A Dangerous Bike Ride: Book 1 of the Richard Tracy Series.

By Reynold Conger

Richard Tracy is a retired detective who is riding the Texas MS 150 because his adult children have talked him into doing it. While riding in this charity bike ride, he meets Mary Beth, a charming blond Texan. Sparks fly. They agree to correspond with the goal of eventual marriage, but as they finish the ride, they are caught in an explosion.

Richard is wounded and wakes up in a hospital. Mary Beth is uninjured. but has disappeared. Richard must find her.

Mary Beth has been abducted by a group of mental patients who think it is still 1969. They believe they are still in Southeast Asia fighting the Vietnam War. They have mistaken the MS 150 bike riders for a bicycle convoy headed north on the Ho Chi Min Trail for another load of supplies. In the aftermath of their attack on what they believe to be a convoy, Mary Beth is recognized as the sergeant's wife. They have "rescued" her and are taking her with them as they move eastward toward US troops.

Richard must risk his life to free the woman he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483550718

Book preview

150.

Chapter I

My son called me on my birthday. After saying, Happy Birthday, he suggested that I join him riding the MS 150. I reminded him that I just turned seventy.

Will said, There must be a mistake on your birth certificate. Everyone says you look and act ten years younger than that. You know, there are older cyclists who ride the entire route.

I assure you my birth certificate is accurate. I know you like to bike, but I don't. One-hundred-fifty miles sounds like a long way to bike. What happens if I get injured or if I don't go all the way?

Don't jerk my chain. You run marathons. Certainly you can ride from Houston to Austin in two days. The ride is monitored by ride marshals and accompanied by police and EMTs on bicycles. In a safe environment like that, how could you become seriously injured?

Will had been riding the MS 150 for the last seven years. The MS 150 is not a race, but simply a mass bike ride to raise funds for the MS Society. Over 13,000 riders solicit pledges. Ride marshals, EMT's and police on bicycles swell the number of bicycles to 14,000 The event, the largest in the country, raises approximately $14,000,000 for research to fight Multiple Sclerosis.

Will, I said, You are a serious cyclist. I am a serious marathoner. That MS 150 is in April, and I plan to run a marathon on a challenging course in June. A minor injury will set my training program back, and a serious injury might pull me out of that marathon entirely.

Look at it as a weekend bike ride with a few friends. There is no pressure to ride fast. There is plenty of time in two days to get from Houston to Austin. Trust me. A man in as good shape as you, will have no problem making the distance. Hey, the cross training might even help your marathon time.

Will made good arguments, but I tried one last time to decline. Won't I make a fat target riding a bicycle in a big parade? What if one of the men I arrested wants to shoot me? I present a great opportunity for him to sit in the bushes with a rifle and scope. I come along at a leisurely speed, and 'bang', he has his revenge on the detective who put him in jail for ten years.

Dad, you've been retired for twenty years. You told me yourself that half of the men you arrested have died, and some of the rest are still in jail. Besides, Texas is fifteen hundred miles from where you were a cop. There is no one who would want to take a shot at you on the MS 150.

An hour later, Anne was on the phone with birthday wishes. After some chit chat, she asked, Did Will invite you to ride the MS 150 with us?

I told him, 'No.' I'm too old, and cycling is not my sport.

Come on, Dad. There will be older cyclists, and you're in better shape then many of the younger riders. Think of it as quality family time. I plan to ride, and I understand that John plans to ride with Will. Son, daughter and grandson. How much better quality can you get?

It would be nice to have your mother there.

Yes, I know you've been lonesome since Mom died, but the rest of us love you and would like to have you join us.

Of course, you, Will and John are not about to ride at the pace I will ride.

Probably not, but the quality time I was thinking of would be before and after the event, plus during the Saturday night stop in La Grange. Remember, there's food, plenty of good food. You like to eat.

That makes it tempting, but there's too much risk of an injury keeping me from running my marathon.

Dad, how much risk of injury can there be in a family outing? Trust me. You'll be safe and have a good time with your family.

Will called back and even offered to help find people to pledge support for me. I finally relented and added twice-a-week bike rides to my training program.

* * *

I may be an athlete, but I am not a cyclist. In fact, the only bicycles I own are mountain bikes with solid polyurethane tires. That is because when I retired, my late wife and I moved to rural New Mexico. In New Mexico, there is a weed called the goat head. It produces seeds with spikes that are long enough and sharp enough to puncture bicycle tires. Standard bicycle tires and tubes do not stand up to this terrain.

My late wife and I bought the mountain bikes from a neighbor so we could do some off-road cycling. Now and then we explored the jeep trails on the desert. Some of the national forests offer bicycling trails. We had fun riding some of them, but I really do not enjoy cycling.

I began to put on some miles riding the roads of our subdivision and on the highway. When I remarked to Will how strenuous my short workouts were, he reminded me that I was doing it on a mountain bike. A road bike is much easier to ride and more efficient. He had just purchased a light-weight road bike made of carbon-fiber reinforced resin. He offered to lend me his old road bike for the MS 150.

I flew to Houston early in the week of the MS 150. Will adjusted the bike to fit me, and I practiced with it.

* * *

Two men men with white hair walked through a field southwest of Austin, Texas carrying ancient shot guns and wearing the uniform shirts they had worn in Vietnam.

They shot three rabbits. As they were cleaning and skinning them, an aging man wearing a torn uniform with sergeant stripes stepped out of the bushes. Good shooting men.

Sam, one of the men, said, I can't believe it's you, Sarg. I was knocked out when the VC over-ran our position. By the time I came to, only me, four VC and a bunch of dead bodies were left.

