about the loose chain on Jeff''s motorcycle. Jeff hadn't told anybody what had caused his crash.
Determination in every stop, Jeff strode over and planted himself in front of Carl. He felt his anger rise hotly to his face. He was holding back with everything he had - he didn't want to start a physical fight - but he wanted answers.
"Uh, hey Jeff." Carl couldn't meet Jeff's eyes. He shifted from foot to foot.
"I heard about my chain. I just don't understand why." Clenched fists slowly relaxing, Jeff stood mutely, waiting for Carl's reply. He really hoped that Carl wouldn't lie.
"I've always wanted to beat you, Jeff. I wanted to be the one the crowd cheered for. But I swear to you - I never wanted to win that way! I had no idea he'd do what he did. You know that I'd never tinker with your bike - or anybody's. And I sure didn't want you to get hurt. I'm really, really sorry for what happened." Carl looked up sheepishly at Jeff. "Stuff just got out of hand, y'know?"
"Yeah, I guess I do. Kinda. What's really hard to swallow, Carl, is that you're good - really good! You don't need to have a race rigged to prove it! Just don't find any more 'friends' who want to help you win, no matter what."
Before Jeff walked away, he stuck out his hand and said, "Good luck today."
Carl looked Jeff in the eye and gripped his hand. "Thanks, Jeff. Same to you. See you at the finish line!"
Front wheels set and perfectly aligned, the rivals acknowledged each other with a curt nod.
Engines throbbed with barely leashed power. The riders focused on the lights of the Christmas tree. Neither of them wanted a false start.
Green!
Sand and small pebbles spewed in all directions. As the competitors tore down the course, they hunched over the handlebars to gain momentum. This was more than a race to Jeff and Carl.
The motorcycles roared down the track neck and neck.
One hundred yards in five seconds. Jeff helf his breath. At the end, it looked like a draw. Then the announcer spoke excitedly over the loud speaked. The winner had triumphed by less than one hundredth of a second!
At the finish line, Jeff have Carl the thumbs up. And the crown cheered.

