By R. S. Hill
© Copyright 1998
Riding the shoulder up East Half Moon Junction on her way to Cyprus Point, Tori Vella was determined to shatter her old time/distance mark. Her Biker Buds thought she was a loon for riding alone after sunset. But Tori and the desert were at their best after dark. Everything appeared lifeless and still, yet behind the night's falling curtain, synchronized chaos thrived. Throughout the nearby range, over the foothills to the distant mountains, thousands of ancient Saguaro blanketed the arid paradise like Easter Island ghouls. It was their endearing presence and tranquil dominance that had given Tori a new perspective on winning.
"Damn," she hissed through gravel lips and pushed harder. She’d fallen behind a few hundredths because she'd been spacing-out. Her mantra: poor concentration permits poor performance again became clear in her mind. Not observing that simple rule resulted in an awful spill that snapped her hamstring like a rubber band. It had taken time—four months and sixteen days--before the courage to ride the course with a winner's passion finally resurfaced.
Tori shifted to take-on another steep incline. The Argenta’s Daytona shifters slid it smoothly into gear and she climbed like a champion. When she reached the end of another uphill charge, a 45-degree drop recharged her legs. It was still hard to believe that four years ago she had almost given up on life. A stillborn child wiped out a two-year marriage to a man who thought tofu was a communist. Their divorce resulted in a Chapter 7 bankruptcy and a quick and dirty foreclosure. She reached "loser status" in less than a fourth of the time it took her to build what she thought was a life.
A coyote dashed across the road from of the darkness. It’s eyes simmered in the beam of artificial light that came from her handlebars. She watched it disappear into the desert without a sound. Ironically, she had chosen to deal with divorce and financial ruin in the same way. She cut herself off from the people who really cared. She started taking ups and downs and washed them back with tequila and beer. When she woke up on a park bench, in the middle of the afternoon not knowing where she’d been or whom she’d been with, she realized she was in trouble. Many people passed by her that day, most looked away while others laughed. But she remembered a little Latino boy who kept trying to sell her a broken down bike.
“But lady,” he pleaded. “You look like you need a ride.”
So she took the boy’s advice and spent three hundred dollars on a new bike and her life changed. The discovery of BIKE--friend and soul mate—was like finally meeting a lover who understood. BIKE was the lover she could wrap her legs around and not feel like a hoar. Bike was lover she could whisper silly things to without feeling stupid. Bike was the lover who could make it happen.
Together they created unity; an exclusive interface of mind, body, soul, and machine. Soon it became possible for Tori to comprehend the physical and spiritual Nirvanas that lay beyond the limits of her endurance. To successfully scale those once colossal peaks of self-persecution that had, for so many years, cast elusive shadows over her inner self was to qualify for nationals and dispel the demons of inferiority forever. Today her life and all she'd done to amend it was riding high on a flesh, bone, blood, rubber and steel.
Minutes passed like seconds changing quickly to hours. The wind scuttled across the horizon like a mysterious wraith. Its fleeting presence could not deaden the gentle yelps of the coyote nor interrupt the perfect silence of night. With more than 47 miles behind her and feeling DAMN good, Tori was ahead of her old mark. When she reached the top of yet another slope, the synchronicity of her own propulsion reached perfection. The sound of the chain as it hummed round and round its spiked steel gears was pure rhapsody. It made sense to imagine a similar chain that linked her racing heart and pumping lungs to the rippling muscles that flexed, pulled, and pushed her toward success.
After another series of moderate hills, Tori knew, without seeing the odometer, that she had reached Cyprus Point and eclipsed the old mark. A glance at her cyclocomputer confirmed her premonition. Relief swept over her with orgasmic force.
"AHHHHHHHHHHYEAH!!"
The fallout from constant failure had lingered over her for months contaminating her with a toxic fear that evaporated into the wind the instant she saw the numbers. Her new mark was an easy qualifier for the national time trails next week. Like a tiny locomotive whose cotton mouth and snotty nose stood as testaments to her latest accomplishment, little Tori Vella ripped-up the Cyprus Point slopes in search of new frontiers. After a years of self-persecution, REDEMPTION at last.
But the right hamstring--which had performed sooo beautifully--started to tremble. She released the driving force behind her success. Gradually, for first time since she'd left her apartment on the opposite side of the desert city where she’d grown up, Tori stopped pedaling. Her bike cruised up a steep grade. Slower. Slower. Slower.
She stood high on her pedals holding her bike perfectly still with her fingertips and toes. The lights from the city behind her were like the memory of another life—another planet. She kicked her left leg back into the air like a gymnast on the balance beam. In one smooth motion, she stepped down from the pedals and her feet once again touched the earth.
“Agua.”
