From pyramid!decwrl!labrea!rutgers!att!ihlpb!ihlpy!fish Mon May 1 12:27:10 PDT 1989 (Part 8 of 8) [Synopsis: Spike has secretly come out of retirement, returning to his native Chicago to track down a serial killer. He meets the lovely Annie Chernak and, distracted and smitten, barely saves her and himself from death as the killer chooses that moment to attack. He leaves Annie to deal with the police, but knows he must see her again. Remembering that she'd mentioned a race, Spike procures a road bike, hoping to join in. At the bike shop, he is surprised to see a large poster of himself on display. In many ways, Spike is beginning to realize how long he has ben out of touch with the world...] --- I didn't know. Mom's letters had said nothing about it, and the papers and newscasts I'd seen lately had mentioned little about me. I thought they'd still be looking for me in every state in the Union. Instead, I find out I've been pardoned, and that there's some statue of me turning green and collecting bird droppings in the middle of the Detroit river. Of course, they thought I was dead. Had they known I survived, would they have been so magnanimous? Or if they'd known how I skimmed profits from Bikopoulis Imports to finance my operations, or how I'd cheated on my taxes because of it? Would the Canadian Government be pleased to know I was impersonating somebody who died when I was two months old, and that I'd broken just as many Canadian tax laws, and that I still went around packing a 9mm automatic everywhere I went? It occurred to me that there might be certain advantages to staying dead. It also occurred to me that I should finish my business here and get my ass back to Alberta before somebody took a really good look at me. The trouble was that my business wasn't entirely under my control, and there was more of it than there'd been when I got here. The bike shop guy had told me there was only one nearby race that he knew about. It was a 4-corners criterium being held in an industrial park outside Willow Springs. It had to be the one. I rode the Pinarello down from Berwyn and arrived at the registration desk about 8:00 AM. I didn't know how I was going to bluff my way in, but it turned out I didn't have to. USCF was defunct. The Bicycle Act had put an end to all organized bike racing in America by 1993, and the organization disbanded. It had been in disarray even before then. The leadership had deteriorated to an entrenched cabal of squabbling, imperious men who sat around thinking up silly-ass rules that were as inequitable as they were incomprehensible. It was the reason I left the circuit in '92. This competition, however, was a far cry from the old days. Like all races now, it was an open affair, sponsored by local clubs and businesses. There was no license required, just ten bucks and a release form. There were only two divisions each for men and women, "Beginner" and "Experienced," which means you'd finished a couple of "Beginner" races without crashing or going off the back. Even at that, nobody checked; you just signed one sheet or the other and got your number. The only thing they really worried about were unroadworthy bikes -- and from what I'd seen of the bikes that were currently available, the concern was justified. I had to get my bike checked out by one of the officials, who turned out to be the greasy-nailed guy who'd sold me the bike yesterday. "Oh, hi, Mister, ah, Renwick?" "Resnick." "Well, I guess this bike'll check out." "I would hope so." "You know, I'm still thinking. It'll come to me, I never forget a face." "I suppose." "Well, good luck." "Thanks. Say, when do the women race? You know a tall gal, light brown hair, kind of thin, name's..." "Annie. Ain't she an eyeful? Yeah, the women's 'E' race starts at 9:30, she should be there. She's pre-registered, so she probably isn't here yet. She'll win. Hell, she could win the men's division. You know Annie?" "Met her the other day. Say, she going with anybody?" "No, no boyfriend. But a lotta men tried, and a lotta men died. Man, you _really_ need some luck." "Thanks. I'll keep it in mind." I pinned my number to the back of my jersey and loped over to watch the men's 'B' race, the event just before Annie's. It was a comical affair. There were numerous crashes, though none were serious. The race officials did a good job of clearing the course of stragglers who'd gone off the back and obviously had no chance of catching the pack. These kids had heart, though. It brought back fond memories of how things had once been, before everything went to hell. I had to smile. Damn it, I was beginning to enjoy myself again. Damn it to hell, I was beginning to like this place. Damn... "Mike!" That voice! "Mike, you came! You're _entered?