The Concealers Read Free Page B

the rhythm of the trails. The open areas were easy and gave her a chance to catch her breath. Somehow, she had managed not to get stuck or fall off.
So far, so good.
Now, where the heck was 6A?
    Ahead, Katherine could see a slight opening. It was a checkpoint, a clearing about the size of a small house, surrounded by tall walnut and pine trees. Three race officials checked in racers stopping for a water break, and a couple of riders had pulled off to the side to inspect their bikes.
    She caught a glimpse of 6A cleaning his chain, but as she came closer, he remounted and sped down the winding trail. She rejoined the trail and followed as quickly as she could, each turn sharper and steeper than the one before, branches hitting her on each side. After a punishing few minutes that seemed like hours, she suddenly heard a thunderous noise. Just ahead was a wide creek filled with large angular stones. Crowds of spectators on both sides shouted encouragement and guidance to the riders. “Over here, enter over here . . . stay away from there.”
    Katherine spied 6A through the trees, his motorcycle powering down the middle of the creek. She hesitated at the creek bank, aware of other riders behind her as they yelled, “Move it! Go, go, go!” She headed down the steep bank and froze. Riders swerved around her, plunging into the water like horses fording a swollen river, almost knocking her over. There was no room to turn around. Bikes kept coming. One rider sailed over her and into the creek. Katherine’s face burned; her legs shook. She took a deep breath and revved the throttle. The front wheel jumped up, almost smashing her face. “No!” Katherine screamed as she struggled to regain control of the big bike. The coach’s words came back to her:
Let the clutch out slowly and twist the throttle, giving it power gently at first, and then put the hammer down.
Her bike lurched forward, and she was in the creek.
    As she fought to keep the bike in balance, Katherine could feel the cold water seeping into her boots.
Keeping the water out of the engine’s air intake was what she needed to worry about,
she thought, recalling her preparation. Scanning the creek, she looked for the shallowest parts that would make passage easier. She was losing time and she knew it. Riders were whizzing by, drenching her and the bike. She could barely see through her helmet’s face shield, but she had to keep pushing.
    Katherine blipped the throttle carefully and turned to avoid slipping on the rocks or hitting a submerged log. Finally, she spotted the next arrow, on a big log pointing up the slippery creek bank. She turned her bike, gunned the powerful 449-cc four-stroke engine, and flew up the bank. “Yes!” she cried, as she regained the trail, reveling in the cheers of the crowd behind her.
    After several more checkpoints and close calls—she had lost count of how many by now—Katherine guessed she must be past the halfway mark. And 6A was long gone, she figured. She was tiring fast, and thirsty.
    Rounding a sharp corner, she encountered mud, a slough too wide to avoid. There was nothing to do but power through it. Katherine twisted the throttle, but in her speed, she failed to look ahead, where a large log lay directly across the trail. She hit it and flew over the handlebars and somersaulted onto her back. At first she felt as if she were floating, and then she felt pain shooting through her chest, right arm, and lower back. She opened her eyes and nearly saw double—
this would not be the time for a migraine,
she thought. The bike was leaning against the log, still running.
    A rider came along, stopped momentarily, looked in Katherine’s direction, and yelled, “You all right?”
    â€œJust fine,” Katherine muttered to herself as she shook her head, painfully lifted her right arm, and gave him a thumbs-up. The rider turned his bike around, rode about twenty feet back up