Friday, July 25, 2014

Juiced Chapter 1 - Old School Values

When they made contact, they hit hard. While they had come together shoulder to shoulder, one of them had been more prepared, was stronger and was clearly more used to this sort of caper. Above all the other noise there was the clear sound of air being forcibly expelled form lungs. It was a sound you often heard in minor grade football when a middle age bloke faced the crushing realisation that he had spent too much time on the piss and pies and not enough on his core strength as he was shirt-fronted by young bull who had been looking for an old bull to take down. It was a sound that if it was yours, you knew was going to be accompanied by that unpleasant feeling of your small intestine trying to vacate your abdominal cavity via your arse and your throat at the same time.

Dave Richardson, Richo to almost everyone, might have been an old bull, but he was not going to be taken down just yet. Ace was his wheel to follow, and when he had moved right to pass the rider in front and for a brief second had opened the door for the youngish bloke with the flash shoes to try take his spot, it was a challenge that just had to be accepted! Old school versus “the future”. They called him “Lethal” apparently because his name was Leigh and he had a “lethal sprint”. In truth he was just a rich kid who had had his tyres pumped up a little too much a little too soon. He was quick, but he was dumb. It was just that he had not realised that yet. He was used to throwing his weight around with other young blokes who were as soft as him. Because he usually won, they thought he was some sort of hard man. He wasn’t.

So as Lethal moved towards Ace’s wheel, Richo moved toward him. Young Lethal had come to expect that when push came to shove that everyone would act politely, but today he was wrong. Rather than simply leaning on each other and one rider losing their nerve, Richo ran into him. He put his head down, tensed his shoulder and clouted him. At that point they were travelling at around 55kmph. After his sound effects, Lethal now found himself careering off toward the gutter on the right hand side of the road, one foot pulled from its pedal and a look on his face something like a four year old who has just followed through and shat his pants. Riders behind took evasive action in all directions, cursing and carrying on as they went. Ace kept focused on the line and Richo sat calmly in the space directly behind his wheel.

“Nice Ace, keep steady, keep steady.”

Ace was strong and he was brave, but he was not that smart. He could never win on his own, as he just couldn’t think, but when he got good directions he was a gun. He was destined however to work for others, never to win for himself.

“Stay right, but move up. Hold third wheel.”

With 500 meters to go it was too early to be on the front and in the wind, but this was where you had to put the brakes on Ace a bit as he was prone to letting his excitement get the better of him and finding himself a winner 100m out and then 15th as he actually crossed the line.

“Doing well mate, hold until I say go. They will go early, but just hold your position.”

It was a straightforward sprint but there was a reasonable headwind. It was a day that you wanted to go as late as you could, but you still had to be careful of being jumped from behind. The plan would be to have Ace at top speed at a hundred meters from the line and then go.

300 out and the riders to the left started their sprint, out of the saddle heads down. Ace only needed to stand up for a few pedal strokes and then he was able to match their pace in the saddle, keeping his powder dry.

At 200 to go the riders who had initiated the sprint were at full pace, but they had gone way too early and they would start to slow down soon. Now was the time for Ace to do his thing.

“Now”

Anticipating this, Ace was out of his seat almost instantly. The power of his acceleration was almost enough for him to create a gap, but Richo had been ready and held his position just centimetres behind the wheel. He was only just able to do it though and he was increasingly recognising the fact that Ace was actually quicker than him now and that he should be the one leading out. But he could keep that under his hat for a little while longer – Ace still had a lot to learn after all and being fast and being the winner were two different things.

With 100 to go, Ace was in the front and apart from sensing a rider behind and to the left, Richo had a clear run. Time to hit the go button. After clicking into his hardest gear, he got out of the seat and sprinted to the line, coming around Ace as close as he could, knowing that he would fall in behind him before soft peddling to make sure that no one could simply follow behind and try a sneaky last minute burst. This meant Ace actually had two jobs, to “lead out” the sprint, protecting Richo from the wind and bringing him up through the bunch until he was in the perfect position to launch his own sprint for the line, but also “closing the door” behind him so that no one else could get the benefit of following his wheel. As Richo approached the line he did what he had always been taught to do and threw his bike to the line like he had done on the track hundreds of time. It was an unnecessary habit in this instance as he crossed more than a length ahead of a gaggle or riders who fought for the minor placing’s.

There were muffled congratulations and pats on the back as the riders slowed down. Ace gave him a slap on the backside.

“Good work big fella, I needed some cash.”

Six hundred prize money would see him earn two hundred for his work. That was about the going rate for someone as good as Ace to give up their chances to help you out. You could try it on for less but if you paid peanuts you got monkey’s and you had to actually win before you could start worrying too much about how much of it you were going to be giving away.

“I‘ll meet you back at the van and we’ll get packed up so we can get out of here as soon as the presentations are over” said Richo as they parted ways to warm down. Richo contemplated if the commissars would have anything to say about the bump to Lethal, but he reflected that it would have looked pretty innocent from the finish. Still they could be an officious bunch of trumped up little pricks and it was likely that a pissweak Muppet like Lethal would make a complaint. He decided that he would cross that bridge if and when it was required.

