The International Writers Magazine: Boys and Bikes

For the Love of Dirt Bike • Marsha K. Harrington-Evans He had gotten a dirt bike for his 12th birthday.  His parents hadn’t bought it for him; it was actually a hand-me down from one of his friends.  He didn’t care.  He was always grateful for anything he received.

He and his friends spent endless hours riding, as his mother liked to put it, “to west Hell and back.” This particular morning, he’d gotten an earlier start than his friends and was the first to arrive at the Lake.  He’d done this trick with his friends a thousand times, so he had no reason to think he couldn’t do it by himself today.

He pedaled his bike hard and fast toward the edge of the lake.  He didn’t see the oily substance on the pavement until it was too late.  He slammed on his brakes, but they didn’t respond.  Instead of skidding in to a turn, which was the trick, he slammed head first into the Lake.
He spasmed from the shock of the water against his sun-baked skin.  He opened his eyes and looked up.  He saw the murky reflection of the sun getting smaller and smaller as he fell faster and faster.  He tried swimming back up to the surface and got no traction because he was still holding onto the handle bars of his bike.  He racked his brain for ideas on how to get himself and his bike back to the surface.  His lungs were beginning to burn.  He closed his eyes.  He was not going to let go of his bike no matter what because he knew he’d never get another one.

Suddenly, he felt someone tugging at his arms, trying to break his vice-like grip on the bike.  He resisted and continued to hang on desperately.  There was more tugging; this time, more insistent.  He tried valiantly to hold on, but lost his grip.  His mind screamed, “No!”  He felt a strong arm envelop his body and powerful movement toward the surface.  All the while, he kept his eyes locked fervently onto his bike until it was swallowed by bowels of the lake.

At the surface, he coughed and sputtered, spewing the bounty of the lake onto the pavement.  When he was able to regain his breath, he looked up to see who had helped him.
 
“A bike isn’t worth your life, young man,” a short, stocky man with a balding head said, still bent over heaving deeply from the exertion.
“Can you get my bike for me?” he asked getting wearily to his feet and staring longingly at the lake.
“That bike’s long gone, son.  I’m sorry,” the man said.

He made a feeble attempt to go back into the lake.  The man stopped him, shaking his head, saying, “Go on home now.”

He choked back ugly words for the man who had refused to go back into the lake to get his bike and cried all the way home.

© Marsha K. Harrington-Evans Jan 5th 2011
mkharrin1@aol.com

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