P.O. Box 53055    
Los Angeles, CA 90053   

NINETY-NINE DIRT-BIKERS SAFELY HOME

Ninety-nine motocross bikers reached the finish line safely. Ninety-nine out of a hundred. That ain’t a bad average, is it? If you’re in charge of a hundred athletes, and 99 are safely home, wouldn’t you party? Polish your gold medals and enjoy the post-game celebration?

The acrid smell of hot motor oil and Harley Davidson grease shimmered across the hot Mexico sky as Josh thumbed the “talk” button on his two-way radio. “Yo, Benji,” he said, his voice scratchy from all the dust being kicked up by the bikes doing their wheelies and doughnuts. “You out there?”

“Right here, boss.” The second-in-command guy for Team USA was a distant speck, about 400 yards out, corralling some of the bikers. “We’re about 15 minutes from the green light.”

“Well, I want our boys on the line in five,” Josh told him. “Let’s start getting in position right after I talk to them.”

“Roger that.” Josh could see Benji waving the American racers toward the team’s designated rendezvous area. He motioned to the elite motocross participants standing next to him. “This is it, gentlemen,” he told them. “Gather around.”

Several bikers, fresh from topping off their tanks, rumbled to join the rest of the guys representing the United States. Josh picked up his portable megaphone and gave the team a quick pep talk. “This is a long, nasty ride,” he told them. “Two hundred miles of the ugliest dirt and scrub brush I’ve ever seen. And even though we’ve got this enormous team — one hundred bikers — and the best two-bangers money can buy, there’s no telling how the race is gonna come out.”

He could see a distant ESPN camera zooming in, trying to pick up his words. “Now, I know there’s going to be some trail-slicing happening out there this afternoon, but not by my guys.” He resisted the temptation to glance over to where Greg, a tall, arrogant kid from Marin County, was refastening his gloves. A two-time champion, he had a reputation for cutting corners on his XK80, trying to shave 20, 30 seconds off his score by leaving the trail and slicing through dangerous terrain. “I’m telling you, Benji and I have been over this trail ourselves, and there just ain’t no way that the few extra seconds you save with a slice is worth the risks. The way bikers spread out across this piece-of-garbage 200-mile track, you could wipe out. You could be injured. You could even just flat-out get lost. The off-road terrain is that lousy. Just stay on the track, watch for the markers, and hopefully we’ll beat these other teams gold, silver, bronze. Best of luck to you men. I mean that.”

His last words were almost drowned out as 100 motocross bikes roared to life, their high-pitched 125-cc whines a choir of angry bees. More than 800 cyclists, representing 13 countries, packed into the long dirt corridor marking the start line. A local official from Monterrey, wiping his face with a little towel bearing the race logo, got ready to fire the starter’s pistol.

“And they’re off!” A TV camera on a mini-cam dolly got down low to capture the frantic scene of 1,600 rubber-shredding tires as they screamed out into the hot June desert. “Go USA,” Josh said quietly to his lieutenant as Benji took off his sunglasses and vainly tried to dust them off. “Safely into harbor, boys.” He added the last with real affection.

The team co-leader grinned. “Think we’ll win?”

Josh nodded. “Yeah.” He relaxed a bit, now that the Kawasaki confusion had died down. “I just don’t want to lose anybody out there in that lonely wilderness.”

“Santana’s the main one to worry about,” Benji observed. “Kid’s been trail-slicin’ for years. Everybody knows it.”

“Yeah, well, I hope he ain’t dumb enough to do it on this race,” the captain responded. “I think these race guys imported some California rattlesnakes and stocked the desert with ‘em. Just stay on the trail, I always say. Stay with the team.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Come on, let’s go to the chopper.”

It was a brief 45-minute ride by helicopter to Cabo San Lucas, where team sponsors had already begun setting up camp. Camera crews from Fox and ESPN were just starting to position themselves even though the first finishers weren’t due for a good two hours still. Remote camera feeds from along the trail showed that USA had two riders leading the way, with a home-town hero from Mazatlan holding a strong third position. The line of motorbikes had already spread out over more than four miles of trail, as dirtbikers carefully picked their way through the rugged Mexican terrain.

“Boy, the old hot tub is gonna feel good tonight,” Benji sighed later, rubbing a sore place on his arm where the ruptured upholstery in the chopper had failed to protect him. “And the guys’ll enjoy the banquet.” Nike and Honda were picking up the tab for a huge fiesta party for all the motocross teams. And both team leaders had been assigned to comfortable suites in the plush resort hotel just outside town. It would be a relaxing end to a tension-filled day.

