Speed Times Five (3 page)

The Hardys and their friends rolled out of the sack early and joined the other competitors in the dining hall for breakfast. Then the brothers went to the equipment shed and gave their mountain bikes a last going-over.

As the starting time drew near, the race crew assembled the contestants in front of the lodge, and Vince Bennett spoke to the group.

“Greetings! Welcome to the Speed Times Five Adventure Race!” Bennett called to the crowd through a bullhorn. “Glad to see you all up and at 'em this early.” He smiled as the competitors grumbled back a sleepy greeting. “Hopefully, all of you received your start times with your competitor's package when you checked in. For the benefit of the media present”—he nodded to a stand of video cameras set up nearby—“let me explain that the racers will start in order of ranking—for those who have competed in previous adventure races—or by random group draw for new participants.”

“How'd we do on start time?” Chet asked.

“Not too bad,” Frank said, checking his schedule.
“We're about the middle of the pack. I'm going before Joe.”

“They kept us together since we're using the same support crew,” Joe said, smiling at Chet and Jamal.

“Because of the staggered start, the racers will be timed to the checkpoints,” Bennett continued. “These times will determine starting order during other legs of the race. The media and spectators can check the Speed Times Five Web site for complete rules.

“Racers' communications packs will be given a once-over by race personnel at every checkpoint. Because of the isolation of parts of the course, it is
vital
that you keep your communications gear in good working condition.

“Also, please observe the rules of good sportsmanship. If someone is in trouble, make sure you help him or her or—at the very least—call for assistance. The race can be dangerous; let's look out for one another.

“Finally, I want to thank our support staff and race sponsors, especially StarTel communications, QuickAid sports drinks, the Tuffy bike corporation, LaTelle Medical and Pharmaceutical, and Sea-Zoom personal water craft. And, of course, I can't forget the beautiful Fire Creek Mountain Resort, who have allowed us the use of their spectacular facilities for the first three stages of this race. Next time you're in Quebec, visit Fire Creek Mountain.”
Bennett gazed out over the sea of eager racers assembled before him. “So, are you ready to race?”

“Yeah!” the crowd screamed back.

“Then let's hit the starting blocks!” Bennett waved to the crowd, pointed toward the starting gate atop the ski hill, and then jogged in that direction.

Half an hour later, the Hardys' starting numbers were called, and the team made its way to the gate.

“See you both at the first resupply point,” Jamal said.

“Take good care of the van,” Frank said.

“We'll treat it as if we owned it,” Chet replied.

“That's what we're worried about,” Joe shot back jokingly.

A crowd of officials milled around the starting gate. They checked the communications equipment—a durable long-range walkie-talkie hooked into race headquarters—as each racer came through, and ran through a final prerace checklist.

Joe and Frank completed their paperwork and headed for the gate. Ahead of them, the brothers saw Kelly Hawk plunge down the slope at a breakneck pace. Collins, Frid, and Curtis waited nearby, looking very much a team in their matching UMass campus wear. All of the students started before Joe and Frank.

When his turn came, Frank mounted his bike at the top of the run. He gave Joe the thumbs-up, waited for the starting buzzer, and then took off downhill.

Joe positioned his mountain bike in the starting gate and hopped on. He watched as Frank zipped around the first turn in the course, disappearing behind a stand of pine trees. Joe looked at the starter, who said, “Ready?”

Joe nodded and adjusted his racing helmet and goggles. The starter brought up his starting timer, which was hooked into the gate. The lights on either side of the gate flashed red . . . yellow . . . green! A buzzer sounded and the gate flew open.

Joe hit the pedals and lurched out of the gate and down the steep, bare ski slope.

“Yahoo!” he whooped. Yelling wasn't very professional, but the thrill of descent felt glorious. Stones and dust kicked up behind Joe as he zoomed toward the first turn.

He came in hard and clenched the hand brake to slow himself a little. The bike skidded sideways a bit, costing him some time, but he regained control and headed for the second steep turn.

A tall stand of pines rose up before him as he neared a jog to the right. He squeezed the brakes lightly to take the edge off the turn.

