Rand
"Boot," Stewart's voice came over the radio.
"You're going to have to honk it, Taylor," I murmured into the mic attached to my headset. I'd configured the light on my head so it cast a wide beam, allowing me to see the stopwatch attached to the clipboard as well as the sheet I was using to track Stu's times. I wrote the number down, only worrying about the minutes and seconds, not bothering with the tenths, hundredths, or thousandths. "You're still over two full seconds behind."
Our communications were curt and business like, and I only spoke if I had something to say. Stu was calling out markers as he hauled ass around the Green Hell, the 17.2-mile loop in the Siuslaw National Forest that the Bayport Riders had marked out nearly thirty years before, and I was writing down the times. He'd lost a lot of time at Kink on this run, a nasty, tight, right-hander that would spit you into the weeds without warning if you went in too hot and got in the marbles.
Stu grunted, his terse vocalization activating the VOX—Voice Operated Exchange—microphone in his helmet, allowing me to hear the YZF-R1M barking and howling as Stu banged the Yamaha down through the gears.
"Cut me some slack, Tauper," he complained over the rise and fall of the banshee-like wail as the big bike clawed for speed on the exit. "This bitch is a real handful."
I chuckled. Stu had recently traded up from his trusty 2011 Honda CBR1000RR to the Yamaha, and he was working to master the bike. Despite his skill, the aging Honda was no longer able to compete against the newer bikes, and he hadn't finished in the top five any time during the last two years. This was his second trip around the Hell at speed on the new bike. He was six seconds ahead of his pace during his first lap and was now within a couple of seconds or so of third place in the over seven-fifty class.
He'd been riding the bike for about a month to get a feel for the machine, but this was our first attempt to really dial the bike in. There was no place on the Hell where the bike could reach its top speed of better than one-eighty, so before we arrived for testing, I'd changed out the rear sprocket for more acceleration out of the corners at the expense of top speed. After his first lap, using his feedback, I'd suggested adjustments to the suspension's preload, damping, and rebound rates, something easily changed on the electronic suspension, and raised the tire pressure two pounds in the front and a pound in the back. Now he was out again to see if my tinkering had made the machine faster. His increasing confidence on the bike probably had more to do with his increased pace than anything I did. There was no way I'd hit the sweet spot perfectly with only one adjustment, and I was certain the Yamaha had much more to give.
"Finger," Stu grunted, and once again I heard the bike bang down a couple of gears in my headset before wailing back up to speed. "Goddamn does this thing have brakes. I can't get used to how deep into the corner I can go, and holy
fuck
, since the new exhaust, ECU flash, and the extra tooth on the back does this bitch pull, but I still have too much top end and I think we need to go up another tooth."
"Hooray for ABS and traction control," I muttered as I wrote the number down. "I still have you around two seconds off the podium."
Using a stopwatch I couldn't really tell if Stu was faster or slower. That'd have to wait for the sophisticated timing equipment during the race, but there was no doubt that once we got the bike dialed in, and Stu adjusted to the feel of the machine, he'd be faster than on his Honda. A lot faster.
Depending on how he felt, I might make a few more adjustments to the suspension, and maybe change out the rear sprocket to give him more acceleration, before he made one more run, but then we were calling it a night. It was mentally and physically exhausting out on the Hell, and after two or three runs the mistakes started. That's when the speeds started going down and somebody got hurt.
I was waiting for the call at Wiggles, the final timing marker, when I heard the crash.
"Stu!" I yelled as I listened to the roars, bangs, and grunts as Stu slid and tumbled along the road. "Stu!" I cried again, my heart in my throat. For a moment could hear Stu's labored breathing before his microphone cut off in the quiet. "Stu, speak to me, pal! Stewart! Can you hear me? Talk to me, buddy! Fuck!"
I spun and ran the two-dozen steps to the support truck, throwing the clipboard into the passenger seat as I flung myself under the wheel. The equipment would have wait. I twisted the key, and the moment the engine caught, I jerked the truck into gear. My right foot against the floor, the rear tires howling and the engine screaming, I spun the truck onto the road, racing to where Stu had gone down.
I pushed the lumbering, damnedably slow Dodge as hard as I dared. I was badly overdriving my headlamps, but I knew this road like I knew my own face, though I was traveling in the opposite direction of normal. Driving recklessly fast, the big V8 engine whooping and roaring as I alternately lifted and floored it, I used the whole road as I raced through the night.
Stu hadn't called Wiggles, and as I reached the sensuously curving section of road, I braked hard to rapidly burn off speed. Stu had gone down between Wiggles and Finger and I didn't want to run over the man if he were still in the road... and I needed to give myself enough time to see him on shoulder if he weren't.
"Fuck!" I snarled, banging my hand on the wheel when I reached Finger.
I pulled onto the grassy shoulder and stabbed the throttle as I cranked the wheel hard right, spinning the truck around in the road. My heart pounding in my chest, my jaws clenched so tightly my teeth were in danger of cracking, I began driving back the way I came, moving even more slowly this time. Creeping along at barely twenty miles-per-hour, I strained to peer into the near total darkness outside the range of the truck's headlamps. There were no houses, no streetlights, and no people this far out in the forest. It made the road perfect for illegal street racing, but I'd give almost anything right now to have more light.
The minor roads in the Siuslaw National Forest were little used but well maintained and marked by the Forest Service, which may have been the only reason I noticed the scrapes and gouges in the tarmac. I slammed on the brakes, the truck almost stopping as I angled the truck to track the scars with the headlamps until they disappeared off the side of the road. I pulled to the edge of the road, slammed the truck into park, and yanked the large flashlight that stayed in the truck from its charger. Clicking the light on, I bailed from the truck and hurried to the front of the vehicle, trying to see something, anything illuminated by the truck's powerful headlamps.
My shadow, cast from the truck's lights, loomed over the grass like a specter of death, but I saw nothing. Slowly walking along the edge of the road, I swept the bright beam from the flashlight, filling in my shadow, simultaneously hoping I wouldn't find Stu while dreading I would. I'd taken about ten steps when the flashlight's beam glinted off something a vibrant blue, and I whipped the light back.
"Oh... no," I breathed as I hurried down the slight embankment.
Stu was lying in a heap next to a tree, his body twisted into a position no man could replicate. I knew not to move him, but as I reached him, I knelt beside the broken man and carefully reached under his helmet. I pressed two fingers to his neck but felt nothing.
I held my fingers against his flesh for a long moment, hoping, praying, I'd feel a throb, no matter how faint, before I slowly withdrew my fingers. My teeth clinched tight, I slowly stood, Stu beyond the help of mortal men. The twisted and bent body illuminated by the flashlight, I could feel my control slipping. I flicked the beam to the bike so I didn't have to think about my dead friend for a moment, the new Yamaha an unrecognizable twisted lump of silver and blue among the trees.
I stood for many long moments, staring at the remains of the bike, swallowing hard as I battled my emotions, before turning and slowly walking back to the truck. I didn't want to leave Stu, but there was no cell service this far into the forest, and I needed help. I sat in the truck for a long time, staring into the darkness as I tried to collect myself. This was a shitty detail, but it had to be done. My lips pursed tight, I placed the truck in gear, reset the trip odometer so I could find the crash site again, and drove out of the forest and back to civilization.