The rest of us were captured and lead off while you were still out cold. Eventually Stony and I escaped. We stumbled across a couple of other men wandering around . I reformed the platoon and we're heading back southeast to find an American base.

Sam said, Man, I was sure you were dead. The first thing I saw when I woke up was your helmet, and it was all torn up.

The sergeant said, Well, I survived. By the way, you're hunting out of season.

The other man said, Yes, Sergeant, it isn't hunting season back home in Texas, but here in 'Nam we thought we could shoot something to fill our stomachs.

Come with me Sam. I have part of the platoon with me, and we've captured enough supplies to eat for a while. Where did you get those shot guns?

We found an empty hut in the jungle and liberated them.

Who is this?

This is my friend, Jacob. He's army, but he's in the same predicament as you and me. He broke out of a bamboo cage and isn't sure how to get back to base.

The sergeant questioned Jacob. Jacob seemed to give the right answers so the sergeant said, Welcome aboard. I hope you can match up to marine standards. The sergent gave Jacob a hard look. Then he smiled and chuckled. Don't worry, I'll let you join our platoon so that all of us can get back to an American base.

Jacob asked, Sergeant, what are your intentions if we see a target of opportunity? For example, what if we come across a bunch of those North Vietnamese riding bicycles down the Ho Chi Min Trail?

That depends on what we encounter. If we have the opportunity to inflict some damage, we might attack it. That depends on the size of the force we face and our chances of getting away.

Jacob grinned. "Good. The day I got captured, some dead buddies were left in the rice paddy. I would like to extract pay-back for them.

We would all like to get some revenge, but first we need to get back to an American base.

Chapter II

Saturday, the first day of the ride, I was in pain as I dismounted from my bike at break point 1. After parking the bike, I hobbled toward the portapotties. Something did not feel right. Reflexively, I reached for my left armpit and remembered that I was not carrying a gun. As a retired law officer, I still carried a weapon most of the time. It had been years since I had fired except for practice, but when I wore my gun, I still felt reassured by the weight of a full holster under my arm. Today, riding in the MS 150 from Houston to Austin,the weapon would be cumbersome to carry in a biking jersey, and I did not expect to need it.

At Tully Stadium, while waiting for the start, my son had introduced me to a friend, a Houston policeman, who had volunteered to ride in the event. We had engaged in small talk that evolved into shop talk. There was no weapon obvious on his person, so I asked if he were carrying.

The officer plucked at the blue riding jersey he wore with the word Police inscribed on back and front. Now, just where would I conceal a weapon in this? As it is, I'm just as glad not to be carrying the extra weight. I bike, but not seriously enough to make one hundred and fifty miles an easy ride.

I commented, None of the other riders have anywhere to conceal weapons either.

I really can't envision a need for a weapon today. My primary assignments are to facilitate traffic flow and prevent theft. At the most, I may have to help someone look for a bike they can't find among all the others at a break point, but then my lieutenant suggested it might be prudent to carry.

Why?

Six weeks ago, there was a burglary at a national guard armory. Some serious weapons are missing.

I didn't hear about it.

The crime is being kept under wraps during the investigation.

But you just said you aren't carrying.

Some of the officers are carrying, but I'm not. As I said, too much weight. If they want to deal with a weapon, that's their decision. Besides, why would any nut want to attack a bunch of bicycles? the officer had shrugged. I suppose I could open carry, but it would weigh just as much, and I wouldn't want to frighten riders who saw a nine millimeter automatic strapped to my waist.

The first break point contained support facilities for the riders and thirty portapotties. I stopped, but there was a long line. While I was wiggling to comfort my painful rump, I joined the line. A pretty blond rushed up behind me. Damn those water pills. I didn't want to stop for this break point, but I won't make it to the next.

I turned. In that case, get in front of me. I'm not that desperate. I just stopped to rest my sore rump. The blond was petite by Texas standards, but stood eye to eye with me. Her smile distracted me from my pain.

She asked, How is the ride going?

So far so good, but my bike seat is not very comfortable.

None of them are. Are you on a borrowed bike?

Yes.

Have one of the bike shops adjust it for you. That might help.

My son adjusted it for me Wednesday. It's better than it was. I just am not comfortable on a bike.

She asked, Say, where are you from?

New Mexico, I answered.

She raised an eyebrow. You don't sound like you're from there.

"Hablo un poco Espanol. I can speak a little Spanish if you prefer."

No, I mean your accent isn't what I expect from a New Mexican speaking either language.

We moved to New Mexico about twenty years ago. I grew up in Wisconsin. I presume from your accent, you are a Texan.

Yeah, I grew up on a ranch northwest of Austin. Of course, for my career, I had to move into town, but after retirement, I moved back to the family ranch.

The line was moving fast, so she quickly took the next open facility. By the time I had emptied my bladder and was retrieving my bike, she was riding past to get back on the road. She gave me a cheerful wave. It was nice to see a woman with a trim, muscular body.

* * *

The sergeant looked at his platoon and shook his head. It was a rag tag group. The corporal had escaped with him from a bamboo cage in the jungle. Along the way they had picked up twelve more men. Most were marines, but three were soldiers. The sergeant looked down on the soldiers as inferior to the marines, but the sergeant felt obligated to help bring any American home. Without maps, they could only guess they had to move southeast. Southeast would get them out of Laos and back to South Vietnam, where they could find an American base.

They wore an assortment of scraps of uniforms, carrying weapons either found in the field or stolen from enemy supply dumps. The platoon moved forward cautiously. The point man walked about five hundred meters ahead of the main group. Two men trailed