Oval Addiction

By Fred A. Williams

Kemper and Kent Rankin grew up with an addiction, not knowing what it was until they raced their first flat track. They worked hard as boys and played even harder as young men. Their toys were fast and exciting, as well as dangerous and competitive. Kemper the oldest would always find the time for a trick or practical joke to lighten things up when nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Come along on the humorous and dangerous trials of two brothers as they work their way through relationships in a quest to win a Top Ten National number in flat-track racing. Kent and Kemper battle money, corporations, age,
time and even death in their effort to obtain their goal.
You will laugh and maybe even cry as you follow the ups and downs of their journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 12, 2003
• ISBN: 9781465319760

Book preview

COPYRIGHT © 2003 BY FRED A. WILLIAMS.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS NUMBER:      2003097435

ISBN:      HARDCOVER      1-4 134-3388-X

SOFTCOVER      1-4 1 34-3387-1

ISBN:     ebk     978-1-4653-1976-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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21557

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

DEDICATIONS

I dedicate this book to the four women in my life!

To my loving wife for her patience and help through it all.

To my daughters, Deb, and Jan,

for their forgiveness and support over the years.

To my mother, for a life time of sacrifice

and for encouraging me to get this to print!

I have always felt blessed to have the brother that I’ve had.

My brother, Well, I guess he doesn’t feel so blessed!

Chapter One

WINDOW REFLECTION

Whoa, stop right here! the official yelled as he stuck the red flag in front of Kemper. Hell of a crowd here tonight. We’ll be all night running you guys, though, he complained.

Kemper just nodded his head. He couldn’t hear what the official was saying. He had his helmet on and wasn’t listening anyway. His mind was divided between the track and how he had started racing again. He sat astride the still motorcycle waiting his turn on the flat oval track for practice laps. The cycle next to him suddenly roared to life. They would soon be raising the flag for the next group to practice. He gave the Bultaco’s starter a kick and felt the engine come to life as the power surged through the bike.

I’m in the front row, again, he murmured as he flipped the eye shield down on the front of his helmet. He liked the new leathers that he was wearing. He designed them and had them made to order, but the helmet bothered him. Damn good thing that I’m not claustrophobic, he thought. He could remember the old helmet that did not have the chin protection as this one did. He could see more of the track right under him then. Now, he felt like he was peeking out of a hole in the front.

The night air was hot and sticky and the sweat was trickling down his back under the hot leathers. He felt cold and clammy, and shivered as if chilled. It was fear. The fear of failure at what he was about to attempt.

Suddenly it came to him what had started this all over again. It was my remembering as I was looking out that damned window. He was startled back to the present by the roar of engines being revved to maximum rpm’s. The official stepped back and pulled the flag aside with him. The pack raced toward the track and the turn at the end of the straightaway. The rider next to Kemper started to pull ahead and move over in front of him. Not tonight, damn it! I’m not pulling over anymore! he screamed in his thoughts, and twisted the throttle as far as it would go. He never backed off on the gas and shifted to the next gear without the use of the clutch. The Bultaco broke traction and stepped to the side, doing a slight dog trot most of the way down the straightaway. He eased off a little on the throttle, shifted his weight, and threw the cycle into a broad slide far beyond the point that the other rider backed off the gas for the corner.

Maybe you went too far this time, Kemper, raced through his thoughts as he struggled for control. He lay the bike over so far that his left elbow and knee actually touched the track. He always pushed it to the very limits going into the corners.

I can still go into the corner hard, but can I come out of it? he wondered, as he used the gas and turned the front wheel to the right, fighting for traction. When he brought the cycle up from full slide coming out of the corner and headed down the straightaway, he was in the lead.

I did it! The first time that I’ve ever held the lead in a practice heat. He would never be able to describe the feeling that he got going into the corner so hard that he never knew if he could hold it on the track, nor the feeling of power coming out of the corner under full throttle, with the front wheel lifting just off the track as the rear wheel was still spinning in a sideways slide. He could feel the frame flex as the engine hit its power ban. She was coming on the pipe was the phrase used for that description.

I’m back. I’m home again, he thought, as he saw the official wave them off the track for the next bunch. As he rode over the grass to the old van, he felt the tears coming. By the time he had his helmet off he was almost sobbing. It was as if a release valve had been opened. He saw his reflection in the dark window of the van. The tears were leaving streaks in the dirt on his face, but they were different tears than the last time he had seen them in a dark pane of glass.