When he got back to the van, Ace was already half changed with his bike packed in the back. They had an extendable awning set up off the side, with some chairs laid out underneath. Inside the van there was clamps to hold the bikes that were accessed through the rear door and the side sliding door could be accessed from under the awning. From there you could grab a water drum and a big tub that they used to wash with along with their clothes, a fridge and other bits and pieces. It was a functional if modest set up, but everything worked well and was the result of attendance at lots of race’s where stuffing around trying to find things at the end of busting your arse in the heat for 4 hours had focused the mind on those things that might make life easier in future.

Richo stripped off under the awning and washed himself down with a sponge from the tub. There was no modesty and people walked past with Richo displaying the whole kit and caboodle, but you had to do what you had to do. After drying off he put on his underwear and jeans and sat down to put on his socks and shoes. Just as he was starting to tie up the first lace he noticed that he was about to have company. Lethal and his posse were making an appearance.

Walking fast they were bee lining it for the van, Lethal looking shitty and the other two trying to look tough, but not really having much success. Lethal was an athletic six feet and maybe 75 kg. He was all perfectly shaved legs and bad haircut. On his right arm he had a tribal tattoo that looked like was still a work in progress. His two mates were variations on the Lethal theme, one a shorter and stockier version, the other a little bit more gangly. All had spent a fair bit of time refining their look from what Richo could tell.

“You fucking tried to take me out you fucking cunt, you tried to put me into the fucking barriers.”

Richo didn’t look up, but did have to reflect that there were no barriers and that maybe Lethal was going a little bit too "Tour de France" already – theatrics over substance.

“We both tried to get on the same wheel mate and you lost.”

This was going to be a short and sharp type of interaction. Lethal was going to find this out more quickly than he could anticipate.

“Bullshit, you’re a fucking wanker mate and you shouldn’t be riding, I am putting in a formal complaint, and I’m not letting this go, cunts like you think you can get away with anything, well you are a fucking wanker and you’re a fucking has been who can only win by being a dirty juiced up prick.”

Richo looked up for the first time.

“You’ve got 5 seconds to fuck off, or you are going to get hurt.”

“Yeah, what are you going to do you fucking wanker, I’m not going anywhere.”

Richo stood up slowly. Lethal remained pissed but his mates showed the first signs of doubt. Unlike all the others that were a part of this little pantomime, Richo had been brought up on the track. Doing standing starts, doing weights, being aggressive. He had also been on the gear when he had realised that he was too light to be a track sprinter and too big to be a road sprinter, and had tried to shift the scales with some artificial help. He had muscles and he had scars from crashes where bones had been broken and lots of skin had been lost. He also had a family who were into boxing and part of his training had always been to work on the speedball and heavy bag. In a rough pub he might meet his match, but at a bike race he always had the bases covered. Having seen this scene play out before, Ace leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head, silly grin plastered on his face.

As Richo stepped towards the trio in front of him, Lethal assumed the stance that is common in private school fights, the chest out theatrical he man show of strength. The sort of posture that assumes that there will be a bit of chest bumping, finger pointing and general shouting before both parties call it a draw and walk away feeling they have achieved some sort of moral victory. Unfortunately for Lethal that was not the way Richo was going to be playing it.

As he got to within a step of his foe and with no sense of aggression or urgency, Richo’s left hand sprung out in a quick jab. It was not a hard punch but it was quick and it connected flush on the end of "the boy with the half arsed tattoos" nose. As he stumbled back, his brain registered what was happening and he tried to get his hands up in some nod to whatever knowledge of self-defence he had accumulated over his 21 years. This corresponded to the second part of the two part combination that Richo had been working toward. His right hand ripped into an already half falling Lethal’s left side at the base of his ribs. For the second time in less than 20 min anyone within 100 meters heard the sound of forcibly exasperated air escaping from Lethal’s rapidly collapsing lungs.

He did not so much fall but crumple as he went down. His mates had a look one part fear, one part concern and one part surprise. Almost in unison they put their hands out in front of them like they were trying to push away an invisible balloon, giving the universal sign for “this is bullshit and I don’t want to have anything else to do with it other than to pick up my mate and to get the fuck out of here”.

With Lethal doing a combination of grunting, sighing and gasping for air in no particular order, they dragged him to his feet and hobbled away. As they got out of the danger zone the lanky one turned around and fired his parting shot.

“You’re a fucking lunatic Richo, ya fucked in the head.”

The response was quick.

“Yeah I am, so remember that the next time you get wound up by one of your mates and try and be some type of a tough guy, because if it happens again, you are really going to get fucked up.”

Sitting back down, Richo looked at Ace.

“That’s two zip for old school values.”

“Hey?”

“Don’t worry about it, lets just get our money and get out of here. I’m starving. We’ll grab something to eat and then I have to drop in an see Watto on the way home.”

Ace’s face went blank.

“Fuck off mate, I am not seeing fucking Watto – Why the fuck do you want to see Watto? What the fuck are you doing seeing Watto? Fuck.”

Richo let out a decidedly half arsed laugh.

“You stay in the car then you weak prick, but I have to see him and I have to see him today.”

No comments:

Post a Comment