_" She approached, as gracefully as anybody can walk with cleats on, and placed a hand on my arm. Her smile was dazzling. I noticed for the first time that one of her eyebrows was just a little crooked. It made her face all the more endearing. She looked delicious. She had looked delicious with mud all over her. "Mike," she lowered her voice, "Mike I didn't tell them about you the other day. I said he ran me off the road, that I steered myself into the ditch. I guess I owe you a lot, and I know you've got something to hide. That's why I didn't tell them about you. But you've got to tell me about it. Can we talk after the race?" "You can count on it. I..." An announcement pierced the air. God, they were still using those same damned bullhorns; some things hadn't changed. "That's me. I have to get to the starting line. Wish me luck!" "Good..." She draped her arms around my neck and kissed me. "...luck." The women's 'E' race was a 40-km criterium which, I learned, was the standard distance for most events these days. Power would be more of an advantage than savvy would be in such a competition. That was well-suited to the times, as few aspiring racers had any real experience. It made me wonder how I'd do in my own race. I had done little road biking in the last eight years, and the maneuvers I'd mastered on my ATBs were probably not useful here. Breaking away from a pack isn't the same as dodging a marauding pickup truck while you're cocking the receiver of a MAC-10 with your teeth. I was still pretty strong, but some of these kids looked strong, too. I would have my hands full. Annie was quite at home here. She stayed near the front of the pack for much of the race, then made her move when a group of three of the stronger women broke away. She cut to the outside and effortlessly ran them down from a hundred yards back. By the last couple of laps, it was evident she would win with ease. Just before the lap gun, she broke away, easily outdistancing the pair of riders closest to her. The gap steadily widened as she sprinted up the long back stretch of the 3.2-km course. It was the trick of a practiced eye that caught it. I saw a light blue blur on the edge of my perception, and automatically homed in on it. It was _him_! He roared down a road parallel to the course, watching out his side window for an opening. He would get his chance at the cross street near the end of the back stretch, a mile or so distant. The only rider who'd be there to meet him was Annie. I jumped on the Pinarello, cursing as I lost precious milliseconds starting a cleat in the unfamiliar pedals. I knocked down two spectators as I jumped onto the course, and two of the women who were trying in vain to catch Annie collided as I darted into their path. I was going to make them scratch this race, but that wasn't important now. In the clear, I stood up and sprinted for all I was worth. Only slowly did the gap between me and Annie narrow. The menacing blue van was at the end of the parallel street, making a screeching left turn onto the common cross street that would connect him with the course. I tried to call out to Annie, but she couldn't hear me over the commotion on the sidelines. I could not reach her in time. I would have only one chance. I'd brought the little Walther along almost as a good luck charm. I hadn't intended to race with it, and I was feeling it now as the holster dug into my side under my jersey. I drew it, flicked off the safety, and pulled back the receiver in the hollow between my chin and neck. I tried to steady it before me as my eyes swam and my lungs burned. Annie rounded the corner and accelerated into the bottom stretch just as the van smashed through the barricades. The hay bales and sawhorses slowed him down just a little, enough time for Annie to to get out of the line of fire. I tried to center the sights on the driver's window. I squeezed off one shot, two, three, nothing. Four, five, the van swerved slightly, kept to its course, picked up speed. Annie, Annie, SPRINT, dammit! I fired off the sixth shot and the side window shattered. One more shot, then I kept pulling the trigger, but there were no more cartridges. I knew I hit him. I could have sworn that his head jerked to the side as I squeezed off the last round. The driver was no longer visible, but the van continued to gain on Annie. I tried to scream, but I had no breath. NO! My god, if only I could reach her! If only I could take her place! I could not watch, yet I could not look away. Annie... The van closed to within a few feet of her rear wheel, but then lurched abruptly, left the roadway, turned over on its side, and crashed into a wall. A moment later, it exploded into a ball of orange flame and black smoke. Only then did Annie turn around to see what was happening. You won, Annie. After an eternity, I took a breath. I pulled off the course and got away as fast as I could. There would be police here very soon, with questions to which I had no answer. --- _Epilogue_ I waited behind the rusting carcass of an earth-mover as I watched the distant rider approach. I stepped into view when she was close enough to recognize me. "I hoped you'd be here." She said. "Glad you could make it." She crossed to me, raised a