The Tracklocrossers

Cycleridge wasn’t your typical town. On the surface, it seemed like any other small community, but once you dug a little deeper, you’d find a place sharply divided by two cycling cultures. On one side of the town were the Greasers, a rough-and-tumble group of tracklocross cyclists who loved the dirt tracks, the thrill of obstacles, and the camaraderie of their tight-knit gang. On the other side were the Socs, short for Society Cyclists, who preferred the smooth asphalt roads, the precision of speed, and the prestige that came with their sleek, expensive road bikes.

Our story begins with me, Ponywheels Curtis. My brothers, Sodabike and Darry, and I were all Greasers, through and through. We weren’t the richest kids in Cycleridge, but we had our bikes, our friends, and each other. That was all we needed.

One afternoon, after a particularly gruelling tracklocross session, I leaned against my bike, sweat dripping from my brow. Sodabike and Two-Chainz were arguing about the best way to handle the latest jump added to the course while Johnny Gearshift tinkered with his gearline, trying to get it just right.

“You gotta lean into it, Soda!” Two-Chainz was saying, his voice rising with frustration.

“No way, man,” Sodabike shot back. “It’s all about the speed. You hit it fast; you get the air.”

I chuckled at their banter. This was home, this was family. But as much as I loved the Greasers, I couldn’t ignore the ever-present tension with the Socs. Every time we crossed paths, it was like a spark waiting to ignite.

Chapter 1

The sun was setting over Cycleridge, casting long shadows on the dirt track where we spent most of our days. I mounted my bike and took off, the cool evening air whipping past my face. Tracklocross was more than just a hobby for us Greasers; it was a way of life. The thrill of navigating through rough terrain, the rush of landing a perfect jump – it was all part of who we were.

As I rode, I thought about the Socs. They had it easy with their smooth roads and fancy bikes. They didn’t understand the grit and determination it took to be a tracklocross cyclist. They looked down on us and thought they were better because they had money and status. But what they didn’t have was heart.

I skidded to a stop near the edge of the track, where Johnny Gearshift was still working on his bike. “You got it fixed yet, Johnny?” I called out.

He looked up, wiping grease off his hands. “Almost, Pony. Just need to move the wheel a bit more.”

Johnny was the youngest of us, and the Socs seemed to target him the most. Maybe because he was smaller, quieter. But he had more guts than anyone I knew.

“Hey, Pony!” Sodabike shouted from across the track. “Check this out!” He pedalled furiously towards a newly built step-up, launching himself into the air and landing with a whoop of triumph.

I grinned. “Nice one, Soda!”

As the last light of day faded, we gathered our bikes and headed home, each of us lost in our thoughts. The rivalry with the Socs wasn’t just about bikes; it was about respect. And as long as we rode these tracks, we’d fight for ours.

Chapter 2

The next day, the town seemed eerily quiet. We knew something was brewing – the Socs were planning something, and it wasn’t going to be good. As I rode to meet the others, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were heading for trouble.

At the local circuit, a group of Socs lounged around, their shiny road bikes glinting in the sun. Bob Brakepad, the leader of their pack, sneered as we approached. “Well, if it isn’t the dirt devils,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.

“Got a problem, Brakepad?” Dally Derby, our resident tough guy, stepped forward, his fists clenched.

Bob laughed. “Just wondering how long you think you can keep riding those trash heaps before they fall apart.”

“Long enough to beat you in any race,” I shot back, my heart pounding in my chest.

Cherry Pedalton, one of the few Socs who didn’t seem to hate us, stepped between us. “Come on, Bob, leave them alone,” she said, her voice calm and steady.

Bob rolled his eyes but backed off. “Whatever, Pedalton. Let’s go, guys.”

As they rode off, Cherry turned to me. “Ponywheels, you need to be careful. Bob’s planning something big. He wants to make sure you guys never ride again.”

I nodded, grateful for the warning. “Thanks, Cherry. We’ll be ready.”

That night, we gathered at the old bike shop that served as our unofficial headquarters. We talked strategy, made plans, and prepared for whatever the Socs had in store. We knew it wouldn’t be easy, but we were Greasers. We didn’t back down from a fight.

Chapter 3

The tension in Cycleridge had reached a boiling point. Every corner we turned, every alley we rode through, there was a feeling of being watched, of impending conflict. The Greasers were on high alert, and the Socs were lurking, waiting for their chance to strike.

One evening, Johnny Gearshift and I decided to take a ride to clear our heads. The open road, even if it was just a stretch of dirt and gravel, always helped us think. We pedalled in silence, the rhythmic crunch of gravel under our tyres the only sound between us.

We rode out to an old, abandoned factory on the outskirts of town, a place we often went to escape the pressures of our divided world. As we sat down to rest, the setting sun casting long shadows across the ground, we heard the unmistakable hum of road bikes approaching.

