Silver Dollar...
That silver dollar shone in the afternoon sun, tempting like nothing he had seen before. It sat in the palm of the older kid's hand, a palpable prize waiting to be won. Those who gathered around eyed it with envy; of them all though, only two had a chance at claiming it for their very own. The others were simply there to watch, and witness. The fact that there was any prize at all struck the lanky youth as an unexpected wonder of its own. He knew the older kid lived on the same street, but he was so much older that he never played at any of the younger kids' games. How and why he willingly offered up this prize from his own pocket was a fortunate mystery.
Mick was the lanky one, some said skinny, and was sure of victory. After all he had owned his bike long enough to master it - he knew how fast he could pedal before it began to shake and shimmy, how far over he could comfortably lean into turns. His fingertips knew just how far to move the friction downtube shifters, easing the gears from one cog to the next with measured efficiency. For all that, the bike was still mostly new. He had not yet begun to hop it off curbs; it wouldn't be until next year that it succumbed to that standard '70s look, bars upturned in popular catastrophe. For now the white AMF Roadmaster retained the sleek appearance of racing heritage.
The smaller kid, Billy, was cocky, a new bike lending him an extra dose of confidence, a confidence that had him believing in the invincibility of new wheels and tempered steel. Everyone on the street admired his new Schwinn 10-speed, a bike any one of them would have been proud to own. Billy was also two years younger than Mick, but that didn't matter. The race was his idea. He was that sure of the outcome. Somehow that new bike shine imbued his wheels with an advantage only he could see, translated into extra speed.
The ground rules for the race were set without debate - both riders would start mid-block, race up the street side-by-side. Then at the top of the block, at a cross street, one would turn right, the other left. Each would circle their respective blocks and return to the start line; one lap, winner take all. A flat out drag race. Billy would make right turns, providing him with a small advantage, an advantage that Mick had confidently shrugged aside.
The countdown began. It may have started with Ten, but Mick could only remember Three, Two, One. Three little words that took ever so long to say. Mick was afraid he would hear wrong, miss Go, but ONE was as clear a resounding note as any bell proclaiming the last day of school, and the start of summer vacation, had ever sounded. One final glance over at the silver dollar, now held aloft by the big kid (as if either racer could forget why they were there) and both were off in a flurry of spinning sneakers and flapping shirts, charging hard for the end of the street, and that first turn. In the short distance it took to reach that turn the world ceased to exist, all but the pavement, two bikes and two racers. Trees and houses lining the street disappeared, no cars were parked along the curb. Birds were not silent, they were gone. If not for the fact that he could see where he was going, the summer sun might as well have been extinguished for all that Mick noticed its hot glare.
When the first corner was reached Mick had already built a slight advantage. Both racers made their respective turns and entered what, Mick strategized, would be the most problematic part of the race. For half a lap, half the race, neither would be in sight of the other. Anything could happen. There could be no lapse in concentration, no diminishing of drive. Either could result in loss, in failure. In essence, down the back stretch each would be racing against themselves as much as against one another. Not knowing was the worst. Was he going fast enough? Could he even go faster if he was not? Was he ahead still, or had he fallen behind by now? Those, and similar, thoughts raced through his head as quickly as his wheels spun across the hot pavement.
Thus it was with great relief mixed, admittedly, with a little trepidation when Mick reached the third turn. When he rounded that corner any doubts that may have plagued his mind during the long back-stretch would either be confirmed or laid to rest. He had put everything, all his energy into the back-stretch drive, knowing it was the make or break part of the race. If the race was close turn three would reveal just how close. Mick hoped that his speed thus far would have been enough to give him a lead; just how big a lead would also be revealed at this third turn. Sweeping around the corner with abandon, an empty stretch of street, this short side of the course, lay in front of him. With no slackening of his speed, Mick raced on to the final turn. There was still a flicker of doubt that, through some unforeseen impossibility, his opponent might have gained so much advantage along his own back-stretch that he was far ahead, running full-bore towards home.
