Johnny said.
âHey, come on,â I said. âYou donât want to kill yourself.â
We looked down to where everybody was grouped, watching. Roger hollered something, we couldnât hear what.
âOff,â Johnny said. I got off reluctantly. âJohnnyâ¦â
He revved up the engine and took off. I watched him, so antsy I couldnât stand still. Geez, Johnny, faster! I was twisting my fists around like I could change the gears for him. He should have had it wide open by now, full throttle, unless he wanted to be able to stop, unless he thought heâd change his mind ⦠heâs going right off the cliff, dammit! I thought Heâs going to be dead and I could have stopped him, I should have stopped him ⦠I started running.
Johnny realized he didnât have enough speed, not enough to make the jump, but too much to stop. I felt like I was running in a nightmare; I was going as fast as I could but not covering any ground. Everything was happening in slow motion. Johnny slammed on the brakes and the cycle skidded, turning, but moving right toward the creek. Johnny laid the cycle on its side and they both slid to the edge.
I didnât stop running, even when I saw he wasnât going over.
Johnny was looking at his leg. Most of his jeans and part of his leg was in shreds from the gravel. His jacket had protected his arm, but his knuckles were skinned up, too.
Everybody else buzzed up. Roger had the decency to pause, making sure Johnny wasnât really hurt, before he said, âRun out of gas?â
Johnny didnât look up from picking the rocks out of his leg. I could tell he was wishing he had gone over the bank rather than have to face everybody.
I went over and picked up Johnnyâs cycle. âShoot,â I said, catching my breath. âHe just hit a bump. Anybody could hit a bump. But seeing how he canât give it another chance, I will.â
I started up the cycle. I wasnât worried about wrecking it. If that cycle didnât go across that creek bed, for everybody to see, Johnnyâd never ride it again anyway. I drove back up the hill, turned, and paused. Everybody was standing to one side, even Johnny had limped out of the way. I saw them for a few seconds, then I didnât see anything but the creek.
When I used to ride in junior rodeos, before money was such a problem, I had the same thing happen to me. You think the crowd is so loud you canât hear yourself think, then you climb in the chute and everything disappears except you and what youâre up against. I wouldnât have cared if there were five guys down there, or five hundred, or nobody. I was going across that creek.
I started down the hill, changing gears fast. I didnât even hear the roar of the engine. I kept my eyes on where I wanted to land. A motorcycle needs speed to jump, where itâs mostly impulsion with a horse. A horse can tell where youâre looking, and head that way, and care if he makes the jump. A horse is a partner, but on a cycle youâre all by yourself. Still I leaned and steadied that hunk of machinery like I would a horse coming to a scary jump. When I left the bank and the air whistled around me, and the rocky creek bed floated out behind me, I thought, âGood boy!â and I wasnât talking to myself.
I came down where Iâd planned to, but harder than I thought I would. The cycle bounced hard, and we parted companyâthe cycle going in one direction and me in another. Iâve had a lot of practice at being thrown from horses, so I know how to relax and roll. And I still got the wind knocked out of me. That sure is a sickening feeling, waiting for air and not really sure youâll get it again.
Somebody came scrambling up the creek bank. I got a mild shock when I looked in that direction. I hadnât cleared the creek by as much as I thought. In fact Iâd barely made it.
âTex?â Johnny crawled