“They’re comin!” A spotter for CNN, high on his lookout tower, had his binoculars out and was motioning. “I think U.S. is in front. But it ain’t Carmichael. Wow!” Race officials scrambled for good positions at the finish line and waited anxiously as the first distant whine of the motorbikes was heard.

In the dusty confusion, it was hard to see jersey numbers, but the American team did indeed score a photo finish. The first two bikers to cross the line had on the red-white-and-blue helmets of Team USA, and the sports networks flashed the results: #29, Dicky Bennett, and #95, Jamaal Jackson, edged out a Canadian biker from B.C., who had to settle for the bronze medal, with Mexico coming in fourth. Over the next 40 minutes, more and more bikers came into view and gunned past the camera crews and over to the huge booth where Gatorade and Power bars were being dispensed.

“Pretty sorry finishers,” a TV go-fer with a headset smirked as the last few stragglers limped into town an hour later. A couple of American riders, their bikes obviously damaged and missing on one cylinder, coughed out a finish to the 200-mile course, and Josh took out his team scoresheet and ticked off their names.

“Are our chickens all home?” Benji wanted to know. “Gotta be. There ain’t anybody else still out there; no way. Not this late. Come on, boss man, let’s party.”

“Hang on.” The older man scanned the sheet again, concern on his face. “We’re down one rider still.”

“Are you sure?” Benji looked at the setting sun. “We’re coming up on four hours plus. Come on, Josh, they’re here.”

“No.” Josh showed him the sheet. “We got 99 in, and still one man missing.”

“Who? Or have you got that tracked?”

The tall American tried to keep his voice even. “Greg.”

“What?!” The assistant coach took off his hat and flung it angrily in the dirt. “Santana! I knew it! That jerky kid went out and trail-sliced. I betcha 50 pesos, boss. After everything you told the guys, he went right out and cut corners.”

Josh motioned to one of his best riders, a New York boy who had finished in the top 30. “Guzman, did you happen to spot Santana out there?”

The rider reacted instinctively, not meaning to, then tried to hide it. “What about him?”

“Did you see him?” Josh’s voice was no-nonsense. “This is serious.”

The muscular athlete hesitated. “He sliced off a huge piece of dirt way back around Mile 85. There’s this big, big loop to the right, and the terrain going straight was unbelievably torn up, but I saw him leave the trail and go right at it. There was a great big bunch of boulders, cactus, real ripped up stuff, but he was running something like 40th at the time –just ahead of me — and I guess he figured he could make up most of it right there. Take the lead even, maybe.” He looked from one team leader to the other. “Why? What’s going on? I know he didn’t win.”

“Didn’t even show,” Benji informed him. “Crazy guy’s still out there somewhere.”

“That’s a drag,” the New York boy grunted. “But he’ll turn up. Another guy from Bay Area said that Santana has done this before, cheatin’ the course, going his own way. He either comes in first or he doesn’t hike into camp till the next day, seems like.”

The American co-captain shook his head in resentment. “You know what, boss?” he said. “Let’s just forget him. There’s a couple of plates full of tacos and Mexican refrieds just waitin’, plus all the ice-cold soda we can chug-a-lug. Then a hot tub with your name on it. Let Santana walk 115 miles to camp if he’s that stupid. No kidding.” Benji had clearly lost all patience with the rebellious motorcycle rider.

Josh hesitated, then shook his head. “I can’t do that,” he replied. “Greg might be injured out there.”

“No way.” Benji dismissed the thought. “I don’t think so, boss. This kid just does his own thing and then comes home when he feels like it. I think he’s just pulling our chain, frankly.” He took a few steps toward the amphitheater where a mariachi band was striking up some lively music. “Come on, Josh, let’s eat. It’s a hot night in May-hee-co, we got 99 riders safely home, and I honestly don’t care about one kid, Mr. Stupid, missing the party. It’s time to cha-cha-cha.”

Josh didn’t respond. Motorcycle riders streamed past him, carelessly heading toward the comforts of the fiesta and the fun. Soft Marriott beds, satellite movies on Showtime, and relaxing soaks in Jacuzzi tubs awaited them. Without looking back, he went over to the Team USA jeep and climbed in. The silvery moon cast its lonely shadows across the foreign landscape as he slowly drove out of town and began to retrace the route, looking for his one lost biker.