Bob Brakepad and his gang of Socs rolled up, their bikes gleaming in the dying light. Bob dismounted, a malicious grin spreading across his face. “Well, look who we have here. The trackrats out for a little evening ride?”

I stood up, ready to defend us. “What do you want, Bob?”

He shrugged casually, but his eyes were cold. “Just a friendly chat. Maybe teach you, dirt devils, a lesson about real cycling.”

Before I could react, two of the Socs grabbed Johnny, pinning him against the rusty remains of the factory wall. Bob approached me, his fists clenched. “You think you’re tough, Ponywheels? Let’s see how tough you are without your bike.”

I tried to fight back, but it was no use. Bob and his gang were bigger and stronger, and there were more of them. They threw punches, landing hard and fast. I could hear Johnny struggling, trying to break free.

The world blurred as pain exploded across my jaw, and I hit the ground hard. Through the haze, I saw Johnny manage to wrench himself free, grabbing a metal pipe from the ground and swinging it wildly. The Socs backed off, surprised by his ferocity, but JOhnny still managed to hit a few of them with the pipe.

“Come on, Johnny, let’s get out of here!” I shouted, scrambling to my feet.

We jumped on our bikes, pedalling furiously away from the factory, our hearts pounding in our chests. As we rode, I glanced back to see the Socs still standing there, watching us with a mixture of anger and disbelief.

We didn’t stop until we reached the old bike shop, collapsing in a heap, battered and bruised. The rest of the gang gathered around us; concern etched on their faces.

“What happened?” Dally demanded, his eyes blazing with fury.

I caught my breath, wincing at the pain in my side. “The Socs…they jumped us. We need to be ready. This isn’t over.”

Chapter 4

After the attack at the factory, the Greasers were more determined than ever to stand their ground. We knew the Socs wouldn’t back down, and we had to be prepared for whatever they had planned. The tension was palpable as we gathered our gear and fortified our resolve.

Johnny and I decided to lay low for a while, taking refuge in an old bike shop on the outskirts of town. The shop, with its creaky floors and musty smell, had become our sanctuary, a place where we could escape the chaos and focus on what we loved most: cycling.

As the days passed, Johnny and I spent hours working on our bikes, making sure everything was in perfect condition. The rhythmic sound of tools and the smell of grease filled the air, a comforting reminder of simpler times.

One evening, as we sat by the window, watching the sunset over the town, Johnny spoke up, breaking the silence. “Pony, do you ever wonder if things will ever change? If the Socs and the Greasers can ever get along?”

I sighed, staring out at the fading light. “I don’t know, Johnny. It feels like we’re stuck in this cycle of hate. But maybe, just maybe, if we show them that we’re not so different, things could change.”

Johnny nodded, his eyes filled with a mix of hope and doubt. “I hope you’re right, Pony. I really do.”

As night fell, we heard a noise outside. We tensed, ready for another confrontation, but instead, it was Cherry Pedalton. She had risked coming to warn us again. “Ponywheels, Johnny, you need to get out of here. Bob and the Socs are planning something big. They’re going to come after you.”

I felt a surge of gratitude and fear. “Thanks, Cherry. We’ll be careful.”

After she left, Johnny and I knew we couldn’t stay in the bike shop any longer. We packed up our essentials and decided to head to an old cabin in the woods, a place we used to go to as kids. It was remote, safe, and away from the prying eyes of the Socs.

The ride to the cabin was long and arduous, but the fresh air and the sound of nature were a welcome change from the tension-filled streets of Cycleridge. As we settled into the cabin, we felt a sense of peace we hadn’t felt in a long time.

For the next few days, we lived simply, riding through the forest, exploring the trails, and talking about our dreams and fears. It was a time of reflection and healing, a brief respite from the constant threat of conflict.

But deep down, we knew it couldn’t last. The Socs wouldn’t stop until they had their revenge, and we had to be ready. As we prepared to face whatever came next, we found strength in our friendship and our love for cycling. No matter what happened, we knew we had each other’s backs.

Chapter 5

The day of the big race had finally arrived, and the atmosphere in Cycleridge was electric. The annual Cycleridge Challenge was more than just a competition; it was a showdown between the Greasers and the Socs, a test of skill, endurance, and sheer willpower.

The starting line buzzed with excitement and tension. The Greasers, with their rugged tracklocross bikes, stood on one side, while the Socs, with their sleek road bikes, lined up on the other. The rivalry was palpable, the stakes higher than ever.

I tightened my grip on the handlebars, my heart pounding in my chest. Beside me, Johnny Gearshift adjusted his helmet, a determined look on his face. Sodabike, Dally Derby, Two-Chainz, and the rest of our gang were ready; each of us focused and prepared.

Bob Brakepad and his gang of Socs sneered at us from their side of the line. Bob’s eyes met mine, and I could see the malice there, the desire to crush us not just in the race but in spirit.

