Mondragon's Ride

MONDRAGON'S RIDE

for Ten Years of Youth, He Must Ride....Like the Very Devil

GARY BALL

MONDRAGON WAS restless. The air conditioning was broken and the windows were open to keep the room cool. He heard no sound except the breathing of his wife, the tick of the clock, and a truck on the highway a few miles away.

Suddenly he heard a strange buzz from across the fields that sounded very familiar, although he couldn’t identify it. It rose and fell and sometimes became inaudible, but it obviously grew nearer. The sweat on his brow came a little faster. He knew that sound-what was it?

All at once it became a loud, wailing shriek, dropped down a few octaves and rose again, and then once more. It stopped outside, right in front of his house. From the first burst he knew it to be a motorcycle-a very special kind of motorcycle-an engine with four cylinders, dual overhead cams and long, tapered megaphones, a machine that could easily top 140 mph with brakes that would stop, smoothly, from that speed a number of times without fading; a motorcycle just like the one in his garage.

He listened to the staccato exhaust of the highly tuned engine. It sat in front for an interminable period of time. Mondragon’s mind was blank except for that sound—and memories of other sounds like it. The motor suddenly rose to a scream, dropped a little in pitch and rose to a higher scream as the rider slipped the clutch in first. He quickly went through the first three gears, then slowed for a fast right-hand bend.

Mondragon listened to the engine, the perspiration coursing down his face and body. He listened to every upshift, every downshift. He could see the road ahead, he knew every corner; he could see the jogging of the headlight on the macadam and feel the strength of the clutch lever. His feet and hands twitched in sympathy with the movements the rider must be making. Finally, the motorcycle was back on the main road. There was a slight pause—and the five short screams, each slightly longer than the last, and a final long wail that grew higher and farther away. Vaguely Mondragon wondered why the motorcycle hadn’t slowed down at all for the last turn onto the highway where it ran beside the river.

For a long time Mondragon heard nothing, thought nothing, knew nothing. Slowly he began to hear his heart beating, as if it were coming out of a hole, then his wife’s slow, regular breathing. The hoot of an owl somewhere in the woods outside made him leap out of bed. He stood for a minute in his pajamas, trembling with fear, his heart in his throat. His wife, turning over in bed and muttering, brought him back to his senses. He walked to the window and looked out. The air was calm and hot and balmy, and through the pines he could see the clouds racing past the stars and covering the moon. He looked at his wife, Estelle Mondragon, asleep on her own bed, her hair in curlers and her face covered with cream. He grunted distastefully and walked into the kitchen.

It wasn’t until he had poured a glass of milk and sat down at the table that he really thought about what had just happened. He had heard a motorcycle, in full roadrace tune and trim, ride up to his house, stop, idle, tear off through the neighborhood and out of hearing down the highway. And yet, not one other light he could see was turned on, his wife hadn’t so much as stirred, the kids hadn’t awakened and no dogs barked. Who would own such a motorcycle? He knew of no others for hundreds of miles. Even if someone had one, why ride here and at this time of night?

He was able to convince himself that it had only been a dream, and walked out to the garage. He pulled the cover from his motorcycle and stood back admiring it. It was beautiful. It was a combination of aesthetic and mechanical perfection. He felt very flushed and his heart began to beat quickly again-but now with excitement. He mounted it and tested the controls. The red slash on the tachometer was set at 14,500 rpm. In sixth gear, at that rpm, he would be doing 155 mph. It had been to 160 mph. He leaned over into a racing crouch and tucked in under the fairing—160 miles per hour, 160, then cut the throttle, slowly apply the brakes, downshift twice, lean into a fast bend in fourth gear at 12,000 rpm, back to fifth, accelerate for a short way, slow again, back to fourth. His heart sank. Estelle had said he must sell it.

Sell it-his ex-works, road racing motorcycle that he had wanted for years. His super-tuned, 160-mph, four-cylinder, dohc motorcycle that he had finagled and worked for six months to buy. It had cost $10,000. Sell it. It wasn’t safe. How about the security of your wife and kids? What would we do if something happened to you? And besides, what kind of impression does it make on Donny? Here he is, almost 8 years old, can’t ride his bicycle any farther than the main road and his father is trying to kill himself all over the country, racing some stupid motorcycle! And for what? For thrills? Why can’t you play golf or go fishing like other men do? You’re 28 years old! You’re too old to ride motorcycles. Look at Bill Fleming, he never does such stupid things. Why, just last week, Margie was telling me that...

Sell it. Mondragon had everything. At 28 he was tall and thin and good looking. He was the only son of a wealthy businessman. When his father died and he took over the business, he made even more. It had hurt when he found out that he was going to be a father, and would have to marry Estelle at such a young age, but he did love her, and besides, she too was wealthy. He finished college high in his class, and had stepped into business with no problems. Now he lived in an $80,000 country estate with Estelle and Donny and 6-year-old Susan. All his less successful friends admired him for what he had and what he had achieved.

