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.