Motocross Madness

  An Explosive Finish

  Joe gunned the throttle and zipped over the hill, catching a bit of air as he did so. He didn’t try anything fancy, wanting to get a feel for the course first. His steady progress put him in third place, behind the two leaders. He spotted Frank, watching from beyond the next rise, then lost sight of him as he hit the ground again.

  Hawk topped the next hill before Henderson. She did a barhop over her handlebars as she went, then disappeared behind the hill.

  Henderson topped the next rise, gunning his throttle all the way as he went up. He hit the top of the whoopdedoo in a nearly vertical climb and twisted his bike into the first somersault in a combination.

  Man and machine hung gracefully in the air for a moment—then Henderson’s black and gold motorcycle exploded.

  Contents

  * * *

  Chapter 1: Race for Life

  Chapter 2: Bird of Prey

  Chapter 3: The Kick-start Party

  Chapter 4: Where There’s Smoke . . .

  Chapter 5: Down & Dirty

  Chapter 6: Flameout

  Chapter 7: Thousands to One

  Chapter 8: Wiped Out

  Chapter 9: Off Course

  Chapter 10: Down & Out

  Chapter 11: Endurance

  Chapter 12: Hidden Dangers

  Chapter 13: Not Out of the Woods Yet

  Chapter 14: A Long Way Down

  Chapter 15: The Great Plan

  1 Race for Life

  * * *

  “Yeah! Way to go, Jamal!” Joe called.

  Jamal Hawkins skidded his dirt bike to a halt at the corner of the track, kicking up a huge cloud of tawny dust. Several other racers, clad in colorful motocross “armor,” zoomed by as Jamal pulled up next to his friends, Joe and Frank Hardy.

  Joe, a muscular, blond seventeen-year-old, clapped Jamal on the shoulder. “Nice bit of riding,” he said.

  Joe’s older brother, Frank, checked his stopwatch and nodded in agreement. “Good run.”

  “How good?” Jamal asked. He flipped up the faceplate of his motorcycle helmet and mopped his brow. His brown face glistened in the afternoon sunlight. It was sweaty work keeping a motocross bike under control over the rough course at the Fernandez Cycle Track. The raceway, located near the western outskirts of Bayport, was a long, unpaved series of hills, twists, and cutbacks.

  Frank showed Jamal his lap time. “A few seconds under your previous track record,” the elder Hardy said. “Not bad for the first run of the day.”

  Jamal pulled off his red and black helmet and smiled. “You guys ain’t seen nothing yet,” he said. “I’m saving my best stuff for the Rehab Race this weekend. You guys should take a shot at it too. It’s open to everyone.”

  “We’ve done our share of rough riding over the years,” Frank said, “but I doubt our bikes are up to that kind of competition. They’re really just recreation bikes, not racing models.”

  “Hey, I’ve heard that it’s the rider that wins the day, not the machine,” Joe said playfully.

  “That might be true if all the competitors were running 125 cc engines,” Frank said. “But facing our little off-roaders against one of those big 250s or 500s . . . well, let’s just say that I don’t like eating that much dust.” He brushed the grit that Jamal’s bike had kicked up out of his dark hair.

  “But I’m riding my 125 too,” Jamal said. He patted the gas tank of his red and black machine. “All the competitors are doing the same. The Fernandez family has limited the entries to small bikes so that more people will join the fund-raiser.”

  “That’s right,” a pleasant female voice interjected. “We—or at least I—need as many competitors in this race series as I can get.”

  The Hardys and their friend turned and saw a teenager with wavy blond hair coming toward them. She smiled and looked very upbeat, even though she was seated in a wheelchair. She rolled skillfully over the packed earth at the edge of the motocross track.

  “Hi, Corri,” Jamal said. “Guys, this is Corrine Fernandez. Corrine, these are my friends, Frank and Joe Hardy.”

  Joe and Frank shook hands with the girl. “Isn’t this benefit race being held in your honor?” Frank asked.

