Forty feet…thirty. Twenty-five…fifteen…ten, as he looked down at the speedometer for the last time. Eighty-six miles per hour, it read.
Too fast! he thought, as he hit the center of the ramp, rising higher and higher.
“Steady,” he yelled out when his front tire left the structure’s safety, slipping on the top that was slick with rain.
Boom! Streaks of color lit up the afternoon sky and crackled ziggy-zaggy around him. They hadn’t told him about the fireworks, but he should have expected it, as it was a part of nearly all big jumps in the past.
Then there was the moment… All stunt riders must feel it—the moment of full commitment, no matter what. Like a newborn leaving the womb’s safety, having been surrounded by fluid for nine months, and in the blink of an eye going back to that environment would surely end in drowning.
He thought about everything and nothing, gliding through the air…and ultimate freedom he would never feel again.
Boom! This time it came from the other side, taking his attention for a split second. The crowd was cheering, “He’s going to make it!”
But he wasn’t. His back tire couldn’t clear the back of the building’s roof.
Wham! The knobby tire skimmed the top like a flat rock skipping across a glassy pond.
The hit wasn’t enough to stop the bike in its tracks, but dozens of conversations would be had over the next days and weeks about whether or not he could have pulled it off with a less-profile street-bike tire. The nays and yeas would be almost even, with a slight advantage going to the “He would have cleared it” camp.
Not that it mattered much now, with the rider’s nose down farther than it should be. Ken stayed calm, as this wasn’t the first time he would land on his front tire. He only wished the drop weren’t so far.
Arching his back, he pulled the bike up just enough to avoid flying over the front handlebars.
Still, it wasn’t enough, and the smooth landing he had envisioned over the last week over and over in his mind was no more. The front tire hit the dirt landing ramp just before the back, with the impact more of a bounce than a landing. The angle was all wrong when it hit again, hurling Ken and the nearly three-hundred-pound hunk of shiny metal far to the right.
He had seen the hay stacked on both sides of the landing ramp during practice, but imagined only hitting the ones at the end, and hopefully at a slow speed. Ken was thinking to check his speed when he hit. Hay bales stacked six-high, like a dam holding back a raging river, collapsed under the force of the impact.
The crowd, who had been cheering and hollering only seconds ago, went quiet.
Even Sheriff Johnson was at a loss for words. He ran around the building, breaking through the crowd, followed closely by two women with concern on their faces.
Kate was athletic. She always had been and was somewhat of a track star, if it could be called that, in such a small town. Maybe she was just the best out of two or three, but she took the lead this day, beating both her fiancé and new rival before realizing it didn’t look good. She slowed, pretending to catch her breath and not appear as concerned as she was.
The Sheriff got there first out of the three, but the doctors had already surrounded him.
“Is he alive, Doc Walters?” the Sheriff asked.
“Well yes, technically he is. Took a good hit to his head, though. You can see right here,” holding up Ken’s helmet.
“Aren’t you supposed to take that off later, in case he has a neck injury?” asked Kate, without thinking.
“Before, yes… We would leave it on if he was breathing normally and transport him immediately to the hospital. As you are aware, I’m sure,” he said, trying hard to be respectful in front of the Sheriff, “it’s just that we don’t have access to one is all. And we’re all here, every doc and nurse in town, so things have to be done a little differently. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, Doctor, I see your point, I guess,” replied Kate.
“He’s unconscious but breathing normally, and that’s better than the alternative. We will let you know, Sheriff, when we hear something. Should I send a couple of medical people from here for the next event?”
“No need, Doc. This next one won’t be requiring medical attention…”
“It looks like Ken’s going to be okay!” called the Sheriff over the megaphone. “What a jump! If it hadn’t rained, I think he would have stuck the landing!”
* * * * * * *
Chapter Six
Weston, Colorado
Sheriff Johnson nodded to his deputies to get Richard and James’ shooter ready for the exhibition. The plan was discussed two days earlier. Each would be given one weapon, and only one man would be left standing. The Sheriff, having feelings for both—equally bad—would personally make sure spoils would not go to the victor.
“Gladiator-style, gentlemen, like Marcus Aurelius,” the Sheriff told them in the holding pen an hour before. “This should make it fair,” he added, showing them the lances. “Lastly, try to run and you will be shot on sight. Now, let’s put on a good show for my guests. Your very life depends upon it.”
Richard’s confidence waivered with the introduction of the weapons. “I thought this would be a fair fight,” he argued—“man to man.”
“It is now,” replied the deputy. “It’s like that kid in the Bible up against the giant, whatever his name was. At least it was fair.”
“So, the winner walks?” asked Richard.
“That’s what I heard.”
“So, you can’t guarantee it?”
“Nope,” replied the deputy. “But I know one thing for sure—the loser is not going home. And lastly, don’t run or you will forfeit the contest and be
