Olympic Dream (12 page)

Later that night, the Cannons’ phone rang. Doug jumped up to answer it.

“Doug, Jimmy loves the idea!” Jack’s voice boomed. “He asked me to let you know that he’s going to write a letter to your
principals and the school board, telling them that you boys have his support one hundred percent. I’m going to do the same.
Hopefully, you’ll get the go-ahead soon. Then we can figure out how to organize this event. Can you and Billy stop by the
clubhouse tomorrow to talk about it?”

Doug said he could and hung up. His head was spinning. For a moment, he wondered if he had bitten off more than he could chew.

To his relief, his parents offered to help in anyway they could. “I’ll bet my company would have some T-shirts made up for
all participants,” his father said.

“And I’m sure the PTA could get volunteers to help run it,” his mother added.

Even Red Roberts called to encourage him. “I know you’ve got what it takes to make it happen,” he said. Doug glowed at the
praise. He hoped Red was right.

The next few weeks were filled with furious activity. Doug and Billy met with Jimmy and Jack, and they all
agreed that the race would be open to students from the schools first, then to others in the community if there was room.
The four of them created and distributed posters, flyers, and pledge sheets. They called all the remaining volunteers from
the Rails project to get them involved. They mapped out a fifteen-mile route that ended with a short ride on the completed
section of the path.

’The best way to convince people how important a bike path is is to let them compare a ride on one with a ride on a regular
road! They’ll never want to go back to the road after they try it,” Jimmy said with a chuckle.

Doug and Billy each made speeches to their student councils. They were met with great enthusiasm and promises to help on the
day of the event. They set the race for Columbus Day.

Two weeks before the event, Mr. Cannon came home with a surprise. He walked through the door carrying two big boxes.

“Open ‘em!” he said to Doug.

Doug pulled back the cardboard top and saw a huge stack of blue-and-white T-shirts, his school’s colors. The shirts in the
other box were white-and-
orange, the colors of Billy’s school. The names of the schools were printed on the back. A picture of a biker decorated the
front, with the slogan
“Get Rolling!”
above it.

Doug hugged his father hard. “These are great!” he cried. “Thanks, Dad.”

His father beamed, then handed him a sheaf of papers. “Here are some more pledge sheets to add to your stack. They were sitting
in the mailbox.”

Doug’s eyes widened when he counted them. “Wow! This makes over a hundred students participating in all! Good thing we decided
to have staggered starts. It’d be a mob scene otherwise!”

“It’s a good thing you held off opening it to the general public, too. I know you’re both working toward a common goal, but
I think the race itself will be more fun with just your rival schools competing against each other. And with these, you’ll
be able to tell who’s riding for which school,” his mother said, holding up one of each T-shirt.

Before he knew it, Columbus Day Weekend arrived. Saturday and Sunday were busy with last-minute activity. But by late Sunday
afternoon, everything was done.

Jimmy Bannister had made sure the necessary roads were blocked off and the bike route clearly marked. Doug and Billy hadn’t
helped lay out the course because that would have given them an unfair advantage over the other bikers. But they had helped
him set up the check-in booths. Mrs. Cannon and members of the PTA were organizing an after-race picnic on the football field.

Jack Millman had spent an hour with volunteers from the schools, teaching them how to mark down the cyclists’ times and where
to go for help in case of
an accident. He himself would be overseeing the start of the race.

Both men took Doug and Billy aside at the end of the day on Sunday.

“We want to thank you boys personally for getting this thing rolling,” Jimmy said. “And to know that if all the money pledged
is collected, we’ll have more than enough to finish the job in time for a grand opening next Memorial Day.”

“I’m sorry it couldn’t be sooner,” Doug said.

“Hey, the fact that it’s going to happen at all makes me happy!” Jimmy replied. “Let’s just hope the good weather holds.”

It did. Monday morning dawned bright and clear. There was a gentle breeze, but the sun made it warm enough to race in T-shirts.

