They were an exhausted lineup, eleven racers at the end of their proverbial rope, strung out on fumes of sleep and the promise of the end. Not quite in sight, but close. At 2,394 kilometers, Hanoi to Shanghai was the final exam of endurance. To be a victor, you had to complete this stretch without camping. It was a dangerous race against sleep deprivation.
The sun was all shine. Their motorcycles rumbled, weariless machines. Luka’s wrist shuddered over the Zündapp’s throttle, but the engine revolutions weren’t enough to rattle the weariness from his veins. They did not banish the shadows from the edge of his goggles, the ones that threatened to shove him into sleep there and then.
Speed helped. Thick, humid ribbons of air smacked Luka’s cheekbones, spurring him out of Hanoi, past rice fields of mirrored sky. Katsuo’s fender flashed only meters ahead—something to chase, something to beat.
They were well into the day—zooming through a land of mountains without ranges—when Luka made his move. He was awake now. All awake. Wrist, hand, fingers, made of pure adrenaline as he twisted the throttle. Katsuo was so close Luka could see the vertebrae sloping along his neck. Their wheels were a turn away from touching, lunging along with a maniac hum. Katsuo lashed his engine forward. Luka’s acceleration matched it, until he realized that bikes did get weary. Hot oil and rattling bolts. You could only push an engine so fast, so far before it broke.
The land blurred green around them: rice seedlings into hillside foliage into bamboo stalks. Luka’s Zündapp—stretched with speeds faster than his speedometer needle could measure—made noises he’d never heard before. Katsuo’s motorcycle joined the duet, refusing to slow.
The road curved, sloped downward to its first glimpse of the Li River. Its waters were as green as the rest of the landscape, threading around the hillsides like a jade necklace. Cormorants sat, wide-winged, on docks made entirely of stone. A lone ferry operator stood at the end of the nearest one, waiting to transport the racers across.
The race path was ending, but Katsuo kept pushing. The dock’s rocks flew forward—too narrow to drive on—and Luka knew it was down to nerves. Who would buckle first?
The cormorants—unsettled by the dueling engines—slipped into the water. The ferry operator gripped the edge of his hat, knuckles knotted. Luka was close enough to see the whites of the old man’s eyes. Fear gleamed in them.
Luka had to fight the put on your brakes, you death-flirting dummkopf flex of his fingers. There were only a few meters left before not even a state-of-the-art brake system or years of mastered technique would save him.
Six meters. The ferry operator waved his pole in warning. He was probably shouting, too, but the engines clashed too loud to hear. Four meters. Scheisse, scheisse, scheisse! Two meters…
His bike made a terrible screech when he slammed to a stop. Luka’s heart flung forward with the sound, disappearing into the emerald tangles of shoreline bamboo. He had no time to calm down, breathe, find it. The dock was at hand, and to Luka’s surprise, he’d managed to out-nerve Tsuda Katsuo by an entire meter.
The plan was working.
He shifted the bike into neutral, dismounted, and shoved it along the dock. The beast was heavy. Its overworked engine blistered against Luka’s leg as he pushed, but he had no time to whine about it. Behind him Katsuo was doing the same.
The ferry sat at the dock’s end, looking as shambly as ever. The craft felt that way, too, leaking water through the gaps in its bamboo stalks when Luka boarded with his bike. Every year he feared the raft would just keep sinking: ankle, knee, engine deep. Every year it didn’t. River water licked the edges of Luka’s boots, but that was as high as it would ever go, even when Katsuo rolled his bike onto the raft.
Luka kept his Zündapp at his back, well out of Katsuo’s reach. An uneasy expression shadowed the other victor’s face.
“Relax!” Luka grinned at him. “Enjoy the river cruise.”
Other riders jostled their way down the dock—a frantic blur of armbands. Swastika, rising sun, rising sun, swastika, swastika. All shoved their bikes forward, hoping to claim the third space on the raft.
Come on, Adele.
He could see her at the front, jaw set. This time Adele’s girlness was working against her. She simply didn’t have the strength to push her 224-kilogram Zündapp as quickly as the others. A rising sun was closing in from behind—
Luka felt his smile going stale as he watched the Japanese racer—Takeo, he thought it was—push forward, draw even with Adele, go faster. The dock was barely wide enough for both bikes, too narrow for a fight.
This didn’t stop Adele from trying. She shoved into the boy, ramming both his body and his motorcycle to the edge. But Takeo was firm on his feet. His Zündapp stayed grounded. He lashed back—Higonokami-less—knuckles hitting the sliced spot on Adele’s jacket, the wound beneath.
Her scream was loud, stripped of fake-Felix huskiness. Luka’s grin vanished. The raft’s water level rose as the ferry operator took his place at the stern and removed the ramp.
No! Luka wanted to shout, but the word didn’t quite make it out. This isn’t right.… What about the third passenger?
The operator didn’t look like he gave a Scheisse about his raft’s capacity. In fact, he seemed eager to leave, turning his back on the skirmish as he shoved off from the rocks.
Adele and Takeo ceased fighting. Both racers stood, watching first place float away. The river swirled—green and gray—between themselves and the dock. More green, more gray, wider, wider. Luka’s insides sank into the shivering waters.
No! No! No! Still the cry did not come. Adele… their plan…
Luka wasn’t sure which loss hurt more—girl or a chance at first. Neither was a pain he could allow to show, so he twisted his lips into default: sneer mode.
Katsuo sneered back. The other victor had positioned himself in front of his tires, body rigid. Not that Luka would try anything now. Without Adele to provide a distraction, sabotaging Katsuo’s bike would only lead to mutually assured destruction. It was useless.
Without Adele…
The raft pushed into deeper waters. Katsuo folded his arms against his chest, eyes heavy with dare. What are you going to do now, Löwe?
Excellent question, Katsuo.
Luka crossed his own arms. Stared back. It took everything in him not to look over Katsuo’s shoulder, to the girl standing by the river’s edge, drawing farther and farther away. She was just a dark speck on his periphery, blending in with all the other black-clad racers. Without a spot on the first ferry, Adele’s time was hampered by ten whole minutes. As talented a rider as she was, there was no coming back from a loss like that this late in the race. Her Axis Tour was over.
It was just Luka and Katsuo now.
Victor and victor.
The race was on.