Rookie Year Razor

A thousand voices at the local rink, Centre Ice, whistled and screamed. Two thousand feet and hands stomped and clapped. Then I heard one word really clear. It was my name. "Thomas! Thomas! Thomas!"
I waited in front of the net - knees bent, body tilted forward from the waist. All I could see was three players from the Blades streaking down the ice. They were coming right at me an' my teammates were nowhere in sight. The announcer was so excited he could hardly say the words, "He shoots! He scores!"
"No!" I yelled, bolting upright in bed. I wrapped my goose-bumpy arms around my legs, hugging myself to stop shaking. I didn't know what time it was but I did know it was game day. And I was scared.
A month ago, Coach came up to me at practice an' said, "Thomas, I think you would make a very good goal tender. Want to give it a try?"
I figured I spent a lot of my time there anyway, so I told him, "Sure Coach. I'll give it a try. Why not?"
Next thing I know, Coach gave me a new mask and extra padding for my legs and chest. He gave me a different hockey stick, too. It was harder to skate and at first, I was worried I couldn't skate at all. I sure do remember that first day wearing all my new gear.
"Tommy, you look like a turtle and move 'bout as fast!" Billy jeered as he flashed by the net. "Try to stay on your feet, turtle boy!" he yelled as he made an ice-showering stop in front of me.
"Hey, Tommy. You gonna hide in your shell the entire practice?" he taunted the next time he made a pass behind the goal, expertly handling the puck with his stick. "You might as well,'cause you skate like a girl!"
Billy's been at me like a dog with a new toy ever since I started learning to skate an' play hockey. My dad says he's just trying to shake me up so he can feel better about himself. I didn't tell Dad that Billy finds ways to trip me when Coach isn't looking. And he calls me TOMMY. I don't wanna let the team down but I don't know what to do about Billy.
Dad dropped me off at the door because my duffel bag weighs a ton. I dragged it to the locker room. The room was full of noisy guys an' there were clothes all over the floor. There were a few dads in there, too. Coach arrived just after me. He sorted everybody out and got us ready for the game. One dad didn't wanna go, but Coach made him anyway.
This was our first ever game. We were playing the Southside Sharks. As they skated onto the ice, I checked them out, one at a time. They looked pretty big to me. I slid into the crease just as the ref dropped the puck. The game was on!
Our teams played pretty much the same. In the first period, the guys did a lot of skating from one end of the rink to the other, but hardly anybody took a shot at the net. When they did, the puck went wonky an' skidded out of my way so I didn't really have much to do.
I was feeling pretty good about being the goalie until a player from the Sharks sent a slap-shot whooshing by me to score the first goal. My team-mates glared at me. My face got all hot. Then I heard the crowd. Shouts of "Bite 'em to bits, Sharks!" and "Chomp 'em and Chew 'em!" rang out from one side of the rink while our supporters were yelling "C'mon Razors! Cut 'em up!" and "Slice 'em to bits!"
Halfway into the second period, Billy scored for us to tie the game. The crowd went wild. Billy got mobbed by our team. And then, when he assisted for the second goal, I really started to worry. I just knew the other team would wannt get even.
I didn't dare take my eyes off the puck. I didn't want the Sharks sneaking up on me again. With just two minutes left, Billy flew down the ice with the puck. He was heading right for the Sharks' net, but he got tripped and ended up sliding down the ice on his belly. He ended up in the net with their goalie on tip of him - just like I used to. Now the Sharks had the puck and were coming toward me - fast. My team was nowwhere in sight!
I tried to keep my muscles loose an' my eyes on the puck. The captain of the Sharks kept passing it to another guy on his team who passed it back. I was starting to get dizzy wathching them. I didn't dare blink as the puck kept changing hands so I shook my head a couple of times. Then, in slow motion, I saw the puck flying toward me. I stretched up as far as I could, reached out with my right hand, an' heard a thump. When I dared to look, the puck was still in my glove. The buzzer sounded to end the game. We won!
After the game, Coach took us out for pizza. Me an' Billy ended up sitting beside each other. He leaned over, poked me in the ribs an' whispered, "Good thing the glove was so big, tutle boy."
I looked him right in the eyes an' said, "Billy, if you need to feel you're better than me, make fun about how I skate, or how I stop. I don't care. I'm not the only one who saw you in that net. And it wasn't you wearing the glove that made the game-winning save. I'm a darn good goal tender. So remember that. And my name is THOMAS."

Mahood's Memories

I can smell the dryness of the dirt. It seeps through the open window of our old Austin as we bump slowly down the rutted, winding track. The powder-fine dust settles thickly on the leaves of the thimbleberry bushes lining the way, and brings a sense of gritty, sandiness to my tongue. Faintly, overlying the aridness and invading my nostrils, is the tang of salty air.
Widening slightly, the road parallels the esturary. Today, instead of feisty dozer boats, snorting as they shift floating logs into makeshift booms, I see a blue heron. Characteristically poised one-legged in the shallows, it patiently out-waits its brunch. I hear seagulls calling to each other as they float on the warm air currents.
We make one last turn and we're here! Barely waiting for dad to park the car, I jump out and scamper onto the beach. The sand stretches for miles and miles! I run toward the gently lapping water and stop half-way. I wriggle my feet down into the gloppy sand. Reaching mid-calf, I feel the tiny particles oozing between my questing toes. The pungent sea air wafts around me, ruffling my hair and plucking gently at the pleated skirt of my bathing suit. Swaying slowly with the rhythm of summer, I am in heaven.
I hear my mother calling and reluctantly extricate my feet and legs from their self-imposed prison. I wander back to stand, shifting from foot to foot, as mom slathers suncreen on my legs, arms, back and face. The smell of coconut permeates the air.
Lunchtime now and a barbequed hamburger, the bun on one side liberally spread with mustard, tangy and bright yellow; the other with thick tomato ketchup. I wash it down with a glass of ice-cold, fizzey, home-made root beer. Dessert is a chunky slice of red, seeless watermelon. I bite deeply and the juice squirts out each side of my mouth. It drips onto the parched, white sand which greedily sucks it up. I throw the white-lined, green rind to the gulls and watch as they fight over the prize.
I gather shells; find 'sea cookies' with their distinctive flower petal design on the top and 'whips' - the long, rubbery root of the Japanese kelp. I take dips in the ocean. The afternoon wanes and it's time for dinner.
I skewer a hot-dog onto a stick cut from a young alder tree. I roast it. The juices drip and sizzle into the flames of the open fire. More watermelon and now I'm ready for my favourite part of the day.
Dad builds a raft with driftwood. To hold it together, he uses big old nails he has straightened in his workshop. I dive from and swim back to it over and over, until we have to leave.
Why does the drive home always seem so much shorter?