  Corrine nodded. “I don’t know if I’d call it an ‘honor,’ but . . . my dad and the rest of the family put this together to help cover my rehab bills. I wanted to call it the ‘Race to Avoid Bankruptcy,’ but they decided to go with the ‘Corrine Fernandez Benefit Challenge’ instead.” She chuckled.

  Frank smiled. “That’s probably easier to sell to the media than your other option.”

  “Well,” Corri said, “with the popularity of reality TV right now, we might do better if we called it ‘Death Race 3000.’ s”

  Jamal and the Hardys all laughed.

  “How are you feeling?” Joe asked Corrine. “We read about your accident in the papers.”

  “That was six months ago now,” she said, “and I’m still in this darn chair.” She sighed. “I can’t wait to get back on a bike again.” She looked wistfully at the colorful riders practicing on the track nearby.

  “So you’re planning to race again?” Frank asked.

  “You bet,” Corrine replied. “When you fall off the bike, you’ve gotta get right back on.”

  “Not when you fall off, break both legs, and fracture your spine in three places,” Jamal said.

  Corri shrugged. “Hey, we’re a motocross family. Racing’s in our blood.”

  “Just so long as that blood doesn’t end up on the track,” Joe said.

  “Don’t worry,” Corrine replied. “I just caught a bad break. Motocross isn’t that dangerous if you know what you’re doing.”

  “She’s right,” Jamal said cheerily. “I doubt I’ve broken more than a couple bones in all the time I’ve been doing it.”

  “If you’ve only broken two bones, maybe you’re not doing it right,” Joe quipped.

  “If fractures are your idea of ‘right,’ maybe it’s a good thing that you don’t race as much as I do, Joe,” Jamal replied.

  Corrine laughed. “Boy, do I miss the repartee of the track!” she said. “I’m getting stronger every day, though. I’m sure I’ll be zooming over whoopdedoos in no time.”

  “Your family owns this track, don’t they?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” Corrine said. “For now, anyway. Dad had to sell the mortgage to cover my medical bills. He’s wishing now that we had better health insurance, but . . .” She shrugged again, then asked the Hardys, “So, are you two going to join the field, or what?”

  “We were just telling Jamal that our bikes might not be up to the challenge,” Frank said.

  “You can do it,” Corri said. “This series of races will give everyone a chance to win—even talented amateurs. The bike engine size is limited to 125 cc, though you’re allowed minor modifications after every phase of the race. The winner will be the rider who does best in all three parts of the event.”

  “What are the three phases?” Frank asked.

  “I can answer that,” Jamal said. “There’s the acrobatic/aerobatic Mixed Freestyle, the motocross Speed Test, and finally, the cross-country Enduro.”

  “The winner of the series will get a rebuilt classic O’Sullivan SD5—an offshoot of the old BSA line of British machines,” Corrine said.

  “Is it worth much?” Joe asked.

  “It’s not as rare as an Indian bike,” Jamal said, “but it’s still a nice piece of iron. And some of the parts came from the garage of motocross legend Garth Metzger.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Frank said. “That’s quite a prize.”

  “I’m surprised you can’t sell it to cover the bills,” Joe said.

  “It’d be worth a lot more if
the whole bike came from Metzger’s garage,” Corrine admitted. “But it’s still a nice collector’s item. It’s one of a kind. Plus, owning it will mean you’re the winner of the most unique motocross race series, ever.”

  Frank nodded appreciatively. “So, a unique set of races with a unique prize . . . that’s one way to get more publicity—and riders—for the race! I hope it works for you.”

  “So far, so good,” Corrine said. “We’ve got a good mix of amateurs and big-name talent.”

  “I’ve heard that Ed Henderson and Amber Hawk will be competing,” Joe said. “Even with the unusual format, do you really think local riders have any chance against those two?”

  “They’re only experts in one type of motocross racing,” Jamal said. “Henderson is the king of acrobatics, and Hawk rules on the dirt track. Here, they’ll have to compete in specialties they’re not used to.”

