Mach III

            The highest speed ever gone by an 11-year-old is Mach 3.

            I know this for a fact because I timed myself around the block.

            Actually, this kid named Shaun-Shaun timed me racing all the neighbor kids on my Sears Spider around the block and we were sure I went at least Mach 3.

            It may have been faster.

            I remembered it today on my way home from work. It was late August, right before the school year was to start and St. Louis weather was already windy. The challenge had been laid out: I, the biggest tomboy of the neighborhood (biggest being the oldest and the toughest), had to prove my worth by racing every willing child in the neighborhood. That, I knew, wasn't a problem, since half the kids who wanted to race me were under 6.

            But there were some setbacks. There was Steve Wash, the cutest boy in the neighborhood. Even though he was a year younger than me and he'd written my name in a red crayon heart on his toy box, he was going to be tough. I mean, how would our subtle passion survive a strain such as this?

            There was Steve Barg, whose mom babysat me in the summer and in the mornings before school. Even if I did beat him, would his mom still let me come over or would I have to catch the bus alone?

            There was Dougie, who was pretty neurotic for a 10-year-old, but a fairly good biker, especially with those long legs of his. He giggled a lot and followed Steve Shaw around the neighborhood, so he didn't really pose a huge threat, unless he won...

            Then there was Eric Jones, who had, on more than one occasion, admittedly swung my cat around by its tail because it was in his yard. He was pretty gross as it was, so we usually spit in his mailbox every chance we got.

            And then there was my own kid brother, Eric. He was fast, four years younger than me and kind of a whiner sometimes, especially when it came to losing. Mom might get mad if I beat him and then where would I live?

            My best friends, Nina and Sharon, were behind me all the way. Sure, they were gonna race, too, but they already told me they were gonna let me win. I wanted to tell them I was going to beat them even if they didn't, but that would've killed our friendship. It is a well know fact, however, that regular girls' dirt bikes don't go as fast because they have all that pink and white on them and those cute little padded seats. White is okay, but pink is a girlie-girl color and is not very aerodynamic. Padded seats made you get too comfortable to pedal fast.

            I didn't make it up; it was a scientific fact.

            But I had the best bike of every girl in the neighborhood. It was a Sears Spider, primary blue with a long streamlined banana seat that looked liked a foot long teardrop. I had had a little white basket with flowers on it when I was a kid, and a little bell, but the basket cut down on my speed and the bell...well, by the time anybody heard it, I had already hit them and gone down the street. I think that was what Dad called a sonic boom.

            My mother, the spoilsport, was always talking about how I should play with people, no, girls my age. But girls my age had no concept of sporting reality. I mean, anybody that could put make-up in front of gripping tension like this had to be loose a few screws, or worse, feminine.

            I was really psyched that day. I had to beat the boys to prove that girls were infinitely better (and in 1980, that was still an important point to make), but the wind was wrong, my legs felt weird and there were a lot of kids racing and a lot more looking. I was going to have a hard enough time trying not to run over the little kids next to me, let alone pull out in front.

            As soon as we had explained the concept of timing to Shaun-Shaun, the five year old from down the street, we got to the starting line in front of Steve Wash's house. This wasn't necessarily a biased move--Steve's house just so happened to be the closest to the end of the street. Everyone was waiting, even the kids who weren't racing.

            After all, this was the race that would kill any other talk of who was faster. This was the grandaddy of all bike races.

            This was the Bike Championship Race of the Known Universe (I threw that in to make sure there'd be no confusion later if we were invaded from outer space).

            The tension was high, the sun was high, my bike seat was high...I was ready.

            On the high pitch of Shaun-Shaun's "go", we all took off like drunken maniacs at first, trying to maneuver around the little guys. Then the older ones finally pulled into the front, racing for their lives. I was pedaling so fast my legs were blurred, even to me, and the wind whipped in my eyes, blowing tears out of the corners. I was still in the lead running, next to Steve Wash and Steve Barg and Eric Jones. Nina was right behind me on her Huffy and Sharon and Dougie weren't far behind them. My little brother tried to keep up, but he lost us halfway past our house.

            At the corner, we all hit Mach 1 and the sound barrier burst around us. My lungs screamed for more air as we past the blob of earth toned paneling that was Eric Jones's house. Steve Barg was falling back some and Nina and Dougie were losing it, too. But Steve Wash, Eric Jones and I were still neck and neck going down the opposite street.

            Somewhere in the middle of the next street, Eric began to lose speed, right before we hit Mach 2. Steve Wash and I were still racing hard, right next to each other. We both looked across the empty lot as we reached the end of the street and saw Steve's backyard and his crab apple tree. I could heard Shaun-Shaun screaming,

            "...one-thousand-32, one-thousand-33, one-thousand-34..."

            We must have both been thinking the same thing, because we both put on an extra burst of speed and hit the home stretch for the finish line.

            Things went kinda haywire after that.

            Right as we rounded the corner, Steve's mom called him and Nina in for dinner. Embarrassing enough to have your mom do this is the middle of the Bike Championship of the Known Universe, but Steve and Nina's mom didn't kid around. "Come in for dinner" meant drop everything, even china, and make a mad dash for home, running over anything that got in your way.

            This would've helped him if he'dve done just that. But Steve hated getting called in for dinner, so he did the exact opposite--he slowed down.

            With an earth-shattering sonic boom, I hit Mach 3 over the finish line.

            And that's when the feeling came.

            The feeling of airsurfing above Chicago at high speed. Nothing in the entire universe matters but you, the wind and the bike that made it all come together, and suddenly, you, as an eleven-year-old precocious tomboy, the wind in your ears, the need for speed climaxing, suddenly you...are that much closer to being one with the universe. I knew then that as long as I had my bike and my body, I'd live on that exhilarating feeling of winning and speed forever. And that was as good as gold. I mean, I'd always have my bike and what was the chance of my getting old--like, a million kazillion in one?

            I stood up on my toes, balancing on the pedals, closed my eyes and coasted, partly on my bike and partly on this feeling, for half a block, knowing my bike couldn't steer me wrong. The wind whipped through my summer cornrows like lightning and the grin on my face was unstoppable.

            I finally got it together and did a donut in front of my house. Only then did I hear all the girls yelling in excitement, all the kids pounding up the street to congratulate me. I settled back into my seat and pedaled back down the street to greet my public.

 

            That was the day I went Mach 3. Steve still says he coulda beat me hands down and I admit it might've been a tie (of course, all the other days that I beat him racing afterward mean nothing to him, but men are like that sometimes). Steve Barg's mom still let us come over, Eric Jones was still a jerk, my mom never threw me out for beating my brother and he never really whined too much about it. I guess he figured my winning was his by association.

            I left my bike in St. Louis over 10 years ago. I told Shaun-Shaun he could have it after we moved to Ohio and I got my 10-speed for Christmas. He was convinced it was gonna make him go Mach 3. I told him if he grew up and practiced hard, maybe, just maybe, he'd hit Mach 2 (conceit wasn't a big part of my childhood, but it played a part every once in a while).

            Anyway, the original point of this was what I saw today.

            I was driving along in my car to work when two kids, a little boy and his older sister came zipping by on their bikes on their way to who knows where. The boy was doing his darndest to keep up, but the girl was coasting, toes high on her pedals, hair on fire in the wind...with this smile on her face.

            And I was flooded with the memory of that moment in the wind, that sonic boom, that high speed ecstacy that thrilled through me that August afternoon.

            My car's been that much slower ever since.

 

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