He thought he was relatively content and was proud of his achievements. He had played with his motorcycles since he was 18. They were his release, his own private madness. He was a good rider, too-many said he could be great someday. Since he had bought his ex-works he was unbeatable. But only a few months later Estelle had clamped down-no more racing-and get rid of the motorcycle. He wasn’t weak or henpecked, and in a way she was right. She had been a faithful wife and a good mother for his children. He hated the idea of selling it, and really hadn’t tried very hard. He had been able to pretty well forget about it until tonight, until he had that odd dream that seemed so real.

As he dismounted and put the cover back over the motorcycle, giving it one last, fond touch, he thought about the last race. He had finished an easy lap ahead of the rest of the field. There were other motorcycles just as good as his, and a lot of well-known ridersbut he had won easily. For many weeks he had pondered selling the business, which he could do at a sizable profit to himself, and taking up racing as his profession. A whole stable of machines-and big name riders working for him-“Team Mondragon and its top rider and owner, Paul Mondragon.” Then Estelle had popped the bubble. Suddenly he hated her. He hated her and his life, because they were really so empty.

The next day he went to work feeling very tired of it all. At lunch he inquired about golf lessons. Estelle called. Donny was home from school with an upset stomach.

“You’re his mother,” he said and hung up. He stayed up reading very late that night. About midnight he began to hear it again. The sound of the motorcycle. At first he knew he was only hearing things. Then he knew he wasn’t. In almost no time it stopped in front of his house again. The engine was cut off.

Mondragon was scared to death. His face was white, his hands clammy. His book fell to the floor. The only sound was the tick of the clock. Each tick shook the house. What seemed hours later he heard a voice, or at least thought he heard a voice.

“Come outside, Mondragon. I want you.” It was spoken just once. It wasn’t sinister or foreboding, or evil or friendly. It wasn’t an order and it wasn’t a request. It was a simple statement. “I want you.”

Mondragon got up, unlocked the front door and walked out into the grass. The coolness of dew excited him. At first he could see nothing in the glow of the single street lamp. Then his eyes caught a glint of metal from the shadows on the street. He walked slowly down to it, his shirt soaked in sweat.

He couldn’t distinguish its shape until he was a few feet from it-a motorcycle exactly like his from all appearances. The rider was just about his own height and weight. The rider sat with his feet on the ground and both hands on the grips. He wore black leathers and a black helmet with an extremely dark tinted faceshield. They looked at each other for a moment.

“I think you know who I am, don’t you Mondragon,” said the faceless one.

Mondragon only nodded. Suddenly he was very, very calm. He felt drained and somewhat relieved.

“You are the best rider I have ever seen, Mondragon, and I respect you for it. Few people know how much I love motorcycles. I want to give you a chance. Would you like to race me?”

“Why?”

“Oh, there’s something in it for you. If you win, you will be able to escape from your present situation. I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’ll be able to do anything you wish, have anything you want for the rest of your life. I’ll even throw in an extra 10 years before you start getting older.”

“And when I die?”

“That all depends on how you spend the rest of your life. So far, I haven’t got you.” “That’s nice to know.”

“I usually don’t tell people.”

“Suppose I lose?”

“The usual-you’re mine for keeps.”

“Oh.” Mondragon thought awhile and then looked up. “What are the rules-and how do I know it will be a fair race?”

“You’ll just have to take my word for it tha> it will be a fair race, but I’m not a spoilsport. If it wasn’t fair it wouldn’t be any fun. This motorcycle is an exact duplicate of yours. All you’ll have to do is have a headlight installed. This card will tell you where to take it to have it done.”

“I see,” said Mondragon, looking at the card. It bore the name of a small but good shop on the west side of town. The gauntlet that handed him the card had only three fingers.

“Where do we race?”

“You know the old highway from Hagues to Leonard City pretty well don’t you?” The voice rang hollowly inside the face shield. That was the road that Mondragon used to practice on. It was about 22 miles long, had few turn-offs, and, since the freeway had been built, it was almost deserted. It was still in good repair, and had enough curves and straights to make it a very good course.

“Of course I do,” replied Mondragon.

“Suppose you meet me there a week from tonight, at midnight.”

Mondragon thought for only a moment before he answered. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” said the other. “This should be very interesting.”

The engine just started running. The rider didn’t do anything to coax it into life. He shifted into first and tore off down the road. There was no headlight, only a red glow that preceded it into the darkness. Mondragon stood for a long time, listening to the rise and fall of the exhaust note as it echoed through the pines. That lone, final wail grew higher than he could bear before it passed out of hearing. A sudden gust of wind chilled him to the bone. He shivered and walked inside.

