One Last Ride

I would have to say, the most exciting thing about being a teenager, is doing things you know you're not suppose to do, and then getting away with it. You know its dangerous, which is what is the first interest. If you're lucky.

My twin brother Drew and I lived in the middle of nowhere in a small town. We were near a farm, so the next five miles behind our house, after the corn field that is, was dirt hills and mud trails. Nothing less then a perfect dream for two teenagers with motorcross bikes. They were presents from our grandmother when we first moved to that home, to help us adapt. But our own parents despised them, therefore kept them in the attic. But late shifts at the office gave us or freedom.

Yes it was dangerous, illegal (we didn't have riding licenses) and downright dirty, but we were careless teenagers, and we didn't care. The bikes were back in their original spots by the time my mom and dad got home, our showers were taken, and the scrapes were hidden with long sleeve shirts and pants.

Drew was much more extreme then I was, the numerous accidents still went to his head and added on. It was cool to have someone like that around, but somewhere deep inside, I was worried. But that never made it to the surface.

One day, last march, there was a huge downpour when we got home from school. While most kids would normally stay inside, it was the call from the wild for my brother and I. During our third round at the mud driven, wet trail, he pulled ahead of me, missing the mud trench by an inch. The same mud trench my front tire got caught in, causing me to flip off the side into the mud. Getting up in just enough time to see the worse motorcross wipe out ever, my own brother crashing head on into a tree. The tree, I was suppose to hit that tree, most likely if he had stayed behind me.

He was conscious, but I couldn't tell where any of the blood was coming from. He told me he was okay, but to call 911. I ran the half mile back to our house, tracking mud throughout the kitchen. As soon as I repeated the address, I was out the back door again. When I arrived once again at the scene of the accident, Drew was standing just fine. "Forget it, I'm okay, come on Jace, just one more time around". Before I had the chance to object, he was already on his bike, so I followed him, in case something happened.

We rode back to the house, where the paramedics, who I'd forgotten about, and my parents were waiting. Everyone demanding an explanation. I said that Drew got hurt, and I thought something was really wrong, but he was okay now. Then they asked where Drew was, because he wasn't behind me where I last saw him. The paramedics searched, and found him. Half a mile in our backyard, where he had gotten hurt. In the same position where I had left him to call for help. Dead.

My parents sent me to three different therapists because I would never admit that my brother was actually gone at the moment he hit the tree. Yes, Drew is dead, but that day I wasn't dreaming. Thats not the kind of person he is, he wouldn't leave without one last ride.

Contact me here: tamsutcliffe@adelphia.net

Submitted by Jayce, NJ, USA