  “And on bikes a lot smaller than the ones they normally ride,” Corri added. “It wouldn’t surprise me if a complete unknown wins the top prize this weekend.”

  “I guess we’d fit into the ‘complete unknown’ category,” Frank noted.

  Corrine smiled up at him and Joe. “So, what do you say, guys? Will you help out and join the race? You could be pledge racers—just like most of the competitors.”

  “What’s a pledge racer?” Joe asked.

  “It’s like working on a school fund-raiser,” Corri explained. “You promise to race, and then collect money by getting people to sponsor you. They pledge either a set amount, or an amount based on where you finish in the standings, or both.”

  “That’s what I’m doing,” Jamal added. “There are a lot of people who’ll be paying off big-time when I collect that O’Sullivan SD5.” He grinned from ear to ear.

  “You don’t have to ask for huge amounts of money, though,” Corrine continued. “Every little bit will help pay for my rehab. The doctors don’t care if they’re paid in pennies or hundred-dollar bills.”

  “Well, when you put it that way,” Joe said, “how can we refuse?”

  “Count us in,” Frank agreed.

  “Great,” Corri said, smiling. She opened a metal clipboard on her lap. “It just so happens that I have a couple of registration forms with me. If you’re quick, you might even get in some practice runs today.”

  “Speaking of practice,” Jamal said, “I’d better get back on the course. I hear I’ve got two more tough competitors entering the race.”

  Jamal pulled his helmet back on, started the cycle’s engine, and pulled out onto the track once more. “See you after the next run,” he called.

  Frank started the lap counter on his stopwatch. Then both he and Joe took the registration forms from Corri Fernandez and began filling them out.

  While the brothers wrote, they kept an eye on the other racers flying around the track. Clouds of dust whipped up as the dirt bikes crested the hills—known as “whoopdedoos”—and then skidded into the turns between. The sounds of racing engines and the smell of motor fuel mixed with the rich scent of freshly turned earth.

  “Those are pretty large whoopdedoos, aren’t they?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah,” Corri said, gazing longingly at the racers. “We’ve built them up so people can practice for tomorrow’s acrobatic event,” she said. “We’re going to make them even higher overnight, then take them back down for the regular motocross.”

  A rider in blue racing armor crested the nearest hill. A golden dragon motif covered the painted portion of his bike. As he topped the rise, he flew into the air. He and the bike executed a double somersault, then landed lightly on the track below. The rider kept going, full speed.

  Joe and Frank both stopped filling out their forms long enough to watch. “Impressive,” Joe finally said.

  “That’s Ed Henderson,” Corri explained. “He’s definitely one of the best in the business.”

  “Don’t be looking for jumps like that from us,” Frank said, smiling. “Not unless you’re providing stunt doubles.”

  Corrine smiled back. “I think you Hardys protest too much,” she said. “Jamal’s told me you’re pretty fancy riders yourselves.”

  “Maybe we just want the competition to think we’re inexperienced,” Joe suggested with a laugh.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried that tactic,” Corri said. She watched as Henderson zoomed over another rise, then disappeared behind a bank as he continued running the course.

  The roar of another engine made all three teens look back the other way.

  A pink and purple bike sailed over the crest of the nearby hill. But the rider hit the jump wrong and veered sharply off the track.

  “Look out!” Frank shouted as the motorcycle soared right toward them.

  2 Bird of Prey

  * * *

  The world seemed to move in slow motion as the cycle flew through the air at the startled teens.

  Instinctively, Joe and Frank both grabbed Corrine’s wheelchair. They pushed her aside and dove out of the way as the machine zoomed at them. The pink and purple bike rocketed past, missing the brothers by inches.

  Corri pitched forward and almost tumbled out of her chair, just managing to hold on. Joe and Frank landed hard in the mud beside the racetrack. The cyclist hit the dirt at an angle and skidded sideways. Her wheels went out from under her, and she crashed into several bales of hay lining the side of the course.

  Joe and Frank glanced at Corrine, who looked pretty shook up. “Are you all right?” Joe asked.

