Sampler, Chapter 1
Kyle Stanton
Past Passions
Kyle Stanton always loved motorcycles. The slog of the first few years of his new post-college job was not what he’d imagined, but it did give him the means to purchase a brand-new Honda motorcycle. His two-bedroom dive was sandwiched between a neighborhood bar and a food mart. An old Toyota 4-Runner was his only other possession of value. The new 600r, now that was something different. It was a gleaming collection of plastic that sang a siren’s song of a mermaid to a sailor. Kyle was Odysseus sailing the concrete sea.
The salesman immediately recognized the dreamy look. He was a hyena circling the kill. Kyle knew it too. The end was quick, the negotiation, brief. Any leverage Kyle thought he’d brought with him was left at the door. Having read every motorcycle review he could get his hands on, he’d already researched until his eyes were sore. None of that helped him get a better deal.
As delighted as the salesman was with the sale, he was equally concerned with Kyle’s fledgling street-rider skills. As he straddled his new purchase, Kyle confidently assured him, “I’ve got this. I’ve been riding dirt bikes for years.” The salesman wasn’t convinced. Both the shop owner and the salesman stopped one-way traffic alongside their storefront, the sales rep bravely stepping into the road, motioning for Kyle to move along. “Don’t whiskey throttle it, son; you’ll dump it first thing,” he called out as Kyle pulled away. Kyle nearly stalled the engine, simulating a shaky stork as he wobbled out with traffic impatiently piling up behind. Despite sweaty palms and pronounced heart palpitations, he managed to regain some semblance of control. Even with a slow roll-on of the throttle, his new bike surged forward and pressed him down into the seat. This wasn’t like any dirt bike he’d ever ridden, and he was careful to acclimate… for a time.
In the coming months, every morning found Kyle’s helmet perched on the coat hook in his work cubicle. During the motorcycle street safety course he’d just taken, the instructor emphasized that the first few months riding on public roads were the most dangerous. Despite the inner voice that whispered well-placed caution, the engine’s power-band still summoned him when it finally found its freedom. The banshee wail was both awesome and terrifying.
While Kyle still pursued a few other hobbies, his interests nearly always came back to motorcycles. It hardly compared to those happy-go-lucky days of youth, riding in the “back 40” with his best friend and neighbor, Jay Santos. Jay and Kyle remained very close over the years – communicating regularly and even occasionally catching up in person at their parents’ houses, still located next-door. But it wasn’t all candy and nuts back then. There were times when Kyle had seen a silent and moody friend. Eyes that were older than their years told a private story. Jay would come to the barn with tears on his cheeks and no words to explain them. He wanted only to ride.
The salesman immediately recognized the dreamy look. He was a hyena circling the kill. Kyle knew it too. The end was quick, the negotiation, brief. Any leverage Kyle thought he’d brought with him was left at the door. Having read every motorcycle review he could get his hands on, he’d already researched until his eyes were sore. None of that helped him get a better deal.
As delighted as the salesman was with the sale, he was equally concerned with Kyle’s fledgling street-rider skills. As he straddled his new purchase, Kyle confidently assured him, “I’ve got this. I’ve been riding dirt bikes for years.” The salesman wasn’t convinced. Both the shop owner and the salesman stopped one-way traffic alongside their storefront, the sales rep bravely stepping into the road, motioning for Kyle to move along. “Don’t whiskey throttle it, son; you’ll dump it first thing,” he called out as Kyle pulled away. Kyle nearly stalled the engine, simulating a shaky stork as he wobbled out with traffic impatiently piling up behind. Despite sweaty palms and pronounced heart palpitations, he managed to regain some semblance of control. Even with a slow roll-on of the throttle, his new bike surged forward and pressed him down into the seat. This wasn’t like any dirt bike he’d ever ridden, and he was careful to acclimate… for a time.
In the coming months, every morning found Kyle’s helmet perched on the coat hook in his work cubicle. During the motorcycle street safety course he’d just taken, the instructor emphasized that the first few months riding on public roads were the most dangerous. Despite the inner voice that whispered well-placed caution, the engine’s power-band still summoned him when it finally found its freedom. The banshee wail was both awesome and terrifying.
While Kyle still pursued a few other hobbies, his interests nearly always came back to motorcycles. It hardly compared to those happy-go-lucky days of youth, riding in the “back 40” with his best friend and neighbor, Jay Santos. Jay and Kyle remained very close over the years – communicating regularly and even occasionally catching up in person at their parents’ houses, still located next-door. But it wasn’t all candy and nuts back then. There were times when Kyle had seen a silent and moody friend. Eyes that were older than their years told a private story. Jay would come to the barn with tears on his cheeks and no words to explain them. He wanted only to ride.
A Perfect Day
Kari anticipated this day for some time. While it wasn’t her idea of the perfect date, it was a perfect day to watch Kyle compete. He’d proudly bragged that he was 6th 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 Kari’s left shoulder, one that sported her tiny butterfly tattoo. At least he isn’t completely disconnected, she thought.
Portland’s race track operated out of 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 straps and unloading his motorcycle. It had been six months 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 just unraveled her bundle of race flags. Jack, another seasoned race official who 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 their 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
The 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 turn, their 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 saw speeds exceed 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 his tires whispering of a relinquished grip. His split-second decision to pass on the outside didn’t account for the track’s slick conditions resulting from yesterday’s Indy car race. Rubber marbles, the scraps from race car tires, lined the outside of the racetrack like tiny sentinels. They waited motionless, hoping to snatch the wheels out from under an 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 through his entire 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. 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 with it 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 its 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, his 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 red flag – one that she’d never used before.
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 at her skull. Shaken and trembling, she watched corner-workers frantically wave their red flags in a ripple effect that progressed around the track. The yellows and blacks reserved for signaling bruises, bumps, and dangerous oil slicks, comfortably rested on the ground in their customary spots. This time, they all gave way to the ultimate signal: “All stop. Race canceled. Return to the pits immediately.” Kari distantly remembered a training where the instructor explained that the red 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 in many races. 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
Sound 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 should have been frightened but instead, he wondered, Where am I?
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