hand to touch my face. It was a moment before she spoke. "When I was a little girl, I had a bike. It was just an old clunker, but I loved it. I rode it everywhere. Then, when I was fifteen, my father took it away. I didn't understand. I cried for days. I didn't cry like that again until I heard you were dead." Tears welled in her eyes. She fell into my arms, kissed me, and held her embrace for a long time. Neither of us said anything in the minutes or hours that passed. Finally she drew back. "How long have you known?" "Since you left the other day. I wasn't sure at first, but when I saw you again at the race, I knew. I think some of the others do, too." "The police?" "They know somebody rode onto the track and shot him. Nobody would tell them anything else. Only Dutch -- he's the guy who owns the bike shop -- and I know your name, or the one you're using. Dutch destroyed your race registration. We didn't tell them. They didn't need to know. Oh, Spike, you got him. That's all that's important." "Another dead man. Another pair of eyes. They all watch me from somewhere, you know." "You did what you had to do. You did it for all of us. What of the living Spike? What about us? What about _my_ eyes?" "They're lovely." I pulled her to me and kissed her again. After a while, I let her go. "You know I have to leave, Annie." "Where will you go?" "I can't say." "Take me with you?" "I'm getting old, Annie. I couldn't keep up with you." I turned away and walked toward the mountain bike. It was no longer loaded down with packs and oddly bulging panniers. There was no C-4 packed into the frame any more. For the first time in an eternity, I didn't need any of that stuff. The bike felt light. Riding away, I realized that I felt light too, younger by the minute, and _alive_. What in the hell was I doing? She hadn't got more than half a mile down the road. I chased her down in less then a minute. I tried to hide my shortness of breath. "You ever been to Alberta, Annie?" * THE END * --- Postscript Some time ago I read an essay by someone very good, Harlan Ellison, I think. He explains that his stories often tell themselves; he writes them down almost as though they have been dictated by an unseen other. Occasionally, a story willcome out far differently from what he had planned. In my own experience, "Spike Bike Returns" was such a story. I had always planned for the original Spike Bike series to end in a final confrontation of Good and Evil, with Spike bringing order to his world only though the act of supreme sacrifice. As the series developed, however, Spike became more than a comic-book character to me. I grew fond of him, and in the end, I couldn't bear to kill him off. I gave him a way out, which an astute reader will have surmised from the little clues I left in the closing paragraphs of Spike's narrative in "Armageddon in Detroit." "Spike Bike Returns" begins where that story left off, but beyond getting Spike out of the mine and safely into exile in Canada, I had no idea where to take the story from there. With the fall of Corporatism and the demise of the Bicycle Act of 1992, the central premise of the original series was gone. I had deliberately left some loose ends at the end, but I had only a vague idea how to develop them into a story. The serial killer idea seemed like a good way to get Spike out of retirement, but beyond that, I had no idea where the story would lead me. Yet lead me it did. Every spring, my thoughts turn to two things, cycling and people like Annie. Once I had the idea for her character, I realized that the loose ends would have to wait. The story diverged from the old blood and fire and became a tale of a man's rebirth, his reconciliation with life and humanity. To be sure, Spike deals death in the end, but it is for the sake of life and love, not destruction and hatred. Much of this story was written in one sitting. It took me as much by surprise as it did any of you, I assure you. If it was less bloodthirsty than what you'd come to expect from Spike Bike, perhaps it's because I wrote it early in the year, before I've had an unhealthy dose of hostility at the unclean hands of the local motorhead population. Nevertheless, I was quite pleased with the story. I've been making up stories for as long as I can remember and writing them down since I was nine years old. Of all the stuff I've written in recent years, "Spike Bike Returns" has been the most gratifying personally. If it wasn't what you expected, I hope you liked it anyway. Will Spike Bike be back? This time, I honestly don't know myself. There are those loose ends I mentioned, but at the moment, Spike is happy and healed. I'd like to give him and Annie a little privacy for a while. Of course, it's early in the year yet. I had an unpleasant encounter with a gravel truck last Saturday; there will undoubtably be similar incidents in the months to come. It's possible I will need Spike again before the summer is out. -- __ / \ Bob Fishell \__/ att!ihlpy!fish