Fastened securely in its cradle, precious ice cold water, frozen solid the night before, called her name. Her lips felt like gravel, but as the water seeped into her system she felt instantly refreshed. She would rest exactly ten minutes, take in some precious liquids, munch protein bars, and then head back home at a descent conditioning pace. She was finally ready.
Fssschhht--Fssschhht!
Her eyes leaped toward the direction in the darkness where she thought the sound had come from but saw nothing. She pulled a tiny flashlight from her bike pack and scanned the area. Something was moving in the brush. She adjusted the light to a wide beam and searched the area hoping to catch a glimpse of a jackrabbit or another coyote!
But what Tori saw on the night of her greatest triumph forced a crushing weight upon the carefree shoulders of the world’s newest champion. It came toward her, hobbling pitifully through a dense thicket of prickly cacti and razor sharp mesquite trees. Thorns and needles were lodged all over its body. Blood trickled steadily from its nose and mouth like chunky red syrup. It had the saddest eyes she'd ever seen.
Tori dropped her bike. It took two steps back then started to shake. She approached the victim with her hands open trying to communicate friendship and trust. One more step and it freaked-out. The poor thing lunged at her, baring its once powerful jaws, but the wounded champion convulsed and collapsed into the dust.
Tori raced to its side. Its tongue was rapped around its nose, dry as dust. When she touched its head it let out a horrifying yelp that shook everything inside her. Its left ear had been cut off. The merciless incision was infested with flies and ants. Its skin was stretched around its bones like scotch tape on a paper clip. Tori hurried back across the road, snatched her precious water from its cradle, and then came back to the victim's side. She trickled large drops of water on its tongue until it finally started to lick.
"Take it easy," she whispered thoughtfully. She rested a comforting hand over the victim's eyes and poured water over the ear-less stump. The shrill yelping howl that thundered throughout the desert night reached beyond the limits of Tori's passion to that secret place where unspeakable horrors lurk and the pain of reality hides. She continued to drain precious drops of water over its mouth hoping to revive the fallen star. She was a beautiful Greyhound, a racer no doubt. Who could have done such a thing?
As she scanned the victim's wounds with her light, she could see that before its desperate trek across the desert, she had been abused and ruthlessly spayed. Cigarette burns decorated its body. One eye had been missing for some time, and what looked like a brand was visible just above its shoulder. The owner's mark had been distorted with a dull knife that had probably been heated. Her eye opened slowly making contact with Tori's for the first time. Despite the ugliness inflicted upon her, she was still a beautiful and graceful winner. Just then, a miracle was coming up the hill.
Tori waved her arms frantically at the approaching vehicle.
"Stop, Stop!" she screamed racing out into the center of the road. "Its an emergency! Stop!"
But the truck kept going. In fact, the driver sped up when she saw Tori in the road.
"God damn YOU!!" But who could hear her. She went back to the victim's side and continued to water her slowly. Over time Tori began to pray for the first time in years. She hoped someone would come to help her or that by some miracle; the victim would rise and walk again.
As the desert night grew colder, neither prayer was answered. Tori sat on the dusty pavement crying. It had been years since she felt so helpless. Training every day in 100 degree temperatures had not prepared her for this. The victim would surely die unless Tori could get her to a hospital. When a gust of wind spun the pedal on her bike producing that clicking noise, Tori got a radical idea. It was a big dog. She probably weighed close to Tori's own weight. Balance would be difficult to maintain for over fifty miles, but another life was at stake.
For a few brief moments, Tori accused herself of being an idealistic fool who never did anything for herself. Leaving the dog to die would not be wrong. Drivers rarely came out this far after dark. No one would ever have to know. But it was the competitor inside that pushed her off her sorry butt and into action.
She grabbed her bike and rolled it over to the victim's side. She flicked the kickstand down and realized immediately that she couldn't straddle the victim across the handlebars. Not only was it too big, riding that way for fifty miles was bound to be painful. So, without a real plan, the 5' 2" 94 pound paralegal secretary hoisted the dying animal off the ground. It took some effort but she finally managed to get the victim across the back of her shoulders.
"Damn," Tori gasped. She was certainly too heavy to carry back to town. When Tori tried to raise her leg up over the bike, the victim's weight threw her balance off. Her foot got hung up underneath the cross bar and they fell backward into the dust. She thought for a moment, but the chances of finding a crane in the middle of desert at night wear pretty slim.
Once again, Tori lifted the victim off the ground. She felt a slight pull in her weak hamstring. She raised her good leg up over the bike, but kicked the fucking thing over.
“Shit!”