The grips caught for a moment, then pressed all the way to the handlebars. The brakes didn't catch. Unable to control his speed, Joe careened toward the tall pine trees.

3 Accidental Meetings

Joe squeezed the brakes once more as he turned the bike's front wheel to steer away from the edge of the course.

Nothing. He had no brakes at all.

He flipped the shift lever and kicked the bike into a lower gear, hoping he wouldn't throw the chain as he did so. The chain held and the bike turned, but not fast enough.

Trees shot up in front of him, a dense, green wall. Many of the trunks were a foot wide. The mesh ski fencing at the edge of the course looked flimsy and inadequate. Joe doubted it would stop him from a nasty spill.

Desperate, he leaned the bike sideways while he continued to try to turn. If he tipped too far, the controlled slide he was aiming for would turn into a
bruising skid. The bike's wide tires bit into the rough dirt, spraying pebbles and dust into the air.

Nearly digging the bike's right pedal into the dirt, Joe veered away from the ski fence and the tall trees. He tried to turn the bike back uphill, to use the lower gear as a breaking mechanism, but his momentum was too great. He'd avoided an initial crash but kept hurtling down the hill at frightening speed.

He and the bike went airborne as the ground dipped on the next straightaway. Joe held his breath and braced for the landing, concentrating on maintaining control of the bike. The impact made his bones ache, but he held on tight and the bike stayed under him.

As he landed, Joe caught sight of Frank ahead of him, gliding into the next big turn. Joe snaked back and forth across the course, trying to slow his descent. When he reached the turn, though, he had to abandon that strategy or risk a bad spill.

The course turned to the left now and cut back quickly several times from right to left and back. Joe careened from one side of the course to the other, trying to burn up some of the bike's momentum. He swung perilously close to ski fences and obstacles on both sides as he went.

Once, his tires skidded out from under him and he had to touch his foot down to keep from falling. A sharp pain shot up from his ankle to his knee. Joe gritted his teeth and held on for dear life.

He went airborne again near the bottom of the hill and was surprised to spot Frank right in front of
him. The elder Hardy had steered a far more conservative course and looked in full control of his bike.

Joe swerved to avoid hitting Frank and could only imagine the look on his older brother's face as he shot past. A checkpoint loomed at the bottom of the hill as the slope flattened out, but Joe couldn't stop. Collins, Frid, and Curtis stood waiting to be cleared through the checkpoint as Joe plummeted toward them.

The course turned ninety degrees to the left at the checkpoint. Joe knew he'd never make the turn. He zipped past the startled college students and plummeted into the forest. The calls of the race officials echoed after him for a moment before being drowned out by the sound of his mountain bike crashing through the light underbrush.

The younger Hardy wove his crippled bike between the trees, barely missing the wide trunks. Fortunately, the rough terrain and brush beneath the pines soon diminished the bike's speed. Joe put his feet down and slid to a stop just short of a huge spruce. He whistled a long, slow sigh of relief.

Joe got off the bike and looked back to see Frank sprinting through the forest toward him. “Joe!” the older Hardy called. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Joe called back. “Just a bit shook up.”

Frank skidded to a halt next to his brother. “What's wrong?” the older Hardy asked. “Why didn't you stop at the checkpoint?”

“I couldn't,” Joe said. “Something's wrong with my brakes.” He knelt down by the front wheel; Frank did the same at the back.

Frank frowned. “The cable's come loose from the brake mechanism,” he said.

“Up here, too,” Joe said. “I know we checked the connections last night. They were working fine when I took the bike out of the shed this morning, too.”

“It wouldn't take someone too long to loosen the nuts holding the cables,” Frank said.

“But the bike's been with me the whole time,” Joe said.

“Not when we did the final paperwork and communications check,” Frank said. “We racked the bikes then.”

“But who would want to sabotage my bike?” Joe asked. “It doesn't make sense.”

Frank nodded. “You're right. It's not like we're big-name competitors or anything.” He shrugged. “Maybe it's just a bad break—no pun intended. C'mon. Let's get your bike fixed so we can get back into the race.”