As he leaned into the final turn and cocked his head left, hoping against hope, for an unobstructed view to the finish, his eyes caught a flicker of movement. Billy was rounding his third turn. The distance between the two competitors could have been miles; for all intents and purposes victory was won. Even so, Mick pressed on, unwilling to take any chances at this point. The home stretch, the finish in fact, was surprisingly anti-climatic. The nagging doubts washed away and Mick realized that he had always known the outcome as sure as he knew that tomorrow was another school day. The sun was shining again, the same houses and cars, the ones he saw most every day, lined the street. His friends were standing there watching with intent. There were some yells as he approached, and then crossed, the line, but no cheering per se. He always imagined a lot of cheering took place at the end of a race.
The silver dollar changed hands, was dropped into his own by the big kid. Mick thanked him, laughed a bit with the little cluster of buddies, recalled the action with all the braggadocio the small coin in his palm instilled, discussed the upcoming week. At some point the older kid disappeared back into his own house. The day wore on, same as any other Sunday. Then, little more than a moment later, he was back on his bike racing for home to share the news of his great fortune.
The ground rules for the race were set without debate - both riders would start mid-block, race up the street side-by-side. Then at the top of the block, at a cross street, one would turn right, the other left. Each would circle their respective blocks and return to the start line; one lap, winner take all. A flat out drag race. Billy would make right turns, providing him with a small advantage, an advantage that Mick had confidently shrugged aside.
The countdown began. It may have started with Ten, but Mick could only remember Three, Two, One. Three little words that took ever so long to say. Mick was afraid he would hear wrong, miss Go, but ONE was as clear a resounding note as any bell proclaiming the last day of school, and the start of summer vacation, had ever sounded. One final glance over at the silver dollar, now held aloft by the big kid (as if either racer could forget why they were there) and both were off in a flurry of spinning sneakers and flapping shirts, charging hard for the end of the street, and that first turn. In the short distance it took to reach that turn the world ceased to exist, all but the pavement, two bikes and two racers. Trees and houses lining the street disappeared, no cars were parked along the curb. Birds were not silent, they were gone. If not for the fact that he could see where he was going, the summer sun might as well have been extinguished for all that Mick noticed its hot glare.
When the first corner was reached Mick had already built a slight advantage. Both racers made their respective turns and entered what, Mick strategized, would be the most problematic part of the race. For half a lap, half the race, neither would be in sight of the other. Anything could happen. There could be no lapse in concentration, no diminishing of drive. Either could result in loss, in failure. In essence, down the back stretch each would be racing against themselves as much as against one another. Not knowing was the worst. Was he going fast enough? Could he even go faster if he was not? Was he ahead still, or had he fallen behind by now? Those, and similar, thoughts raced through his head as quickly as his wheels spun across the hot pavement.
Thus it was with great relief mixed, admittedly, with a little trepidation when Mick reached the third turn. When he rounded that corner any doubts that may have plagued his mind during the long back-stretch would either be confirmed or laid to rest. He had put everything, all his energy into the back-stretch drive, knowing it was the make or break part of the race. If the race was close turn three would reveal just how close. Mick hoped that his speed thus far would have been enough to give him a lead; just how big a lead would also be revealed at this third turn. Sweeping around the corner with abandon, an empty stretch of street, this short side of the course, lay in front of him. With no slackening of his speed, Mick raced on to the final turn. There was still a flicker of doubt that, through some unforeseen impossibility, his opponent might have gained so much advantage along his own back-stretch that he was far ahead, running full-bore towards home.
As he leaned into the final turn and cocked his head left, hoping against hope, for an unobstructed view to the finish, his eyes caught a flicker of movement. Billy was rounding his third turn. The distance between the two competitors could have been miles; for all intents and purposes victory was won. Even so, Mick pressed on, unwilling to take any chances at this point. The home stretch, the finish in fact, was surprisingly anti-climatic. The nagging doubts washed away and Mick realized that he had always known the outcome as sure as he knew that tomorrow was another school day. The sun was shining again, the same houses and cars, the ones he saw most every day, lined the street. His friends were standing there watching with intent. There were some yells as he approached, and then crossed, the line, but no cheering per se. He always imagined a lot of cheering took place at the end of a race.
The silver dollar changed hands, was dropped into his own by the big kid. Mick thanked him, laughed a bit with the little cluster of buddies, recalled the action with all the braggadocio the small coin in his palm instilled, discussed the upcoming week. At some point the older kid disappeared back into his own house. The day wore on, same as any other Sunday. Then, little more than a moment later, he was back on his bike racing for home to share the news of his great fortune.
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