The portaloo door slammed behind Dave. He slowly headed back to the hire van, shaking the excess water from his hands before he reached the steering wheel for another time. He could see the silhouetted heads inside watching the other three vans and stacked trailers already clattering up the access track. They then turned their gaze to Dave and he felt the weight of their disappointment of being left behind. The antsy banging of a teenager’s hand against the back panel made him break into a stride.

Sorry guys, Dave said, pulling himself into the driver’s seat and giving a smile into the rear view mirror. Back into happy volunteer mode – smiley older dude stoked on doing his bit. These Generation Facebook’s lap that stuff up. But the response was as silent as the reflection he got back.

The van struggled under the load and the heat and the dust and the deep potholes. The other volunteer drivers got new vans with tough automatic transmissions and comfy seats. That’s why the pro-elite riders pushed their bikes straight past Dave’s like he wasn’t even there. They were royalty. Savvy bastards. Dave thought at one time this van would’ve danced its way up the access track no sweat. Now it struggled to get out of second gear, the fuel gauge moved with the contour of the road and the leather covering on the seats had become worn and saggy.

Someone from the back yelled, Can ya turn up the air con?

Sorry, Dave shouted over the top of the rattling and revving, musta left its prime in the nineties.

But there was no laughter.

Like the driver! he heard behind him. He looked up in the rear-view mirror again, but no one was making eye contact back. Just sniggering fucking faces trapped watching the pine trees go by at walking pace.

––

Dave listened to the two riders in the front discussing the morning:

Dirt’s sick at the moment.

You done that middle gap? So Syck.

The step-down’s sique.

The last jump’s sik.

The marshal’s psick, the crowd’s cik, George’s girlfriend is SICK.

Dave leant in. Track sounds pretty sweet, huh?

It’s OK, one of them answered.

What’s this crap on the radio? The other asked.

Neil Young, Dave said.

Who?

You know, better to burn out than fade away?

Whatever, she sucks. Put something decent on, he said and started fumbling with the tuner.

Dude, leave my damn radio alone, Dave said, brushing the teen’s fingers from the dial.

Neil stays.

At the top of the hill Dave helped the riders get their bikes off the shuttle trailer and waited for the crew to leave. But one last bike still remained on the rack. Dave looked down either side of the van. No rider there. He lifted it down and after a quick look around him for its owner, quietly swung a leg over. The combination of the wide bars and how the suspension sunk under his weight brought it all back for him. He bounced on the seat and ran his hand down the carbon toptube. He leant a shoulder against the van and stood in attack position remembering when this felt as natural as lying in bed at night, before that feeling was swapped for the new attack position of sitting in an office chair and tapping keys and dropping kids off at school and picking them up from whatever damn practice they had on that day and living with a wife who now bought him ‘dad things’ for birthdays instead of cool shit like she used to and insisted on dragging him to Sunday markets where all he did was stare at the hills in the distance and daydream.

Bro, whaddya doin? C’nnive my bike back?

Sure, yeah. Sorry. Dave stood to the side of it and held it out. I used to have the first edition of this bike. I mean, I’ve still got the first edition of this. Got it in 2001. It’s in my shed behind all the . . . yeah. Still got the Monster T’s on it. Now they were a fork. And a big-arse couch seat.

The rider finished tightening his helmet and pulled down his goggles. Bro, I gotta get to seeding.

Yeah sure, sorry. See you at the bottom, huh? Could tell you more about it.

But the rider was already hammering on the pedals to catch the others.

Maybe.

Back down at the pick-up, Dave leant over the steering wheel and waited for the last of the riders to find their seats. He watched the portaloo and weighed up whether he could last another run. He also weighed up taking his old bike into the bike shop on Monday and talking trade ins. Weighed up what he was going to tell his wife when she’d realise he’s not joking about hitting the trails once again. She’d give that look she does whenever he was out of bounds. He could use the kids as an excuse! The sliding door slammed shut behind him and he ground the van into first gear.

Wait!

The front passenger door swung open and a familiar face slid in. Familiar only when Dave was sneakily watching a live feed of the World Cup races on the internet that is.

Room for one more? He asked Dave.

Absolutely.

But that’s as far as the conversation went for most of the ride. Not that Dave was ignoring him, he’d cleared his throat to say something so many times he was getting paranoid he sounded like a smoker.

I hear the track sounds sick, Dave finally said.

Yeah.

I left my bike at home for this round, Dave continued. Driving this as a last minute favour for a mate. Dave surprised himself how convincing that first part sounded.

You still race then?

They used to call me The Sherman. Used to smash over everything on the track.

Eh?

You know, like a Sherman tank.

The pro started changing the radio to some Top 40 station crap. Jesus.

Dave leant his elbow on the open driver’s window and partially held his face in the open air. He caught himself stare in the side mirror and saw the eyebrows that had sprouted tentacles and stubble that grew shards of silver and the fine strands of a thinned fringe still making a stand against time.

And he wondered how much travel his new bike should have.