Arena One: Slaverunners

I ignore him, gunning it across the bridge, back to our side of the Hudson. As soon as I clear the bridge I make a left onto Spring Street, heading towards the town of Catskill.

I remember coming here as kid with Dad, and a road that led right to the river’s edge. We used to fish there, pull right up to it and never even have to leave our truck. I remember being amazed that we could drive right up to the water. And now, a plan formulates in my mind. A very, very risky plan.

We pass a small, abandoned church and cemetery on our right, and I see the gravestones sticking up out of the snow, so typical for a New England town. It amazes me that, with the whole world looted and destroyed, the cemeteries remain, seemingly untouched. It is as if the dead rule the earth.

The road comes to a tee, and I make a right on Bridge Street, and go down a steep hill. After a few blocks, I come to the ruins of a huge marble building, “Greene County Court House” still emblazoned across its portico, and make a left onto Main Street and speed down what was once the sleepy river town of Catskill. It is lined with stores on either side, burnt-out shells, crumbled buildings, broken windows, and abandoned vehicles. There’s not a soul in sight. I race down the center of Main Street, the electricity out, past stoplights that no longer work. Not that I’d stop if they did.

I pass the ruins of the Post Office on my left, and swerve around a pile of rubble in the street, ruins of a townhouse that must have collapsed at some point. The street continues downhill, twisting, and the road thins out. I pass the rusted hulls of boats, now beached on the land, their bodies destroyed. Behind them are the immense, rusted structures of what were once fuel depots, circular, rising a hundred feet high.

I make a left, towards the waterfront park, now covered in weeds. What’s left of a sign reads “Dutchman’s Landing.” The park juts out, right into the river, and the only thing separating the road from the water are a few boulders, with gaps in between them. I aim for one of those gaps, lower my visor, and gun the bike for all it’s worth. It’s now or never. I can already feel my heart racing.

Ben must realize what I’m doing. He sits bolt upright, gripping the sides of the bike in terror.

“STOP!” he screams. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?”

But there’s no stopping now. He enlisted for this ride, and there is no turning back. I’d offer to let him out, but there is no more time to lose; besides, if I stopped, I might not get up the nerve again to do what I’m about to do.

I check the speedometer: 60…70…80….

“YOU’RE GOING TO DRIVE US RIGHT INTO THE RIVER!” he screams.

“IT’S COVERED IN ICE!” I scream back.

“THE ICE WON’T HOLD!” he screams back.

90…100…110….

“WE’LL FIND OUT!” I respond.

He’s right. The ice might not hold. But I see no other way. I have to cross that river, and I have no other ideas.

120…130…140….

The river is coming up on us fast.

“LET ME OUT!” he screams, desperate.

But there is no time. He knew what the signed up for.

I gun it one last time.

And then our world turns white.

SIX

I drive the bike in the narrow gap between the rocks, and next thing I know, we go flying. For a second we are airborne, and I wonder if, when we hit the ice, it will hold-or whether we will crash right through it and plummet into the icy water, to a certain and brutal death.

A second later my entire body is jolted, as we hit something hard.

Ice.

We hit it at 140, faster than I can even imagine, and as it hits, I lose control. The tires can’t gain traction, and my driving becomes more like a controlled slide; I do my best to just steer the handlebars, which sway wildly. But, to my surprise and relief, at least the ice is holding. We go flying across the solid sheet of ice that is the Hudson River, veering left and right, but at least heading in the right direction. As we do, I pray to God that the ice holds.

Suddenly I hear the horrific noise behind me of cracking ice, even louder than the roar of my engine. I check back over my shoulder, and as I do, an enormous crack opens in the river, following the trail of our bike. The river opens up right behind us, revealing water. Our only saving grace is that we are going so fast, the cracking isn’t quite fast enough to catch us, always a foot behind. If our engine and tires can just hold, just for a few more seconds, maybe, just maybe, we can outrace it.

“HURRY!” screams Ben, eyes wide open with fear as he looks back over his shoulder.

I gun it as fast as I possibly can, just topping 150. We are thirty yards away from the opposite shore, and closing in.

Come on, come on! I think. All we need is a few more yards.

The next thing I know there is a tremendous crash, and my entire body is jerked front and back. I hear Ben groan out in pain. My whole world shakes and spins, and it is then I realize that we have arrived on the opposite shore. We slam into it doing 150, hitting the steep bank hard, which snaps our heads back on impact. But after a few vicious bumps, we clear the bank.

We made it. We are back on dry land.

Behind us, the river is now entirely split open, cracked in half, water spilling onto the ice. I don’t think we could have made it a second time.

There is no time to think about that now. I try to gain control of the bike again, to slow it down, as we are going faster than I would like. But the bike is still fighting me, its tires still trying to gain traction-and suddenly we drive over something incredibly hard and uneven, which sends my jaw smashing into my teeth. It feels like we drove over rocks.

I look down: train tracks. I’d forgotten. There are still old tracks here, right along the river, from when trains used to run. We hit them hard as we cross the river, and as we jump them, the metal shakes the bike so violently, I almost lose hold of the grips. Amazingly, the tires still hold, and we cross the tracks on a country road, running parallel to the river, and I am finally able to slow the bike, dropping down to 70. We pass the rusted hull of an old, huge train, lying on its side, burnt out, and I bang a sharp left on a country road with an old sign that reads “Greendale.” It is a narrow country lane with a sharp ascent uphill, away from the river.

We lose speed as we drive nearly straight up. I pray that the bike will make it in the snow and not slide back down. I gun it, as the speed drops. We are down to about 20 miles an hour, when finally, we clear the hilltop. We even out on level land, and I gain speed again as we fly down this narrow country road, taking us alternately through woods, then farmland, then woods again, then past an old, abandoned firehouse. It continues, dipping and rising, twisting and turning, taking us past abandoned country houses, past herds of deer and flocks of geese, even over a small country bridge spanning a creek.

Finally, it merges into another road, Church Road, aptly named, as we pass the remnants of a huge Methodist church on our left and adjoining graveyard-of course, still intact. I know there is only one way the slaverunners can go. If they want the Taconic, which they must, then there’s no way there without taking Route 9. They are heading North to South-and we are heading West to East. My plan is to cut them off. And now, finally, I have the advantage. I crossed the river about a mile further south than they. If I can just go fast enough, I can beat them to the punch. Finally, I am feeling optimistic. I can cut them off-and they will never expect it. I will hit them perpendicularly and maybe I can take them out.

I gun the bike again, pushing it past 140.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Ben yells out.

He still looks shell-shocked, but I have no time to explain: in the distance, I suddenly spot their cars. They are exactly where I thought they’d be. They don’t see me coming. They don’t see that I am lined up to smash right