He spent the next few days in preparation. In case of his death or sudden disappearance, all his money and assets were left to Estelle, and a trust fund of $100,000 each was set up for Donny and Susy. He almost confessed to his friend and lawyer, but instead just said he hadn’t thought too much about that sort of thing before. He loaded the motorcycle onto the trailer, and took it in to have the headlight put on.

Three days before the race he told Estelle he would be away for a week on business. She consented readily enough. He packed his bags with his leathers and helmet and kissed her goodby. He pulled out onto the road and stopped, staring at the house, and at Donny playing in the yard. He realized he could never go back there again. Even if the challenge proved to be just a dream. He could never go back because now there was a door opened to a better way-or a worse way-but always before he had been sealed in, with no possible avenue of escape. As of that moment he could no longer endure the limbo in which he was living.

He picked up his motorcycle and checked into a small motel where he knew it was unlikely anyone who could recognize him might happen by. He planned to practice the next two nights, but it was possible that there might be someone else practicing too. He did go out the day before, but he was afraid to stay until nightfall. He paced the floor of his room and smoked an endless chain of cigarettes. The motorcycle had felt good—perfect in fact. He knew that, if it were possible, he would win. What if he didn’t? And what had he really been promised if he did win? He almost decided to call it off. To run his car over a cliff and go some place to start all over again. He had enough money in traveler’s checks to live on indefinitely. If he had gone this far, why stop now? What the hell? Good question, he mused.

"What the hell?"

(Continued on page 83)

Continued from page 81

He was at Hagues by 10 p.m. By 10:45 he had hidden the car, unloaded the motorcycle and put on his leathers and boots. He paced silently. It still wasn’t too late. He could leave right now. He could just pack up and go home and...no, he couldn’t. He knew that. He push started it, put it in neutral and let it warm up. His watch showed 11:50. Suppose the other one didn’t show up? How late should he stay? He listened to the exhaust as he blipped the throttle to keep it from fouling-the power, that fantastic power. That sound had the power to completely change his life. It had the power to push him to incredible speeds. The slightest mistake and that power could end his life. He looked at his watch-11:55.

He killed the engine. It was completely silent. The engine had already partially deafened him. Two more minutes. He heard it. It was on the new highway. It turned off. It came closer and closer. He was coming, he really was. It wasn’t a dream. At midnight precisely he pulled up beside Mondragon.

“Are you ready?” said the opaque black mask.

“Yes, I think so.”

“You’re sure you want to do this? You don’t have to, you know.”

“But I have to now.”

“Does your headlight work all right?”

“Yes, quite well.”

“Because I am the challenger, you may start first. The finish line is the soda advertising sign just this side of Leonard City. Do you know it?”

“Refreshes you best?” asked Mondragon. He began to feel very good, even a bit giddy. He was in it. He was glad.

“Yes, that’s it.” He paused, “Any time you’re ready, Mondragon.”

“As soon as I get it started,” said Mondragon.

He pulled on his helmet and gloves. He looked at the stars and the moon. He thought it odd that there should be no feeling of foreboding or fear, only relief and glory. The machine started quickly. He revved it up a few times and turned on the headlight. It flooded the road with white visibility. The other motorcycle pulled up beside him. They looked at each other.

Mondragon nodded, tucked under the fairing and shrieked off. The tachometer needle was at 14,500 in an instant; he shifted; the jerk into second almost threw him off. Again the needle bit red-third gear, fourth gear, slow for a slight bend, brake hard and downshift for a fast left hand turn, then quickly back to fourth, a straight mile and three quarters, fifth gear, sixth gear. The needle climbed to 13,000. Where is the other one? He hadn’t even noticed. He glanced to his right. There it was. That unearthly red glow on the concrete, creeping slowly forward, slowly entering the running white fan from his headlamp.

The road sign that flashed by said, “Curve Ahead: 30 mph.” Mondragon braked as hard as he dared, and changed down to fourth. The side of the fairing was barely scraping and he was accelerating up from 90. But, the other had been on the inside and was ahead by a good 10 ft. Already they had gone 3 miles, just 19 more to go, and he was behind. Ahead were a series of esses. He went into them while still gaining on the other. He knew immediately he shouldn’t have. He braked wildly and regained control, but the challenger was already in the next corner. Mondragon tucked closer and twisted the throttle. This was a race for life; he hadn’t lost yet.

The other rider was good, the best Mondragon had ever run against. His every move was perfect. He never missed a shift and he followed a perfect line through every corner. But something told Mondragon that if he could just go a little faster, ride a little harder, he would win. He followed the esses and switchbacks faster than he had ever dared before, and he tried to follow the other one’s perfect line. It worked. By the time they came out onto the four mile straight, Mondragon was just passing; he was going just a few mph faster than the other. It was just what he needed. He wound up through fourth, then fifth, and he finally hit sixth. The needle seemed to crawl up. He began to sweat, but the red glow was way off, and rearward to the left, and it started lagging.