Tori sat silently in the dust thinking. This time, instead of trying to get on a standing bike, she straddled the fallen bike and used her left foot like a crane to raise the bike just enough to snatch the cross bar. Tori repeated this seemingly futile exercise three more times until she finally got the bike underneath her with the dog on her shoulders. To succeed, Tori had taken off her riding jacket and used its long sleeves as a harness to secure the victim to her shoulders. She was then able to use both hands, for a brief instant, to lift and balance the bike underneath her. The makeshift harness would also help keep the victim secure in transit. Tori would have to ride using only one hand because the victim was too heavy and needed to be steadied. She didn't have any water left, but she had to try and hope that some Good Samaritan would help her along the way.
Determined and suddenly invigorated by a new sense of responsibility, Tori pushed her bike forward and slowly raised her body up until she reached that extra-tall seat she just had to have. Most of the journey home was downhill although a few monster hills were waiting. Her strategy was to pedal steadily and not think about the extra weight. It was hard to regain focus. To summon that special unity which had led her to this turning point in her life was improbable. The victim's pain was far too great for Tori to ignore. Each imperfect wrinkle in the road seemed to cause it great pain.
In time Tori began to feel the victim's heart beating slowly against the back of her neck. As she pedaled on, pure outrage pushed her beyond the limits of her endurance. Soon she recalled the feeling of death. It had taken her aunt, the woman who had raised her, and then the child she loved for nine months. She wasn't going to allow death to have its way again.
Tori figured she'd traveled maybe two miles in what seemed like hours. She didn't even try to pedal up the first big hill. She walked the victim and the bike up the hill then rode back down. The city lights, once a place of darkness she rode to escape, became a distant sanctuary. The desert hurled its harsh pelting winds in her face and threatened to tip her over time and again. It continued to lower its temperature and show no remorse for the dying. Her muscles tightened fast. Her injured hamstring throbbed for the first time in weeks. She was so thirsty, so tired, so full of a bitter hatred for all people. Her friends, assimilated into the safety of their disenchanted cyber fantasies and diluted by the rushing waves of jet-set scandal, would all say she should have left it to die. But disposable attitudes were the least of Tori's concerns.
After several miles, Tori reached the top of another hill and decided to walk for a while. She couldn't take the dog off her shoulders because she needed to conserve energy. She could still hear its heart beating which was enough to keep her going. As she started down the gentle slope, another car was coming up behind her. Tori didn't bother to waste energy signaling. If they stopped, they stopped. A horn sounded behind her. A man driving a big red Cadillac was wondering what the hell she was doing.
"Want a ride pretty girl?" The relief was almost enough to knock Tori off her feet. She smiled at the wonderful man and stopped.
"Thank you so much," she gasped, her mouth dry as dust. "Can you just help get my friend into--"
"You ain't puttin that mangy thang in my CAR!"
"W-what?"
"You heard me sweat pea. That mangy scalawag ain't staining these leather rump rests."
"You--” a fury erupted inside Tori. She called him every nasty name she could think of and others she made up. He just laughed until Tori spit and kicked his precious car. He got the message and drove off leaving them in a cloud of dust and profanity.
After another mile, the encounter with man and his precious car somehow made the entire ordeal seem a bit humorous to Tori. She continued on realizing that maintaining high spirits was also crucial to success. She sang her favorite songs and even talked to the victim about cool sunny days and big giant trees. She pedaled, and pedaled, and pedaled.
Finally, after hours of slowly pedaling and hysterical ranting, Tori reached the Tamarack Terrace Apartments. A few fellow tenants looked suspiciously at her, but Tori barely noticed them. She laid the victim down in the back of her pick up and covered her with a blanket. She hobbled back inside her apartment and got her keys. Her leg was trashed, but her friend was still breathing.
Tori ran three red lights and drove against traffic down a short one-way street until she reached the animal hospital. The boy behind the reception desk looked as if might cry when Tori pulled him outside to see the victim.
"I found it wandering out past Cyprus Point! You gotta help her."
Seconds later, another attendant and a veterinarian came running out. They carried her into the hospital. Tori hobbled closely behind. When she realized there was nothing more she could do, Tori collapsed on the sofa in the reception area and started to hyperventilate. After resting and drinking a ton water the throbbing haze finally cleared and the room stopped spinning. Time passed like molasses. Finally, the doctor appeared.
"We're hydrating her slowly. She has some broken bones that need to be reset and we're giving her antibiotics for multiple infections. She's lucky you got her here in time."
Tori 's eyes closed. When they opened a tear rolled down her cheek.
"--Isn't there a animal hospital out near Cyprus Point by the Half Moon Junction Intersection?" the doctor inquired.
Tori laughed to keep from crying, then told her extraordinary tale. The doctor wasn't surprised at the way the Greyhound had been treated by its owner. She believed that Greyhound racing should be outlawed. She patted Tori on the back and told her she was a hero.
A week later Isis had a new home and Tori a partner for life. They lay beside one another in front of the television waiting for the start of another race she wouldn’t ride. A proud sadness crept into their eyes as the racers took their marks and the gun sounded.