Doug woke up a bundle of nerves. Up until now, he had been the race’s organizer. Today, he was a competitor.

He arrived at the race check-in point at eight o’clock. He was in the first group of bikers, scheduled to start at ten. The
second group would start half an hour later and a third at eleven. He wove his way
through the crowd, registered his name, and got his T-shirt. Then he looked around for Billy. When he caught sight of him,
he started to wave.

Then he stopped. He remembered how uptight Billy had been during the Tour de Lakeridge. Would he be that way again today?
Doug just didn’t know. Sure, they had raced each other for fun throughout the summer, but this was different.

Doug returned to his bike. He checked his water bottle and the air pressure in his tires. Out of the corner of his eye, he
saw Billy start toward him, then stop and look at the white-and-orange T-shirt in his hand. He flung the shirt across his
shoulder and disappeared into the crowd.

Billy senses it, too, Doug thought. We’re friends, but today we’re rivals. School rivals and individual rivals. Every man
for himself.

Doug did his warm-up stretches, slipped his school T-shirt over his head, and waited for his start time to be called. He chatted
with different people as they stopped by, but mostly he thought about the race ahead.

When the whistle blew and the announcement
called for the ten o’clock starters to gather, he was ready.

He couldn’t help noticing that Billy was in the ten o’clock start, too.

All the contestants were in place. Doug recognized most of the cyclists wearing his school’s colors—including a familiar
face he hadn’t expected to see: Pepper Meade. But there was no time to think about Pepper now. The huge time clock read 9:58.

Doug took a deep breath, adjusted his bike helmet slightly, and slipped a foot into his toe clip. He felt like a tightly coiled
spring, ready to shoot forward as soon as Jack dropped the starter flag.

9:59.

The excited voices dwindled to a murmur, then fell silent altogether.

The clock blinked to 10:00. The flag in Jack’s hand was a blur of color as it fell.

Doug took off, pedaling hard. Adrenaline pumped through his system, urging him to go faster and faster.

No! his head screamed. Don’t overdo it too soon!

He concentrated on keeping a steady pace. Hunched tightly over the handlebars, he kept one
careful eye on the road, the other on the cyclists around him.

That’s when he saw Pepper Meade shoot out in front of the pack. He was pumping hard. Doug knew Pepper was trying to stay in
the lead. He also knew that Pepper didn’t realize how tiring that could be—or how a more knowledgeable biker could take
advantage of him.

With a slight grin, Doug moved in behind Pepper. While the boy in front labored along, Doug eased up and drafted on the slipstream
Pepper created.

As if sensing someone behind him, Pepper glanced over his shoulder. Doug saw a look of surprise register in his eyes before
he turned back and redoubled his efforts.

He thinks I’m going to overtake him! Doug thought. Bet he never imagined he’d have to worry about
that!

The idea gave him great satisfaction. He continued to ride right behind Pepper until the first checkpoint. Judging from the
hangdog look on Pepper’s face, he knew he’d have to find a different lead person for the second leg. Pepper was pooped.

The second leg of the route followed a series of hills
and sharp curves. Doug decided he’d be better off setting his own pace than following close behind an inexperienced biker
over such difficult terrain.

At the first hill, he clicked through his gears without a thought. He passed three cyclists smoothly. A fourth was more difficult
to maneuver around because he was weaving back and forth up the hill. Before he’d learned to use the gears effectively, Doug
used to do the same thing. Now, looking at the fourth biker’s labored movements, he wondered why he had ever thought such
a tactic was efficient.

Doug crested the hill moments later.

“Thank God!” he heard another biker cry out. Then “Yeee-haaa!” and the same biker shot past him, pedaling fast—and moving
at a dangerous speed.

Be careful! Doug wanted to scream. But he knew the biker was going too fast to hear him. Or to see what was on the road in
front of him. Doug watched with horror as a squirrel darted right into the cyclist’s path. He swerved to miss it but couldn’t
straighten out fast enough. His momentum carried him off the path and his bike collapsed beneath him. The squirrel scampered
unharmed to the other side of the road.

