Sampler, Chapter 1

KYLE STANTON

A Perfect Day

Kari had anticipated this day for some time. While it wasn’t her idea of the perfect date, it was a perfect day to watch him compete. He'd proudly bragged that he was 6^th on the grid in the Super-Sport bracket. Despite endless conversations, Kari still only understood a little about how motorcycle racing classes were divided. What she knew for sure was that while Kyle’s motorcycle was sleek, fast, and beautiful, it demanded an exorbitant amount of time.

On the drive up to Portland International Raceway, she observed Kyle’s typical pre-race jitters. Tense and edgy despite his enviable starting position, he fidgeted with the blinker stalk and tapped a rapid beat on the steering wheel of his old Toyota 4-Runner. It was a given that nerves would inevitably get him on race day. He would always insist that he wasn't worried, but would eventually drift off into his own little world. Even the constant clanking of the FeatherLite trailer they were towing failed to distract him. His old truck swayed back and forth, an out-of-alignment trailer tire tugging at the steering wheel. He reached over with his right hand to massage her left shoulder, one that sported her tiny butterfly tattoo. At least he wasn’t entirely disconnected, she thought.

Portland’s race track operated out of what was a city park. Known as PIR to the locals, it had been constructed on a site that was at one time the second largest city in Oregon, then known as VanPort. Built to house ship-builders and their families during the WWII war effort, VanPort tragically washed away in a flood surge. PIR now sat nestled directly in the heart of a city where it normally would never have made it out of the planning stages.

Upon parking in his assigned stall, Kyle immediately busied himself with removing the straps and unloading his motorcycle. It had been six months now since he'd proposed to Kari, and she was already far more accustomed to race preparations than she would have preferred. While Kyle headed off towards the track, she walked down to the resident coffee cart, appropriately named “High Octane”. In line for coffee, Kari waved to Jane, one of the corner workers, who had just unraveled her bundle of race flags. Jack, another seasoned race official who had worked there for at least 20 years, sidled up. While his hair had gone mostly white, his vibrant blue eyes still carried a reminder of his youth. His face crinkled into a smile as he greeted her.

“Going for the usual, Kari?”

“That's right, black and straight up,” she replied with a grin. “Can't stay awake otherwise.”

They both knew that this was a stretch. When the races started, she was one of the most avid spectators there.

During the warm-up lap, Kari watched the racers weave side to side, building heat in their tires as they slowly circled the track. The low-slung, modern-day bikes buzzed forward in short fits of acceleration, a symbiotic pulse between nervous riders and their machines. Soon afterwards, they returned to their designated squares on the grid. Engines alternately howled and rumbled while riders impatiently blipped throttles. The flag drop was only seconds away. Nudging forward within their respective slots, they poised for flight like racehorses pushing on the gates.

The Race

A race official climbed the stairs to the race box, pausing only slightly to drop the green flag with a side-to-side wave that reminded Kari of a maestro's baton to a mechanical symphony. The motorcycles surged forward like a swarm of angry hornets, swirling and twisting in a miasmic cacophony. Each vied for the coveted hole-shot, thrusting and menacing each other until their paths finally constricted into a single race line at the beginning of Turn One.

Kyle squeezed his brilliant red, Italian Ducati into an impossibly small space directly between two fellow competitors. He leaned far to the right, elbow to elbow, nose to tail, willing them to concede the space he needed. Kari anxiously peered into the glare of an unusual Oregon morning sun as they zoomed off towards turns Two and Three. As they left the fourth, the group disappeared from view and headed towards the three-quarters of a mile that made up the legendary “Back Straight”. Kyle described it as more of a 130-mph sweeping right-hander than a strict straightaway - one that could catch even the most experienced racer unaware. One of the track's few left-handed turns waited at the end of the Back Straight’s high-speed blitz. He'd seen numerous competitors miss the left, sailing end-over-end as they launched off the small berm directly in front of them.

The crescendo of the lead bikes grew as the pack approached the last turn, anticipating the one-mile front straight bordered by a grandstand that could see speeds exceeding 160 mph. Craning her neck to the right, Kari’s eyes sought out Kyle's dark red leathers that complemented his motorcycle so well. She’d picked them out; he had no sense of style. She shrieked excitedly as he streaked past, only four positions down from the lead. He was already doing better than expected. Near the end of the straight, she could see that he’d braked very late, diving aggressively into Turn One.

Ratcheting down from 160 mph, the Ducati's dry clutch rattled noticeably while its deep exhaust burbled a warning to the rider in front. His opponent swung wide leaving a sliver of daylight through which Kyle deftly threaded. Startled by a brush with Kyle's left boot, the rider's line wobbled as he reacted to the rush of air emitted by Kyle's massive V-twin. Kyle kept his eyes well ahead of Turn Two, his knee sliders scraping the pavement in one long right-hand sweep, merging Turn One and Turn Two into a single giant arc.

