Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [137]
“When you get to the bottom of the hill, just put it in first gear,” I said. “It'll start right away.”
He looked over, surprised, as if he didn't know we were capable of speech, let alone in his mother tongue.
“Is that how he started it?”
He never ever flooded it, I wanted to say.
“Every time,” I said. “Especially if he hadn't started it for a while.”
He frowned. “Okay, you two help me push the motorcycle.” He shoved his gun deeper into his waistband, behind his belt buckle. He tucked the jacket that he had thrown over the seat under his buttocks.
From the top of our driveway, the gravel road leading down to Casualty started off flat and then descended and seemed to disappear over a ledge, beyond which one could see the lower branches of trees that were just within the perimeter wall. Only when you were halfway down did you see how the road turned sharply, well before the ledge, and then went on to the roundabout near Casualty.
“Push!” he said. “Push, you bastards.”
We did, and he helped by leaning forward and walking the machine. Soon he was rolling, licking his lips, happy. The bike weaved and the handlebars made wide excursions.
“Steady!” I called. ShivaMarion was pushing in unison, a three-legged trot that soon became a four-legged sprint.
“No problem,” he shouted, putting his feet on the pedals. “Push!”
We gathered speed on the down slope now.
“Open the gas cock! Open the valve,” Shiva called out.
“What? Oh, yes,” he said and he took his right hand off the handlebars to feel for the petcock under the tank, precious seconds ticking away.
“It's on the other side!” I shouted.
He switched hands. He'd never find it and it didn't matter because there was enough fuel in the carburetor to take him at least a mile.
The bike was traveling at speed now, springs squeaking and mudguards rattling, its weight accelerating it down the hill, aided by our efforts. He'd taken his eyes off the road to find the petcock. By the time he looked up, ShivaMarion was running as fast as it could, adding every ounce of thrust possible to his progress. I saw his white-knuckled grip on the throttle, while his left hand was undecided whether to continue its search or return to the handlebars.
“Put it in gear, quick,” I shouted, giving the bike a last desperate push.
“Full gas!” Shiva yelled.
He was slow in responding, first twisting the throttle all the way, then glancing down to stamp on the gear lever. For a heart-stopping moment when it slipped into first, the bike seized, the back wheel locking, we had failed …
And just when I thought that, the engine sputtered and roared to life, revving to its red line with a vengeance, as if it were saying, I'll take it from here, boys. It surged forward, the back tire spitting gravel at us, nearly throwing the rider off, which only made him cling harder, squeezing the throttle in a death grip instead of letting go.
A howl emerged as he saw what was ahead. He had only a few feet and a few seconds to negotiate the turn before the ledge. It is an axiom of motorcycling that you must always look in the direction you want to go and never at what you are trying to avoid. His gaze, I was sure, was fixed on the approaching precipice. The BMW roared ahead, still accelerating. I raced after him.
The front wheel hit the concrete curb at the ledge and stopped. The back wheel flew up in the air; but for the weight of that big engine, the motorcycle would have somersaulted over. Instead it was the rider who sailed past the handlebars, his howl now a scream. He flew in an arc, shooting over the ledge and then falling until his motion was arrested by a tree trunk. I heard a whump, an involuntary grunt as the air in his lungs was evicted. His momentum snapped his neck forward and smashed his face into the tree. He tumbled down and rolled another ten feet.
The BMW, after standing on its nose, fell back to the ground and onto its side; the engine stalled but the back wheel kept spinning. I had never heard such silence.
I CLAMBERED DOWN. I got to him first.