Doug slowed.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” the biker said weakly. “Keep going, don’t stop!”

Doug hesitated and glanced over his shoulder. One, two, three cyclists appeared at the top of the hill. Were they in any danger
of hitting the fallen cyclist?

He turned back in time to see the rider limping out of harm’s way, pulling his bike with him. Again, he yelled for Doug to
continue. This time, Doug listened.

“I’ll send a volunteer back for you!” Doug called as he took off. The biker waved.

For the rest of the second leg, Doug concentrated on the road in front of him. He pedaled hard into the curves and allowed
his forward motion to carry him through. Other bikers passed him and he drafted off them when he could. Billy was one of them,
but Doug didn’t feel odd using him like this. He knew Billy would do the same in his place.

When he pedaled into the checkpoint, the first thing he did was alert a volunteer to the accident. Then he glanced at the
time clock. He was fifteen seconds behind where he thought he should be.

While other bikers merely rolled into the checkpoint, called out their names, then hurried out again,
Doug slipped his water bottle from its clasp and took a long drink. He knew how important it was not to get dehydrated; the
body needed fluids to keep performing at top notch. Only after he had drunk his fill did he call out his name and set out
to complete the third and final leg of the race.

With fifteen seconds to make up, he pushed himself a little harder than he had before. The effort soon placed him in the lead.

The course curved gently to the right then moved from the regular road to the smooth, even bike path.

An eager spectator waved to him from behind a protective barrier. “Only two miles left to go!” the girl called out.

“Thanks!” Doug called back. To his shock, he heard another voice echo him. He turned his head slightly and saw a tall figure
in a white-and-orange T-shirt move into place behind him. It was Billy. Doug suddenly realized no other bikers were in sight.

Doug knew that if he allowed Billy to continue drafting off him for the rest of the two miles, Billy would be much fresher
for the final sprint to the finish line. Was Doug’s time good enough to let that happen?

And even if it is, a little voice inside him said, do you really want to cross the finish line after him?

In answer, Doug veered sharply to one side, slowed, then veered back—behind Billy. It all happened so quickly that Billy
didn’t have time to react until it was too late. And then, Doug was watching him so closely that Billy’s attempts at a similar
maneuver were ineffectual. Doug had outsmarted his friend fair and square.

But suddenly, Billy took off.

It took Doug a moment to register why. Then he heard the shouts and cheers and realized that the finish line was closer than
he thought. Billy must have figured it out, too.

Gritting his teeth, he downshifted and started to pedal for all he was worth. But Billy’s crouched figure was still in front
of him. By positioning himself directly in the middle of the path, he was making it difficult for Doug to pull around him.

Doug had to admit that Billy’s tactic was smart. But the race wasn’t over yet.

Pumping harder, he kept a steady eye on the path in front of him, waiting for his chance. The cheers from the crowd were growing
louder. A few strag
glers were running along the barrier beside them, yelling encouragement.

Then Billy made a mistake. He hugged the inside of a gentle curve too tightly, giving Doug room on the outside. Muscles straining,
Doug drew up even with Billy just as the curve straightened.

They were now neck and neck. Even over the roar of the fans, Doug could hear Billy’s steady breathing. The pavement below
blurred past. Five hundred yards left. Then four hundred.

With his last bit of energy, Doug urged his legs to move a fraction faster. He couldn’t be positive, but he thought that the
front wheel of Billy’s bike was slightly behind his now.

Three hundred yards.

Doug’s T-shirt was soaked with sweat. He could feel the perspiration dripping down from under his helmet. Even his mitts were
damp.

Two hundred yards. One hundred.

Doug raised his head and concentrated on the finish line. As he did, he heard a cry that seemed to come from a distant dream.

“Can-non! Can-non! Can-non!”

The sound of it thrilled Doug to his marrow. Then,
before he knew it, he was across the finish line and surrounded by congratulating fans.