The brothers walked back through the woods toward the checkpoint. As they went, several out-of-breath race staffers ran up to them. “Are you all right?” one asked.

“I had a problem with the brakes,” Joe said. “But I should be able to fix it and continue.”

“You really had us worried,” said the other official. “Vince Bennett saw the video feed and called
to check on you. We're glad you're okay.” As he talked, the other official radioed in the news that Joe hadn't been hurt.

The four of them returned to the checkpoint in time to see Roger Baldwin pedaling off down the cross-country trail. Michael Lupin arrived at the bottom of the hill as the brothers unpacked their emergency repair kits and began working on Joe's bike. Lupin spared the brothers only a glance before finishing his check-in and biking down the trail.

It took the Hardys only a few minutes to make the needed repairs. They tested Joe's brakes vigorously, then completed the checkpoint routine and headed into the forest. The cross-country trail was more suited to hiking or skiing than bike racing. Pine needles made traction difficult and the course wound up and downhill frequently.

Joe soon began to feel the effects of his ordeal. His muscles ached and his breath came in labored gasps. “Go ahead of me, Frank,” he said. “You can make better time than I can.”

“No way,” Frank replied. “I don't care if we've both got emergency radios. I'd rather stick close and rely on each other.”

A few racers passed the brothers as they rode in tandem through the forested hills. The Hardys passed several competitors as well. Some were merely going slow, others had troubles of their own. One woman had a broken bicycle frame and was using her radio to call for help. Another man
was sitting by the side of the trail, taking an early break to drink some water.

“Bet that guy doesn't finish in the top ten,” Joe said with a tired grin.

Several helicopters passed overhead as they labored up and down the terrain.

“Media?” Joe asked.

“Or race monitors or medical personnel,” Frank suggested. “I thought I spotted the Red Cross and the LaTelle Medical logo on a chopper earlier. Either way, I'm glad someone's keeping an eye on things.”

“The choppers kind of spoil the pristine atmosphere, though,” Joe said.

Frank chuckled. “Like a bunch of people on mountain bikes don't?”

They stopped only briefly for a packed lunch, to stretch, and to recheck the gear on the bikes.

“This course is jostling things all out of whack,” Joe said, tugging his handlebars back into proper alignment.

“It could have been your earlier run off the mountain, too,” Frank replied.

“Not the best start,” Joe said, “but we're making up some ground—even if my whole body aches.”

“Just wait until day six,” Frank said.

Joe smiled. “You'll be eating my dust by then, bro.”

“We'll see about that,” Frank replied. He mounted up and rode off. Joe did the same, only a second or two behind.

The beauty of the woodland scenery took some of the monotony out of the rolling hills. Soon the pines of the mountain slope gave way to a mixed forest: maples, oaks, and other deciduous trees.

Toward the end of the day they passed Michael Lupin, who was wrestling with a flat tire. “Need any help?” Joe called. Lupin merely scowled and waved them on.

Just before sunset the brothers broke out of the woods near the banks of a broad lake. The lake's placid waters reflected the emerald glory of the trees lining its shores. Half a mile ahead they spotted a big A-frame building with a line of docks in front of it.

“Fire Lake Lodge, dead ahead,” Frank said.

“Beat you there,” Joe replied, digging into his bike's pedals. The younger Hardy shot ahead momentarily; then Frank recovered from his surprise and sprinted after him.

Soon the two were racing neck and neck toward the lodge checkpoint, a long tentlike pavilion with a table across the front. A helicopter sat on a wide swath of lawn behind the tent, and several cameras were set up near the table.

Vince Bennett stood next to the table, all smiles. He called to the brothers as they hit the brakes and skidded to a stop.

“Looks like a tie to me,” Bennett said. “Whoa! Watch out.” He backed up as Michael Lupin braked in right beside the brothers.

“Never count the old man out,” Lupin said, a slight grin cracking his bearded face.

“Good to see you, Michael,” Bennett said. “You, too, Frank and Joe. Hey, Joe, I thought we lost you at the bottom of the mountain. Great comeback. Great footage, too. The race sponsors are gonna eat that up. It'll look super on TV.”