Читать книгу The Human Bullet - Joaquin De Torres - Страница 6

Sepang International Circuit

Selangor, Malaysia

MotoGP Superbike Grand Prix

“CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH!”

Despite the thunderous roar of his 210-horsepower machine beneath him, Chris Cordell, known by his millions of fans around the world as “Crush,” could hear the spectators chanting his name as he leaned deep into the turn.

At least he could imagine it. It wasn’t hard. Turn after turn, straight away after straight away, the spectators – notorious for their boisterous devotion – were out in force pumping their “CRUSH!” placards in the air.

Thousands upon thousands, wearing all forms of official and unofficial Cordell merchandise, waved their flags and pennants bearing his name, number, racing color scheme or facial likeness like military banners before a battle. Whether in Europe, South America or here deep in Asia, Crush was loved, Crush was worshipped.

Behind his helmet’s face shield, a satisfying smile curled his lips as he overtook Steve Wilford at turn 13 to move into second place. Crush could always count on Wilford’s meticulous and textbook style of riding which experts and commentators criticized as being too conservative and non-aggressive. Nevertheless, Wilford was consistent and because of his cautious style was never involved in a wreck, skid or near miss in his career.

Conversely, he never finished in the top two positions of any circuit race either. The rest of the superbike pack was now history. Although only some 50-75 yards behind him, they had no chance of catching him. Wilford would block them out of contention as he always did and claim third place for himself. It was clockwork.

There was only one man left to catch. Sixty yards ahead and slicing the turns like a razor-sharp sickle on dry wheat was Jason Pines. Known as “Jace,” Pines was Crush’s nemesis on the MotoGP circuit. Both shared the fame, ranking honors and the victories throughout the last three seasons, becoming the sport’s fastest and most formidable superbike duo. They were two of the world’s most visible athletes in commercials, merchandizing and media. Handsome, young, brash, confident – they were the rock stars and red-carpet celebrities of the superbike world.

The second-to-last straight away, Crush pressed his entire body down on his Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10 to further lessen the wind drag. The gloss black and luminescent-green paint scheme of his bike, matching helmet and suit looked like a glistening oiled python as he throttled the machine to the screams of his fans.

“CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH!”

Cordell’s sprint up the straight away moved him within 50 yards of Pines. How many races had he found himself in this position? he thought dismissively. How many times has Pines been in his very position chasing him? It satisfied him to think both he and Pines shared the highest levels of excellence, that they were close friends off the track, and that they didn’t mind losing to each other.

At this level, the money and endorsements were enough. They no longer raced for the prizes but for the intrinsic and unattainable motive of moving towards perfection. They had stood on the winner’s podium more times than any of their predecessors and cared not which of them were first or second.

The camaraderie between their pit teams and media sponsors was also warm despite their competitive natures. They were better, stronger and more attentive because of these two young men, not to mention the endorsements were through the roof when they were in the same race. They promoted the circuits together, appeared in commercials together, and even promoted each other’s motorcycle brands on TV together. To say they dominated the sport would be an understatement. They not only dominated the sport, but the image of MotoGP, propelling it to the level of Formula 1 in the sense of ticket sales, merchandise sales, advertising, sponsorships, TV ratings, and fan loyalty.

“CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH!”

He could hear them roar! He could hear it through his helmet as he leaned into the second-to-last turn - turn 14. Jace had already completed that turn and seemed to find another gear as he flew up the straight, pulling away from him. At that moment, Cordell already knew the result.

“Congrats, Jace, this one’s yours, Brother,” he conceded silently. He then began to hear Pines’ fans roaring as well!

“JACE! JACE! JACE! JACE! JACE!” Cordell smiled and gave his bike one last explosive push to close the gap.

“FOR THE FANS!” he yelled and brought his front wheel up into the air and rode on his rear wheel for about 30 yards. The stadium went berserk as the legions of fans around the world seemed to roar in unison for their hero. He put his front wheel down, waved to the crowds and then proceeded towards the final turn - turn 15. One hundred yards from the turn, he took a quick look over his shoulder to see where Wilford was. He was now 60 yards behind him and fending off the challenge of two other riders for third place. Way to go, Steve. Keep ‘em back there!

Then, before he could turn his head forward, his entire body turned to ice as tens of thousands of spectators screamed frightfully in one deafening voice. Crush came out of turn 15 and something unimaginable flashed before his eyes: he saw a motorcycle tumbling and breaking apart in front of him! He instantly saw skid marks; smoke and the acrid stench of burnt rubber filled his nostrils.

“JACE!” he yelled as his eyes darted towards a crumpled body lying twisted in the grass unmoving. Another flash of light pierced his eyes, but they were the oscillating red lights of emergency vehicles rushing towards the scene.

Crush, in his panic for his friend, was distracted just long enough to slam into Pines’ fractured hulk of bike at more than 150 mph. His front wheel snagged on the spinning wreckage and locked it in place, sending the rear of his bike into the air in a freakish summersault. The momentum and sudden buck of the bike catapulted Cordell some 15 feet skyward.

It was then as he flailed helplessly in the air that the silence enveloped him. He heard no screams then, no sound of his bike colliding with Pines’, nor the sound of the emergency vehicles racing closer. The blue of the sky, the black of the track, the green of the grounds, and the miscellaneous shapes and colors of the stadium tumbled and spun before his horrified eyes in the silence. He heard just two words leave his lips involuntarily: “Oh God!” A second later Chris Cordell slammed his neck and back on the sweltering asphalt with the force of a massive sledgehammer.

His bones disintegrated with grotesque popping and snapping sounds inside his racing suit. The speed of the crash sent his body tumbling and flopping on the track like a human-sized doll being dragged behind an invisible vehicle.

His mind didn’t register any pain as he rolled, only the assurance that he’d be dead when he finally stopped. He came to a stop some 85 yards from where he first hit Pines’ bike. He was still alive, but barely. His eyes opened for only a moment and he saw the asphalt of the track giving off translucent vapors of steam from its surface.

Distant echoes of screaming, crying, incoherent voices and sirens penetrated his helmet, barely audible, but he heard them. As those sounds grew fainter, he felt himself pulled backwards into some kind of tube or tunnel. This is it, he thought. I’m about to die. An instant later, Chris Cordell’s world went black.