  Corri nodded, and ran one shaky hand through her tousled hair.

  The brothers rose and headed toward the cyclist. She was lying prone beneath her pink and purple bike, covered with smashed hay. For a moment, she didn’t move. Then she groaned and pushed weakly at the cycle, which was pinning her left leg.

  Frank and Joe raced to her side and helped lift the machine.

  “I’ll be all right,” the pink-helmeted cyclist said. “The hay bales cushioned the crash. Thank heaven for body armor, too.” The brothers noticed that she had motocross impact plates woven into her pink and purple cycling outfit.

  At that moment, another bike crested the jump hill. Its rider wore green, with a yellow bird motif painted on her cycle. She paused just a moment, then kept going.

  The crashed cyclist snarled, “Amber Hawk . . . !”

  “You should take it easy,” Joe suggested.

  The young woman pulled off her helmet, revealing a pretty face surrounded by dark, wavy hair. “I’m okay,” she said.

  “That was a pretty bad crash,” Frank noted. “You should keep still until we can call for an ambulance.”

  The woman shook her head. “No need. I’ve been in worse spills. But thanks for helping. Who are you guys, anyway? Are you part of the staff?”

  “Frank and Joe Hardy,” Frank replied. “We’re signing up for the race and just happened to be here.”

  “In the right place at the right time,” the woman said. “I’m Marissa Hayday.”

  “Are you all okay?” Corri Fernandez asked. It had taken her some time to wheel across the rutted course shoulder to the scene of the accident.

  “Yeah. We’re fine,” Joe said. “It was a close call, though.”

  Corri looked very concerned. “What happened?”

  Before Marissa could answer, two men came running up to the group. They were both tall and dark-haired. One was younger, about the same age as Corrine. The other man was older, and wore glasses and a bushy mustache. Both bore a family resemblance to Corri.

  “We saw what happened,” the younger man blurted.

  “Corri, are you all right?” the older man asked. “If anything else happened to you—”

  “I’m fine, Pops,” Corri said.

  “I thought for sure that bike was going to clock you,” the younger man said. He glared angrily at Marissa Hayday.

  “My friends pushed me out of the way in time,” Corri explained. “Dad, Paco, this is Joe and Frank Hardy. They’
re entering the race. Frank, Joe, this is my dad, Peter, and my brother, Paco.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Joe and Frank said.

  The Fernandez men nodded acknowledgment but remained focused on the battered motorcycle rider and her bike. Marissa straightened the machine out and began checking it for damage.

  “You could have killed someone, you know,” Paco said angrily.

  “This is only a practice,” Pops added. “You shouldn’t be taking those kinds of chances.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Marissa replied. “Tell that Hawk woman. She’s the one who ran me off the course!”

  “Amber Hawk?” Pops asked.

  “Who else?” Marissa said angrily.

  Paco grimaced. “I told you she was trouble, Pops,” he said. “We never should have invited her. We ought to kick her out of the competition right now!”

  “You think I should throw out one of the best motocross riders on the word of this girl?” Pops asked skeptically.

  “Look,” Marissa said, “I know I’m nobody important, but I’m telling the truth. Ask my sisters Elena and Kari if you don’t believe me. They saw the whole thing.”

  “Maybe you should flag Hawk down and ask her what happened,” Frank suggested.

  “Good idea,” Pops said. He pulled a small walkie-talkie from his belt and called one of his assistants. A few moments later, he turned back to the group. “I called Stephenson up in the observation tower. He’ll flag down Hawk and send her over. Now, you’re sure you’re all right, Corrine?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” Corri said.

  Jamal’s red and black bike crested the nearby hill. He came downslope and stopped near his friends. “How’d I do?” he asked, looking at Frank and Joe.

  “Sorry, Jamal,” Frank said. He pulled the watch out of his pocket, but his dive had made it reset itself. “We had some trouble here. I completely lost track of your lap time.”

  “What happened?” Jamal asked, concerned.

  “Ms. Hayday nearly plowed into us,” Joe offered.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Marissa said.