The next racer he encountered, a big green Kawasaki liter bike, coughed suddenly as it approached Turn Three, belching a puff of black exhaust that left a haze trailing behind. Kyle immediately sat up and straightened his line as the Kawasaki wobbled and slowed. A quick dive towards the turn's perimeter set him up for a precarious outside pass as he approached the upcoming left-hander. Kyle rolled on the throttle and leaned deeply to the left.

Time began to slow as Kyle felt tires whispering of relinquished grip. His split-second decision to pass on the outside didn't account for the slick track conditions resulting from yesterday's Formula One race. Rubber marbles, the scraps from race car tires, lined the outside of the racetrack like tiny sentinels, waiting motionless to snatch the wheels out from under some poor unsuspecting motorcycle.

Deep down, Kyle knew that this crash was going to be a bad one. In a strange disassociation from his body, Kyle watched the front of his bike slowly wash out. A jarring thump to his left shoulder abruptly invaded his silent reverie. Time curiously sped up. Kyle felt himself flung head over heels. Then, in what seemed like an eternity, Kyle abstractedly watched his bike slide towards the tire barrier at over 80 mph, only to hook on the outside edge of the track and cartwheel away. Plastic and fiberglass shards flew in all directions. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that this frame-by-frame movement was occurring where Time had nearly stopped.

A terrific blow ripped through his thoughts as his back slammed down onto the asphalt. At 80 mph, the crash’s pent-up energy had released itself in two directions: one into the disintegrating motorcycle, and the other into the somersaulting rider. A blinding white flash pierced the darkness of Kyle’s eyes which were already screwed tightly shut. An electrical shock spasmed his body. Kyle's vertebrae hit the asphalt with a horrific clunk. A brilliant rainbow of colors exploded across his eyes - a curious kaleidoscope that would have been captivating under any other circumstance. Another flash of light and another pirouette. As Kyle spiraled for a third time, he had only an instant to realize that he was about to be undercut by a trailing silver Yamaha R1. His body hung there for an instant but ended in a sickening crunch as his head struck the pavement.

The Corner Worker

Jane Koreski shivered in the early morning chill. Little opaque globes of moisture still clung to the grass in the wet run-off area. The sun coaxed out the green beneath, causing them to twinkle unexpectedly bright in diffused little patterns. The stem of the green flag she held was already ice-cold, but the crisp seasonal elements faded when she recognized whose red Ducati had begun to slide out.

The ferocity with which his body repeatedly slammed into the pavement brought a heavy dose of reality. Of course, she'd seen many crashes over the years, but the single fatality at PIR hadn't actually happened in her sector even though she saw it’s aftermath from a distance. Despite it occurring years ago, the image still stayed with her. This one was equally brutal. She observed another devastating flip - one that launched Kyle five feet into the air. A motorcycle struck him from beneath and flipped him again like a running-back taking a vicious tackle at the knees. A sinking feeling overwhelmed her. After striking the asphalt, his body merely flopped, suggesting life draining out onto the concrete. She paled and momentarily sank to her knees, fighting a nausea that crept up into her throat. Jane struggled to find the crisp, new black flag – one she’d never used before.

The Denial

Kari numbly watched, terrified at an outcome she had yet to process. Sound faded into soft cotton, quickly replaced by an overwhelming drumming that pounded her skull. Shaken and trembling, she watched corner-workers frantically wave their black flags in a ripple effect that progressed around the track. The yellows and reds, reserved for signaling bruises, bumps, and dangerous oil slicks, comfortably rested on the ground in their customary spots. This time, they gave way to the ultimate signal in black: “All stop. Race canceled. Return to the pits immediately.” Kari distantly remembered a training where the instructor explained that the black flag was one he'd hoped they'd never see.

Riders peeled off the race line, idling by at a fraction of their previous pace, visors up, necks craning to take in the catastrophe. Each sensed that this was something more than the usual slide-out or high-side that commonly occurred with each race. With lights flashing, an ambulance roared to life.

Kari stumbled down steps still slick with melted frost. Oblivious to spectators’ stares, her tears and sobs clearly advertised her connection to the crash. She lost sight of the accident scene on the lower steps and tried to access the track through a nearby gate. It was blocked by workers who carefully avoided her eyes and instead escorted her to the first row of the stands. A few moments later, Jack sat down next to her and put a protective arm around her shoulder. He'd seen the ambulance racing along the backside of the track, its emergency lights sending a signal of undefined urgency. Jack's concerned eyes left questions unanswered as Kari collapsed into a pillow of darkness.

Into the Unknown

A new voice invaded the silence of a space that existed between one reality and the next. It began as a murmur. Kyle was aware again. A fundamental change had occurred. He could have been frightened but instead, was simply confused. The question that dominated his thoughts? “Where, exactly, is this place?”