Page 15 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

I stuck the disc in the player and hit the play button. Trumpets blared, and the very same inspirational music that lifted Rocky Balboa as he ran up those steps in Philadelphia filled the air and spilled out onto the field.

Dad pumped one fist high in the air, gripped the throttle with the other hand, and revved the engine.

I expected him to putt-putt around the field at about the same speed as he went through town. But I was wrong. The song echoing across the field was called “Gonna Fly Now.” And that’s exactly what Dad did.

He flew. Gunned it. Chunks of heavily rolled, carefully tended stone and cinder flew in all directions as the Electra Glide barreled down the track.

Later that day I cornered him and asked what he was thinking when he went tear-assing around the oval like that.

“It wasn’t my idea,” he said. “I thought she’d be happy with that first little cruise through town, but when we got to the track, she said to me, ‘You better haul ass around this track, Finn McCormick. I want my last ride to be on a real motorcycle, not a goddamn parade float. I want to feel the wind in my face, and my heart pounding in my chest. I want to feelalive.’ So, I kicked it.”

Boy, did he kick it. I don’t know exactly how many laps they took around that track, but every time they whizzed past us, I got a brief glimpse of intense joy on my mother’s face that I hadn’t seen in months.

And then the cops showed up.

NINE

A Heartstone PD patrol car rolled onto the field and pulled across the running track.

“This just in, folks,” Lizzie said, holding an imaginary microphone to her mouth. “The cops have finally caught up with the bizarre biker gang who have been terrorizing the neighborhood. They’re setting up a roadblock now.”

Two uniformed police officers stepped out of the car, and as Dad sped around the track for the umpteenth time, they flagged him down.

He skidded to a stop.

Lizzie killed the music. “Quick, Magpie,” she said. “Bail out before they spot you. I don’t care if I get busted, but it will look bad for the president of the senior class to be caught playing DJ while her parents destroy school property.”

“Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but right now I’m not the president of anything. I’m the daughter of that crazy Irishman, and if they throw him in jail, they can lock me up too.”

The two cops walked over to the bike. One was blond and in her midtwenties. I’d never seen her before. But I recognized the older one. Kip Montgomery had known my parents since high school. And when Kip, his wife, and their three kids came into the restaurant for dinner, Dad would always send over dessert on the house.

I was about thirty yards away, but it looked like he gave both Mom and Dad a friendly small-town police officer hello. Then Dad got off the bike, and he and Kip walked off to talk in private. Dad did most of the talking. Finally, Kip took out his radio.

“This is serious, folks,” Lizzie said. “Officer Montgomery is calling for backup.”

“Shut up,” I said. “Dad’s coming.”

My father ambled over; a grin spread across his face. “Get back in the car and hang tight,” he said.

“Excuse me, sir,” Lizzie said, thrusting the fantasy microphone in his face. “Elizabeth McCormick,Heartstone Crier. Can you tell our viewers what the bleep is going on?”

Dad belly-laughed. “Don’t worry, kiddos. It’s all good.”

He walked back to Mom, and the two of them powwowed. Then he scanned the gathering crowd of gawkers, spotted a trio of twelve-year-old boys on bicycles, and signaled them to come over.

The kids responded with a classic “Who us, mister?” look on their faces. But he beckoned again, and they decided to find out what he wanted. Pretty soon their heads were nodding vigorously. Dad reached into his pocket, dug some cash out of his wallet, handed it to them, and they raced off.

“Ma’am,” the inquiring reporter said. “Can you tell our audience what the hell that was all about?”

“It’s Dad,” I said. “Don’t ask.”

Five minutes later, two motorcycle cops and two more squad cars joined the group. Dad revved up the Harley, rolled over to us, and said, “Follow me.”

“Where are we going?” I said.

“That’s up to your mother,” he said. “But wherever it is, we’ve got ourselves a police escort.”

The turret lights on all three cop cars went on, flashing red and blue against the graying sky. And with the biker cops clearing the traffic along the way, the motorcade moved out smartly.

---