Tornado Summer

The look on Grams face stopped us dead in our tracks.
Sam started to speak, but I said, "Shhh! Listen!"
The back porch wind chimes were clanging wildly. As we turned and looked out the window, what we saw was something I had hoped to never see. The sky was an ugly greenish black colour and the clouds were roiling and swirling furiously, seeming to move toward one certain place.
"What is it Grams?" Sam whispered. "What's wrong with the sky?"
The noise of the wind was deafening, even from inside the house. As we watched, a large funnel shape snaked down from the sky. It was a tornado! I'd heard stories about what they could do. I'd seen pictures of what they did. Its power was unstoppable. I was terrified of them! And I was about to experience one, like it or not!
Barely an hour before, I woke up to Goldie, the ginger-coloured house cat, stalking around on my bed. I threw back the covers and bolted upright, sending Goldie yowling to the floor. I yanked on my faded jeans, found and slipped on a favourite T-shirt, and went thundering down the stairs. I was in the hallway leading to the kitchen at the back of the house when I hollered out, "G'morning, Grams! Where's Gramps?"
"Good morning, Amanda", Grams had replied. "I think your grandfather's out by the barn. Is Samuel up and moving yet?"
My first reply had been a rather unladylike snort. I got hold of myself and answered, "Nope. He's still snoring away. I'll go wake him up." I headed back along the hallway and yelled out, "What's for breakfast, Grams?" then disappeared upstairs before I heard her answer.
Not even five minutes later, we charged into the kitchen and skidded to a halt.
Behind us, Judge, the old beagle, and Goldie, came scrambling into the kitchen, headed for the door. Goldie began clawing wildly at it while Judge whined loudly. Sam sidled up behind me just as Grams opened the door. The two animals crowded through it, jostling each other and Grams in their haste to flee the house. When they got outside, they skidded to a halt, not knowing whether to go forward to turn back.
I grabbed hold of Sam and held him close to my side. Together, we stepped out onto the porch and stood beside Grams. The most incredible sight met our eyes. We saw Grams' prize roses torn up by the roots and hurled into the air. Sam's favourite toy tractor soon followed, and a second later, we saw the shingles from the roof of the house flying about. Without warning, the tornado had appeared and touched down just a few miles away. It was headed straight for our grandparents' house! We had to get out of there, and fast! That's when we saw Gramps waving frantically at us from the barn door.
"Run, Amanda! Run, Sam! Head for your grandfather and don't look back! I'll be right behind you!" Grams yelled as loudly as she could. We barely heard her over the screaming of the wind. With fear motivating us, we took off...fast! Goldie and Judge were right beside us. We ran, streaking toward the barn, and shelter, while dirt and small pebbles from the yard stung us everywhere. The debris hitting out bare skin felt like a million small pinpricks.
For some reason, I stopped halfway across the yard. I looked back and saw Grams on her knees. I wanted to keep running but turned back toward her. I stumbled and nearly fell myself, but finally reached Grams and helped her to her feet. Arm in arm, we battled the wind as we crossed the yard to safety. The last thing I remember before reaching shelter was hearing a noise like the roaring of Niagara Falls, but a hudnred times louder.
I'm happy to say the tornado moved away from my grandparents' house that day. In the end, there wasn't really that much damage, but Sam's toy tractor is gone forever...like most of Grams' roses.
As for myself, I found courage I didn't know I had. I hope I never see another tornado though. One tornado summer is deinitely enough for me!