I feel like I’m in jail, he thought as he stared out the window. He had been standing there for hours now, waiting for the phone to ring. He was hoping that it would be an answer to a job application that he had placed somewhere. The sun had set long before and darkness had closed in. All he could see was his reflection looking back at him from the corner of the window. The eyes looked tired and there were new lines at the corners. His jaw seemed slack and the shoulders slumped a little forward. God, I’ve gotten grayer in just the last two months. I look like I feel; like shit! he muttered. He knew that the hair was turning gray, but that wasn’t what bothered him the most. It was the body under the gray hair that got to him. At one time he had been a hard 180 pounds. Now he was pushing 250 and had the belly and rolls over the hips to prove it. It was even showing in his face. Seeing this reflection staring back at him, he began to feel self-pity creeping over him like an itchy blanket. He was tired of feeling sorry for himself, but the tears came anyway. If they need a picture of a complete failure, I could be a top model, he said aloud, as the tears burned his eyes and ran down his face.

The last year had taken its toll on him. The plant where he worked went under and closed. He had been a foreman there for the last nine years. Next summer he would have gotten three weeks vacation; but it was all gone now.

The worst part was the job hunting. There just weren’t any to be found. He had briefly gotten one as a maintenance supervisor with a new company that was starting up, but there had been an explosion that destroyed the building and that ended that position. The company had decided not to rebuild.

Finally, a job turned up on the other side of the state and he had to take it. He left his family at home, rented this little apartment, and went to work. The job had lasted five weeks and he was laid off again. That was three weeks ago and he still could not find anything. There were no jobs back home, so he stayed here alone to keep looking. Kemper had been to every job service in a 50-mile radius and any place that would even accept an application, and still he waited. Self-esteem was a thing of the past. It seemed so long ago, but there had been a time that he felt important.

At least there were a few years that people looked up to me, he thought. Well, anyway, they knew who I was because I used to thrill them, alright, he remembered out loud as he slowly slumped down in the old chair by the window. He couldn’t bear to see the reflection staring back at him any longer. His back was getting stiff and starting to hurt from standing in one spot for so long.

The tears had stopped but so had the future, even the present for that matter, as his eyes clouded over with memories of the past. He was drifting back to a long time ago, to a point in time when he could hear the roar of the crowd thunder down from the stands. How had it started? he tried to remember. How it had ended was still all too clear. His back would always remind him of that. He didn’t want to stop there on his memory trip anyway. He went clear back to the day that it began.

How do you shift it? he asked the man standing next to him. The man’s head snapped back and he eyed Kemper with a puzzled look.

Haven’t you ever ridden a motorcycle before? he asked, even though he was sure that he knew the answer now.

No, but I’ll get the hang of it if you’ll just show me where the gears are, Kemper answered. "I can’t let him see how scared

I am," he thought as he watched the man go through the shifting pattern. Kemper was buying his first motorcycle and he had told the truth. He had never ridden one before.

I’m going to ride home with Daddy, said Debbie, because I’m the oldest.

Oh, no, you’re not. I am ‘cause I asked first. Didn’t I Daddy? cried little Jannie.

You’re both going to ride home with Mom. I’ll give each of you a ride after we get it home, Kemper said. If I get it home, he added under his breath. That seemed to satisfy them and the argument was ended. One problem solved. Now for mine, he thought.

Do you want me to ride it to your house when I come into work? Tony asked.

Kemper avoided the question, and said, Boy, this son-of-a-bitch is big, isn’t it. It was a statement more than a question.

It’s as big as they make them, Tony laughed, as he waited for an answer to his question.

No, I’ll ride her home myself, Kemper finally answered.

He had been very close to backing out until he thought of what, or who, had prompted him to buy it.

At least this is a lot more motorcycle than what Kent’s friend has, he thought. His brother was always talking about his friend’s motorcycle. One day Kemper had stopped in when Kent was next door at his friend’s house. He walked over and saw the cycle that had his brother so excited.

It’s a Bultaco, Kent stated. Isn’t it a beauty? he continued as they walked back across his yard.

If you really want the truth, Kemper said, I think it’s the ugliest piece of shit that I’ve ever seen! Somehow that had ended the conversation.

Well, goodbye old hog, Tony had said with a little sadness in his voice. It’s like saying goodbye to an old friend, he added.

Hog! That was it. That was what Tony had called it when he described it to me, he remembered.

It’s a 1956 Harley XLCH with twin spots, windshield, and saddle bags. What more do you want on an old road hog? Tony asked. I even nicknamed her Buick, he laughed.

Dory, you ready? Kemper asked, looking back to see if she was going to follow.

Yes, she answered as she hurried the girls into the car. Come on, get in or you won’t get to watch Daddy ride the motorcycle home.

He was only 40 miles from his house and it was more than two hours before he had to be to work. There was plenty of time to give rides and show off to the neighbors before he rode it to work. He had made it out of town, and there was no traffic so he could go as fast as he dared. Glancing down at the speedometer, he saw that it was bouncing back and fourth between 35 and 75 miles an hour. Must be some teeth missing or it’s slipping, he thought. He was sure that he was doing 75 miles an hour, at least. That was until an old car, with an even older couple in it, passed his wife and him at the same time.

