I drive the bike into the narrow gap between the rocks, and next thing I know, we go flying. For a second we are airborne, and I wonder if the ice will hold when we hit it—or whether we will crash right through it and plummet into the icy water, to a certain and brutal death.
A second later my entire body is jolted, as we hit something hard.
Ice.
We hit it at 140, faster than I can even imagine, and as we land, I lose control. The tires can’t gain traction, and my driving becomes more like a controlled slide; I do my best to just steer the handlebars, which sway wildly. But, to my surprise and relief, at least the ice is holding. We go flying across the solid sheet of ice that is the Hudson River, veering left and right, but at least heading in the right direction. As we do, I pray to God the ice holds.
Suddenly I hear the horrific noise behind me of cracking ice, even louder than the roar of the engine. I check back over my shoulder and see an enormous fracture forming, following the trail of our bike. The river opens up right behind us. Our only saving grace is that we are going so fast the crack can’t catch us, always a foot behind. If our engine and tires can hold for a few more seconds, maybe, just maybe, we can outrace it.
“HURRY!” screams Ben, eyes wide open with fear as he looks back over his shoulder.
I gun it as fast as I possibly can, just topping 150. We are thirty yards away from the opposite shore, and closing in.
Come on, come on! I think. Just a few more yards.
The next thing I know there is a tremendous crash, and my entire body is jerked front and back. Ben groans out in pain. My whole world shakes and spins, and it is then I realize we have arrived on the opposite shore. We slam into it doing 150, hitting the steep bank hard, which snaps our heads back on impact. But after a few vicious bumps, we clear the bank.
We made it. We are back on dry land.
Behind us, the river is now entirely split open, cracked in half, water spilling onto the ice. I don’t think we could have made it a second time.
There is no time to think about that now. I try to gain control of the bike again, to slow it down, as we are going faster than I would like. But the bike is still fighting me, its tires still trying to gain traction—and suddenly we drive over something incredibly hard and uneven, which sends my jaw smashing into my teeth.
I look down: train tracks. I’d forgotten. There are still old tracks here, right along the river, from when trains used to run. We hit them hard as we cross the river, and as we jump them, the motorcycle shakes so violently, I almost lose hold of the grips. Amazingly, the tires still hold, and we cross the tracks on a country road, running parallel to the river. I am finally able to slow the bike, dropping down to 70. We pass the rusted hull of an old, huge train, lying on its side, burnt-out, and I bang a sharp left on a country road with an old sign that reads “Greendale.” It is a narrow country lane with a sharp ascent uphill, away from the river.
We lose speed as we drive nearly straight up. I pray the bike will make it in the snow and not slide back down. I give it more gas as the speed drops. We are down to about 20 miles an hour when finally, we clear the hilltop. We even out on level land, and I gain speed again as we fly down this narrow country road, taking us alternately through woods, then farmland, then woods again, then past an old, abandoned firehouse. It continues, dipping and rising, twisting and turning, taking us past abandoned country houses, past herds of deer and flocks of geese, even over a small country bridge spanning a creek.
Finally, it merges with another road, Church Road, aptly named, as we pass the remnants of a huge Methodist church on our left and its adjoining graveyard—of course, still intact.
There is only one way the slaverunners can go. If they want the Taconic, which they must, then there’s no way there without taking Route 9. They are heading North to South—and we are heading West to East. My plan is to cut them off. And now, finally, I have the advantage. I crossed the river about a mile farther south than they. If I can just go fast enough, I can beat them to the punch. Finally, I am feeling optimistic. I can cut them off—and they will never expect it. I will hit them perpendicularly and maybe I can take them out.
I gun the bike again, pushing it past 140.
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Ben yells out.
He still looks shell-shocked, but I have no time to explain: in the distance, I suddenly spot their cars. They are exactly where I thought they’d be. They don’t see me coming. They don’t see that I am lined up to smash right into them.
Their cars ride single file, about twenty yards between them, and I realize I can’t take them both out. I am going to need to choose one. I decide to aim for the one in front: if I can run it off the road, perhaps it will cause the one behind it to slam on the brakes, or spin out and crash, too. It is a risky plan: the impact may very well kill us. But I don’t see any other way. I can’t exactly ask them to stop. I only pray that, if I am successful, Bree survives the crash.
I increase my speed, closing in on them. I am a hundred yards away…then 50…then 30….
Finally, Ben realizes what I’m about to do.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?” he screams, and I can hear the fear in his voice. “YOU’RE GOING TO HIT THEM!”
Finally he gets it. That’s exactly what I’m hoping to do.
I rev it one last time, topping 150, and barely catch my breath as we go racing at top speed on the country road. Seconds later, we go flying onto Route 9—and smash directly into the first vehicle. It is a perfect hit.
The impact is tremendous. I feel the crash of metal on metal, feel my body jerking to a stop, then feel myself fly off the bike and through the air. I see a world of stars, and as I’m soaring, I realize that this is what it feels like to die.