You’ve got it, he told himself, just hang on, baby. The needle bit into the red; it went through the red. The tach jittered at 15,500 rpm. What if it blows? he thought. He didn’t

want to slack off—he needed all the head start he could get. Already they had gone 14 miles, just 8 more to go. The turn couldn’t come up fast enough. It was a fairly fast right-hand bend. He applied the brakes. The bike slowed unbelievably fast. He made the turn in the bottom of fifth. Then down even more for some more esses.

At the same time, Estelle turned over in bed, dreaming of a thousand ladies’ club luncheons, a dozen church bazaars, and a new yellow hat. Donny and Susy dreamed of the toys their Daddy would bring them when he came home. A dog, awakened by the noise across the field was howling at the moon. But there on the highway there was nothing, no one, just a pool of light and a red glow chasing each other down the road at maniacal speeds. It was the only thing in the world that really mattered, yet it meant nothing at all.

The red glow began to creep up again. For the next 3 miles the road was a series of very similar rightand left-hand bends with a few short straights. One of those turns was a very sharp hairpin that had to be taken in second gear. And Mondragon could not remember which one. He knew it was a right-hand turn, but he couldn’t recall how to identify it. He knew it was hidden and they all looked the same. The rest he could take in third or fourth at 80 or 90 mph, but to go through the hairpin at more than 45 would be disastrous. He became very, very, frightened. He wasn’t even sure it was a right-hand turn—maybe it was a left-hand turn. He began to slow too much for each corner. Suddenly the other motorcycle slipped quickly past on the inside and was far up the straight, almost to the next corner.

Mondragon realized that he must stay right on the other one’s tail. He ran as fast as he could, over-revving, braking too hard, until he was riding the other’s slip stream. He was afraid to pass because of the hairpin, still somewhere ahead-somewhere, if only he knew where.

There was a fairly long straight. In his headlight he watched the other one. He saw the rider crouched impossibly low. He was long since completely deaf to the noise, he heard only a dull roar. Then, ahead, he saw the tree. The giant oak that marked the acute right-hand hairpin. He was flooded with relief. He moved over to the right a few feet and began braking and downshifting. Fifth, fourth, third, another 60 ft. and he was still going 75 mph. The red glow was a few feet to his left. He pulled on the brakes harder than he dared and hit second. The tires held. He heeled over and felt the vibrations as the fairing was eroded on the concrete. It was perfect. By the time he had straightened up the red glow was yards behind. A sign said “Leonard City, 2 miles.” Two miles to go, less than two minutes. He was ahead and he had to stay that way.

There was just one more fast left-hand turn before the finish line. He backed down to fifth and hung over into it. He had won, he had won! He looked down and saw the red glow slipping past his left foot. “He’s passing you,” his mind screamed. He pulled the throttle all the way back. It was too soon, but the tires held. He slammed forward and down the last straight. To his right he saw a red and white blur. In the center of that blur he read the word “Refreshes...”

He slowed and stopped. The red glow pulled up beside him as he was taking off his helmet. His heart was a jackhammer. He leaned the motorcycle against a post and got off.

“You have beaten me, Mondragon. I congratulate you.” The three-fingered gauntlet extended itself. Mondragon shook it.

“I will keep my bargain, of course. I always do. Get back on your motorcycle and continue in this direction. All that I promise you will come true. And...and I hope I never see you again, at least not at my place.”

The engine started and he rode back the way they had come.

Unbelievable, Mondragon thought. He lighted a cigarette and sat down. Just continue on. He wondered what he’d find ahead. He glanced at his watch. It showed 12:20 a.m. What seemed hours had taken less than 20 minutes. He pulled on his helmet, started the engine and rode off into the night.

He stopped once for a cup of coffee, and an old trucker commented on his motorcycle.

“It’s the most beautiful thing in the world,” Mondragon said.

There was a mirror on the weighing machine by the door. He needed a shave. He looked closer. The lines on his face weren’t nearly as noticeable. “Just your imagination,” he thought. Does look rather dashing, though. He pulled in his stomach and walked out.

By dawn he had gone 200 miles. The air was cold and the sunrise was the most beautiful he had seen in years. Beside the road was a Continental with the hood up. He stopped. A girl stood beside the car looking at a flat tire. She had long, raven-black hair, milk white skin with two huge violet eyes. She was by far the most magnificent girl he had ever seen.

“Can you help me?” she asked.

“Of course,” said Mondragon, and laughed and laughed and laughed.