I was flying down this black top, he thought, but now he was doubtful. He risked a quick look over his shoulder to see where his wife was with the car. She’s right on my ass, he mumbled, but she drives like a bat out of hell anyway, so that doesn’t tell me much.

The route that he had chosen to ride home only had one stop sign, so when he reached it he motioned for Dory to pull up beside him.

How fast was I going? he asked.

Oh, you were going real slow, Daddy, answered Debbie.

Yeah, Daddy. Mommy said that you were probably scared. Were you? little Jannie added before their mother could answer at all.

No, I wasn’t scared, he lied, as Dory informed him that his top speed had been just over 40 miles an hour.

The girls thought it was pretty funny when that old car passed you, she said, unable to keep the grin from her face.

Yeah, I’ll just bet that they weren’t alone either, he replied and gave her a knowing look. He could just hear all of them giggling when that old couple went around him.

You’d better not be laughing at Dad! he yelled as he leaned toward the car in mock anger. Both girls let out a scream that must have shattered their mother’s eardrums, as they jumped to the far side of the car and sat there laughing. They knew that he was teasing them.

We better get going or you’ll be late for work, she said with a smile that he knew was hiding laughter.

Ok, he said, then popped the clutch and killed the motor. Shit, I forgot to give it gas, he cursed aloud. He leaned the cycle over onto the kickstand and flipped the kick-starter pedal out. The cycle was running when Kemper had gotten on it to ride home, so he knew nothing about the spark advance on the left handle bar grip. He kicked and kicked and cussed and kicked some more. He had kicked it over until it was so flooded that he could smell the gas. By now he was soaking wet with sweat and welcomed the rest. After a few minutes, he stepped back over the cycle to try it again. He was unaware that, during all the kicking while it was flooded, he had rolled the spark advance on with his left hand. He reared up and kicked down as hard as he could. KABOOM! It kicked back as it backfired. The pedal sent his knee smashing up into his chin, bursting his lower lip wide open and almost throwing him over the handlebars.

What the fuck? he yelled, as the blood spurted from his lip. Blood ran down his chin, dripping onto his shirt and the cycle’s gas tank. He stood there, stunned, as his wife came running around the car to him. He could hear the girls crying behind him.

What happened? Are you alright? she cried.

I don’t know what happened! he answered, as she put a tissue to his lip trying to stop the bleeding. I’ll be ok, he said. Go settle the girls down. It was a painful lesson. He had learned that there was a spark advance, just where it was, and that he would not forget it anytime soon.

Now he just wanted to get home. I’ll drive the car to work tonight, he decided. He’d had enough motorcycle riding for today. He knew that he was going to receive a lot of kidding when he didn’t ride it to the plant that afternoon.

At work, the whole second shift was waiting for him to ride in on his motorcycle. When they saw him get out of his car, there was a roar of disapproval. The first question upon seeing the scabbed over lip and swollen chin was, Did your old lady do that or did you dump it?

No, she didn’t do it and no, I didn’t dump it, he answered sheepishly. I just kicked the fucker and it kicked the fuck out of me, he added.

It’s pretty easy to see who won, someone said, and they all had a good laugh.

I’ll get the hang of it! he stated. Just for an instant the image of Kent admiring his cycle flashed through his mind, then it was gone.

Boy, it sure didn’t take him long to get a newer one, Kemper said to his wife as he hung up the phone. He had been talking to his brother. He’ll be here in a few minutes. We are going riding, he added. It was a good-looking cycle, clean and in good condition. Gees, it’s just like mine, only newer and in better shape, he mumbled as he watched his brother ride up the drive to go for their ride.

You seem to be in a lot better mood now than when you left, Dory stated, as she watched him teasing the girls when he returned.

Mine’s faster! It is! Mine’s faster! he answered like a little boy who had just won a marble game.

He shifted in the chair. His back was aching too badly to sit still very long.

I should fix something to eat, he thought, but made no effort to get up. Guess I didn’t work up much of an appetite looking out the window. His eyes caught a spark of light and a slight smile crossed his lips as he drifted back to his memories.

He was recalling one cold winter day that he and Kent had been riding. They had dressed for winter and with the windshield blocking most of the wind, it was bearable. They were going way too fast for winter conditions, but the highway had been clear all day. Rounding a corner, they saw the ice patch too late to slow down. Don’t touch the brakes, was all Kemper could think, as the cycle started to slide sideways. He was sure they would die if they went down. Then the cycle jumped and bounced back and forth, sending panic all through his body. Just as suddenly as it had started, it ended. Without looking at each other, they simultaneously slowed way down.

Kemper pulled into a tavern parking lot and said, Let’s have a drink and warm up a little. It was ok with Kent, although he was a little reluctant.

Sometimes it takes Kemper a long time to warm up in a tavern, he thought to himself.

There were only four people inside, three at the bar and the bartender. They picked a table away from the bar so they could talk motorcycles. As