THE 40TH ANNUAL DIRT BIKE DERBY

(PROLOGUE, from “Jason and the Booshka.”)

The sounds of dirt bike engines echoed throughout Sop’s Canyon, causing all the angry old owls to shiver and take flight. Everyone was going to the Dirt Bike Derby. Everyone. Well, everyone who was anyone. The derby was founded forty years ago by Mills High legend David Danabuster, the first person ever to jump Sop’s Canyon (though there was speculation that he himself didn’t remember the night, blacked out as he was). Back then, dirt bikes were primarily used for two purposes: fair-as-you-are street races (side by side, 500 meters), and riding shirtless past the girls track team during practice. It wasn’t that David Danabuster (Double D as most called him) was opposed to these two forms of riding. Hell, he was even a regular on the shirtless date-catching circuit. But in the end, David thought that seeing as how everyone and their mother in Mesa Mills owned a dirt bike, the machines could be put to a more creative use. And so, he saved up some money, borrowed his older brother Wag’s driver’s license, and bought himself four ice-cold kegs of Budweiser — spreading news of a planned party at Sop’s Canyon. A freshman throwing a quad-kegger in the canyon was basically unheard of, and even the seen-it-all seniors started to get curious when it was revealed that dirt bikes were “mandatory” for the event. Once news got out that Shirley Jackson — the coolest, sexiest, and dirtiest-riding dirt biker in Colson Valley — would be attending, the event quickly became mandatory, and anyone without a dirtbike was scrambling to find a ride. 

Needless to say, they shouldn’t have worried. No one was checking bikes, or ID’s at Sop’s Canyon, and when everyone arrived, they found little there but a roaring bonfire and four ice-cold kegs sitting in an inflatable pool filled with ice. That is, until Double D arrived on his Kawaski 6 and began revving his engine and flashing his lights just above the treeline. It was then that people noticed the enormous wooden ramp. 

“This one’s for you, Ma!” David cried, laughing as a flock of crows leapt alarmedly from a nearby pine tree. Screams and shouts echoed through the canyon (along with a couple of moans), as David peeled down the hill — full tilt — and hit the ramp like a circus bomb. The Kawasaki sailed overhead, jet black against the stars, and touched down on the other side of the canyon with a shriek of metal. Then Double D appeared at the top of the southern ridge, hair streaked with mud and eyes scorned with glory. 

“That’s it!” he screamed out. “Every fucking year, from now on. WE RIDE THE CANYON.”

And simple as that, canyon racing was born. That first night, of course, went on to become the greatest legend in Mesa Mills’ history. The Higgins boys used globs of tar to light the canyon routes, and the first races were held between completely inebriated but determined bikers, cramming their daddy’s old Sixers, and beat up Fender Views side by side next to each other on the dusty canyon floor. It was even rumoured that Sheriff Redford pulled up his cruiser to watch the events from atop the canyon wall — sipping his customary coffee and vodka with relish, and wishing that his generation had been so bold. 

The rules of the race were simple: get through the canyon by any means necessary. Nothing was off limits — though over the next twenty years, a rough code of conduct would develop. No eye gouging. No guns (after Ricky Doubtfire’s incident with the .22). No puncturing fuel tanks (R.I.P. Danny Ashwell). No knives (or scissors — nice try Stacy Q). No more than forty riders to a race (not that you could fit more in the canyon if you wanted to). And always, always pay tribute to Double D before each race (usually in the form of heavy consumption of alcohol). These rules were generally accepted, though they never seemed to cover the vast array of improvisational techniques that new riders would use to try and make a name for themselves, so as to be added to the Mills High Annals of Biking History — not to mention offered their pick of the opposite sex on the school dating circuit. After Double D’s initial power grab, the football, soccer, and hockey teams never recovered. There was only one game in town, and it was Canyon Racing.

Which brings us to the present day — 2020, Mesa Mills, Nevada. May. Two weeks of school left, and the only thing on everyone’s mind: the Canyon Kickoff. The first race of the summer was a chance for anyone, no matter who you were, to climb to the top of the Mills High social ladder overnight. In the spirit of Double D, no one was forbidden from racing. If you had a bike with a working motor, you were in. No questions asked. Beyond that, it was every man and woman for themselves. 

Of course, not everyone raced. To even have the balls to lace up your shoes and wheel your bike into the Canyon earned you serious points with the whole establishment. Most were content to show up, crack a beer and enjoy the largest parties of the summer — accompanied by an endless spectacle of violent racing, injuries, gossip, and just pure, good old-fashioned fun. But there were those who lived for Canyon Racing — who began training as soon as the last winter snows melted off the desert floor. There was blue-eyed Jenny Jackson (daughter of the now infamous Shirley Jackson), who would just as soon throw you into oncoming traffic as talk to you. Denny Masterson, a brash shit-talker who loved leather jackets, hair oil, and other antiquated forms of self-adornment. Kyle Wenzes, a person whom most considered to be extremely annoying by any standards, yet who had won three consecutive Canyon Kickoffs due to a wide array of unpredictable gags and underhanded (yet legal) tricks. There was Clideoff Cuggins, who had successfully adapted his father’s military training regimen to fit the Canyon Racing life, and who could frequently be seen jogging through Sop’s Canyon in a sweaty camouflage t-shirt. And who could forget Giselle Montoya, the speed queen — easily the fastest biker that Mesa Mills had ever seen (in no small part due to her weighing only 90 pounds, and owning a Yamaha S-22 with nitrous implants). 

Speculation about who was the “best” Canyon Racer was the most popular conversation topic among Mills High students, teachers, and parents alike (though the latter two groups pretended otherwise). And of course, the rankings changed from year to year as students came and went. But as the summer of 2020 approached, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the best Canyon Racer in Mesa Mills was a sharp-eyed, sharp-nosed, skinny, milk-colored boy with watery blue eyes named Mickle. Mickle had made his debut at the previous year’s Canyon Kickoff, riding a rusty old Taurus with a flickering headlight. People were generally amazed that the boy was able to steer the bike at all with his pale, wiry arms, and many a scoff and snigger were heard in the canyon that night. But when Mikey Larbone fired the starting shot with his cap gun, all scoffing soon stopped. It would be too simplistic to say that Mickle was good because he was the fastest rider, or because he had the best technique. And Lord knows he didn’t have the fastest bike. But it quickly became clear that there was one thing that Mickle had that the other riders did not. He knew the canyon. He knew the canyon better than anyone else — better even than seniors who had been studying the canyon grooves since they were seven years old. Mickle was the canyon, and no matter how hard the other riders tried to thwart him, he would weave effortlessly between them — swerving around cacti, jumping over gullies, and ramping up the grooved canyon walls at precisely the right instant to pass someone, or avoid a hastily thrown projectile. His ability to appear and disappear out of nowhere earned him the nickname “The Booshka.”

After Mickle’s debut race — in which he finished first by an unheard of forty-seven seconds — he became an instant sensation. Girls stared longingly at him from behind lockers, guys gave him a wide berth in the halls, and every serious or aspiring canyon-rider worshipped him like a Greek god. But despite all of the attention, Mickle remained a complete mystery. He dated no one, spoke to no one, and rode his beat-up Taurus dirtbike to and from school every day with a determined frown on his face. And all the while, a single question seemed to hang in the Colson Valley air like a buzzing cloud. How on earth did he get so damned good?

©2020 by Conor Duffy, All Rights Reserved