Blighted Land: Book two of the Northumbrian Western Series (Northumbrian Westerns 2) Read Free Page B

went to the start line at the western end of the track. It shrank off into the distance, to a pine tree whitewashed to mark the finish line. Beyond it, in the distance, were the wind turbines, stilled now. Beneath them lights lit houses, row up row that led down to the quayside with the motionless ships and their forest of masts.  
    There were several bikes waiting: two big Japanese machines and an Italian. The thirteen-hundred Suzuki was a regular. At its prime this bike would have been unbeatable, but thirty years of poor servicing had taken its toll. It rattled and hunted, giving off a stream of smoke as it misfired. Next to it was a Kawasaki. Similar capacity, similar condition. And there was the Ducati, tidy but only an eight-hundred. There were rules on capacity but they were quite vague. The Scrambler was a shade over eight-fifty so that meant it could go in the middleweight class. If I was daft enough I could go against the bigger bikes. That was my choice. The two big machines that were here tonight were ropy but still would knock out a lot of power. I’d always avoided them in the past. There were easier ones to beat.  
    I waved to Starter Lad, dressed in his usual trainers and T-shirt from a long-gone football team. Against the fence was a rough blackboard. He chalked my name on the list, recognising me as a regular. I was down for race two against the Ducati.
    As the two big Japs lined up I parked at the side. Several others bikes rode up, seedy lightweights too small for me to race: Honda and Daelim singles. There were a few people hanging around, spectators. There’d be more at the other end, where the bets were made.
    Starter Lad went over to a funnel attached to a fencepost. It was connected to a piece of metal tubing that ran along the top of the fence to the far end. A whistle on a piece of string hung down beside it. He blew the whistle into the funnel and twisted his head round to listen. There was a muffled voice as the fella at the finish line acknowledged him.  
    ‘Hayabusa 1300 and ZZR 1400.’
    There was another reply.
    He straightened up and grabbed his tattered union flag and raised it.
    The bikes revved, their riders’ heads twisted towards Starter Lad.
    He dropped the flag.  
    They roared off, one popping and cracking as it went. They disappeared up the track leaving the smell of cooked tyres and part-combusted fuel. Soon enough brake lights glowed at the end as they passed the tree.  
    I started the Triumph and rode it over. Now it was my turn. The light had faded so that the track disappeared off before me, invisible beyond the Triumph’s headlight beam, past Starter Lad and the spectators. The Ducati appeared beside me and I did up my leather jacket, adjusting my open-face. My opponent hunched forward and adjusted his lid. He revved his bike as Starter Lad jumped around, his torn flag in the air. I tapped the fuel tank, like I did every race.  
    Starter Lad dropped the flag. Race time.
    I wound the throttle and released the clutch, the Triumph lurching forward as the air-cooled twin moaned. The handlebars shimmied, clocks shaking as the needles moved round to the right. I held on as the bike rattled and roared, the road flying under its wheels. I shifted up to second, the Ducati’s front wheel parallel as I held the throttle wide open and let the revs touch the red before shifting up again, a gulp coming from the two into two. The road was swallowed up by the headlight, the engine bellowing as it drew through its race filters.  
    Then I snicked up into third. I left the Ducati and shot past the ghostly pine. Figures appeared in the headlight. I grabbed the brake with my right hand, easing my foot down on the pedal. The bike rose up at the back, its weight shifted forward, forcing the front tyre onto the tarmac. I dropped it down through the gears, blipping the throttle and braking as it slowed and swung round, driving it back to pull up at the kerbside. The two fellas at the finish