Authors: Christopher Ransom
And then the summer ended, and the leaves began to change from green to gold and red, to yellow and brown. The lawns dried and leaned over for want of mowing.
Darren Lynwood had nothing to look forward to in those days. He checked the mail in the morning and evening, and in between made the usual phone calls. But there was nothing to be done. He was going to lose the house. Maybe that was for the best, because it was too much for one man and he had grown tired of living here alone. Tired of living, so tired.
His wife and daughter had gone back to North Carolina, to live closer to the rest of the family, and he missed them too much to stay in this house another year. He needed a plan for winter, but he couldn’t figure on one.
He continued to work, though the garage was also failing. No one was interested in paying a lonely middle-aged mechanic with no personal relationship skills a hundred and ten per hour to fix their vintage motorcycles. The guys who collected vintage cycles, most of them knew how to do their own repairs.
So, while the bank closed in on the house, the shop was dying too, and that was fine, because he didn’t feel much like working anymore. He didn’t know what he felt like, except for drinking. He had his beer, cases and cases of it, which was silly when you thought about it, because there were a dozen liquor stores within walking distance, here in this tired old neighborhood off East Colfax in Denver. Lately he had begun switching from beer to cheap tequila, the only liquor his sensitive stomach could handle. The ulcers had started two years ago, but they hadn’t really flared up until the girls left.
He watched the TV, flipping channels from late afternoon until midnight, searching and searching for something, a sign, a story that made sense, but there weren’t any on offer.
That was the hell of it. Nothing made sense. It just happened to you, and your life went upside down, and then you had a chair and a TV.
Outside, on the street, a large engine growled down the block. Pneumatic brakes squealed and then hissed. Was today trash day? He hoped not, because he hadn’t taken the trash out this morning. Wasn’t going to do so now. He could put that off another week. It was mostly bottles and cans anyway. A few pizza boxes.
He heard a metal door jarring open, the racket of one of those old garage doors, maybe. Or one of those big brown UPS vans making a delivery. Voices. Men talking.
Darren turned the volume on the TV up a little louder and tilted back his beer.
Knock-knock-knock
. Someone at the door.
He ignored it. Wasn’t expecting anyone. No one knocked anymore, no one he wanted to talk to. Probably the bank. Had to start sometime.
But they turned persistent.
Knock-knock. Knock-knock-knock
. Over and over, and then he was angry, shoving himself up from his chair, beer in one hand as he stomped to the door. He opened it.
Darren stared at the man on his porch. Oh, I see.
Him. The man in the park.
‘What is it?’ Darren said. He was taller than the visitor, by several inches. ‘What else do you need?’
‘Nothing,’ the man said. ‘Nothing at all.’
Behind the visitor, down the sloping dead lawn, out on the street, someone had parked a twenty-four foot Van Lines moving rig. The back door was up and two guys in blue coveralls were unloading boxes onto his yard, crowding his sidewalk.
‘And that?’ he said, pointing his beer at the movers.
‘A little payback,’ the man on his porch said.
‘Sure. And for what?’
‘Saving my life.’
Darren held the visitor’s eyes as long as he could, but it unnerved him to do so. He looked back to the movers.
‘What’s in the boxes?’
‘Collectibles. Things most people don’t understand. Thought you might.’
Darren sighed.
‘Do you remember my name?’ the visitor said.
‘I thought it was Darren Lynwood. That’s what the paper said. Darren Lynwood, entrepreneur turned BMX bike guru or some damn thing. I saw that and had a real good laugh. I said, now that’s interesting, because my name is Darren Lynwood too, and I used to be into BMX bikes. I better go on down to Boulder and see what this is all about.’
‘I’m glad you did,’ Adam said. ‘You unlocked something very valuable for me. For my family.’
Darren nodded. ‘And now you want to give it away. Out of what? Guilt?’
‘To say thank you.’
‘Don’t want ’em.’
‘Why not?’
‘Didn’t earn ’em.’
‘I think maybe you did.’
‘Nope. Your life, not mine.’
‘Are you sure? Because it was lived in your name, your spirit. The spirit I knew, anyway.’
Neither man spoke for a moment.
‘A lot changed for me this summer,’ Adam said. ‘I woke up to a lot of things. And one of them is, what happened to that kid? What became of the Darren Lynwood I knew?’
‘He grew up with too many advantages,’ Darren said. ‘And not enough discipline. Everything good that came to him, he pretty much fucked up on his own.’
Adam scratched his cheek. ‘Well, maybe some of this stuff can help.’
‘I don’t think it works that way.’
‘Sell them, then,’ Adam said. ‘Give them away. Do whatever you want with them, but they belong to you now.’
‘Uh-huh. What’s the catch?’
‘The catch is, there’s about three hundred thousand dollars worth of goods there in that van, and I don’t know your situation, but I know mine. I need to move on. I’m asking you to do me one last favor and give this stuff a home. Put it to use or put it where you think it belongs, because I know it doesn’t belong with me.’
Darren opened his mouth but the visitor cut him off.
‘But you can’t have them all. I’m keeping one.’
Darren’s eyebrows lifted but he said nothing.
Adam hitched up his pants, wincing as he did so, as if there was something paining him in the gut.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Adam said. ‘You had it all this time. You found out where I lived and delivered it yourself.’
Darren Lynwood said nothing.
‘Why?’ Adam said. ‘Please. I have to know how you wound up with it. It’s the only thing I don’t understand and I won’t sleep until I know.’
Darren took a swig of his beer and set it down on the table beside the door. ‘The first time I read about your family in the paper, thirty years ago, I knew what happened. I knew why you did it. I felt responsible.’
‘You were just a kid,’ Adam said. ‘We all were.’
‘But that was me, kid or not. I ruined your bike. I played a role, you see? And then you were out of school, and then a family was dead. A few days later, when the cops hadn’t found you, I got real nervous. Seemed like God was onto me, or fate, something bad. I had the money, or my folks did. I knew the story behind that little Italian job. Arnie had told me. I went down the shop and had a talk with Arnie. He told me about the promise he’d made to you, and I said I’d keep her safe. If and when you ever surfaced. He didn’t believe me until I put up two of my bikes as collateral, ’cause he was stubborn like that. Took a little longer than I thought for you to turn up, but there you were in the park that day, and I said yep, that’s got to be him. No other dipstick would be dumb enough to take my name.’
Adam laughed. ‘You were right about that. Thank you for taking such good care of her. I hope you don’t mind if I keep her. I waited a long time.’
‘Knock yourself out,’ Darren said.
‘You have others to choose from. That truck is full.’
By now there were over a dozen boxes stacked on the lawn and more coming out.
‘You still ride?’ Adam said.
‘Do I look like I ride?’
Adam turned and whistled. The movers looked up. Adam held up two fingers, like a peace sign. The movers nodded and leaped up into the truck. They reappeared a moment later, wheeling two bikes down the steel ramp.
One was a Kuwahara KZ-1, black with chrome components.
The other was a Patterson, yellow and blue, Zeronine plate #1. Darren’s memory was not what it had once been, but as the movers rolled the bikes up the walk and leaned them against the stoop, he felt a pang of longing, like seeing a thirty-year-old photo of your first girlfriend.
‘That my Patty?’
‘I think so,’ Adam said. ‘I pieced it together this summer, as best I was able to remember. All survivor parts. Era-correct. Lynwood-style.’
From his back pocket he removed a plastic bag containing a new old stock pair of Haro racing gloves. He ripped the plastic, removed the gloves, and handed them to Darren.
Despite himself, Darren felt a smile spreading across his chapped lips, inside his unwashed beard. He took the gloves. ‘You’re sick in the head, you know that?’
‘Take it for a spin?’ Adam said.
‘I’ll kill myself on that thing.’
‘Nah. We’ll go slow. We have to. I’m still recuperating.’
Darren shook his head, but before he knew it his feet were leading him out of the house, down the front steps, and his hands were on the gummy yellow grips.
Adam hauled one leg over the Kuwi and sat down very gently. He looked sideways at Darren, waiting.
‘We’re too old for this,’ Darren said, straddling the Patterson.
Adam kicked the pedal back, spinning his freewheel. ‘Never. Never too old to ride, my friend.’
This, Darren Lynwood discovered, turned out to be true.
Many thanks to my new editor at Sphere, Ed Wood, who helped me develop more than a few of the scenes in this novel more thoughtfully and with increased fidelity. It was a pleasure working with you and I hope we get to do many more books together. Mad props to Thalia, as always. At this point you may be my most senior reader at LB and I am always grateful for your help.
Special thanks are also due to my old school BMX comrades, the original NoBo-Wonderland Hills Gang from BITD: Jeff Metzger, Mike Wozniak, Jack Shrine, Troy Hamilton, David Christie, Jason Berkley, DJ Menzel, Tommy T., Eddie, Jesse Morrow, Chopper, and Al down at Dick’s Bike Shop. And to my new friends via BMXmuseum, where we keep the faith and fuel the obsession: PlanetX, who sold me the coolest JMC known to man and told me of his own search to reclaim; Leviathan, my go-to guy for Race Inc. and some Vietnamese lunch; to Nikbsnjk for the Quad; Vazquizzel for the Diamondback; HUGE love to JT, who hooked me up with a Cinelli almost as cool as the one I had when I was 11. And to its-all-good, Joe Buffardi, CRUZR_ADDICT, route66, NORCAL BOYZ, Arizona Louie, The Man Himself Jim Melton, and dozens of other guys who shared their childhood riding stories, memories and bike parts (which are really one in the same). Your infectious passion for collecting and love for the bikes stoked me and helped me remember so many things that went into this book. Ransom515 owes you a debt of gratitude for welcoming me back into the community and helping to keep the past alive.
Stay rad.