The whistle blew, and we were off. The initial sprint was intense, a blur of pedals and wheels as we jockeyed for position. The course was gruelling and designed to test every aspect of our cycling skills. There were steep climbs, treacherous descents, and rough, uneven terrain that favoured our tracklocross bikes but still posed a challenge.

As we approached the first major obstacle – a series of tight, winding turns through a forested section – the Socs tried to gain an advantage. Bob and his gang, with their superior speed on the straightaways, had taken the lead. But this was our territory.

“Stick together!” I shouted to the Greasers. “We can catch them in the turns!”

We leaned into the curves, our bikes handling the rough terrain with ease. One by one, we overtook the Socs, our determination and familiarity with the course giving us the edge. Bob’s frustration was evident as we pulled ahead, but we knew better than to get complacent.

Halfway through the race, the Socs attempted their sabotage. As we hit a particularly rocky section, one of them threw a chain across the path, hoping to take us down. Johnny Gearshift saw it just in time, swerving to avoid it and signalling the rest of us to do the same.

“Nice try, Brakepad!” Dally shouted back, his voice full of defiance.

The final stretch of the race was a brutal uphill climb followed by a long, winding descent to the finish line. We dug deep, pushing ourselves to the limit. As we reached the top, the view of the finish line spurred us on, adrenaline pumping through our veins.

Johnny and I were neck and neck with Bob and Randy Rim, the finish line just a few hundred meters away. It was now or never. With a burst of speed, we surged forward, leaving the Socs behind. The crowd at the finish line erupted in cheers as we crossed victorious.

We had done it. Against all odds, the Greasers had won the Cycleridge Challenge. As we celebrated, the Socs slinked away, their defeat stinging more than any physical wound. For a moment, it seemed like we had finally earned the respect we so desperately sought.

Chapter 6

Victory, however, was short-lived. The Socs were not ones to accept defeat gracefully. The tension that had been brewing now threatened to boil over into outright violence. We could feel it in the air, a storm waiting to break.

The night after the race, we gathered at our usual hangout, an old diner on the edge of town. The place was packed with Greasers, all of us riding high on our win. But as the night wore on, a sense of unease crept in. We knew the Socs wouldn’t let this slide.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and Bob Brakepad and a group of Socs stormed in. The diner fell silent, everyone tensing for the inevitable confrontation.

“You think you can just win and walk away?” Bob spat, his face twisted with anger. “This isn’t over.”

Dally Derby stood up, his eyes cold and hard. “We won fair and square, Brakepad. If you’ve got a problem with that, take it up with the course.”

Bob’s fists clenched, and for a moment, it looked like he might lash out. But instead, he sneered. “You haven’t seen the last of us. Enjoy your victory while it lasts.”

With that, the Socs turned and left, leaving a trail of tension in their wake. We knew this was far from over.

The next day, Johnny and I decided to lay low again. We headed back to the old bike shop, hoping to avoid any further trouble. But trouble had a way of finding us.

As we worked on our bikes, we heard the sound of engines outside. Before we could react, the door burst open, and a group of Socs stormed in. They grabbed Johnny, dragging him outside. I tried to fight them off, but there were too many of them.

Bob was there, his face a mask of fury. “You’re gonna pay for that race, Ponywheels. You and your little friend.”

They beat us; harder this time, leaving us bruised and bloody on the ground. As they rode off, I struggled to my feet, pain radiating through my body. Johnny was in worse shape, barely conscious.

“We need to get you to a doctor, Johnny,” I said, my voice shaking.

“No, Pony,” he whispered, his voice weak. “We can’t go to the hospital. They’ll find us there.”

I nodded, knowing he was right. We couldn’t risk it. With what little strength I had left, I helped Johnny onto his bike, and we rode to the only place we could think of: the old cabin in the woods.

Chapter 7

The ride to the old cabin was agonisingly slow. Every pedal stroke sent waves of pain through my body, and Johnny was barely hanging on, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. The night was dark, the moon hidden behind thick clouds, casting an eerie gloom over the forested path.

We finally reached the cabin, a small, dilapidated structure hidden deep in the woods. It was a place we had discovered as kids, our secret hideaway. As I helped Johnny inside, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this might be the last time we sought refuge here.

Johnny collapsed onto the old couch, his face pale and drawn. I did what I could to clean his wounds, using the first-aid kit we had stashed away for emergencies. “Hang in there, Johnny. We’re gonna get through this,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Johnny managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Pony. You’ve always had my back.”

As the night wore on, Johnny’s condition worsened. His breathing became more laboured, and his skin grew clammy. I knew we couldn’t stay hidden forever. We needed help, and we needed it fast.

The next morning, I decided to take a risk. I left Johnny at the cabin and rode back to town, hoping to find Dally Derby. If anyone could help us, it was Dally. He had connections and knew how to get things done.

I found Dally at the bike shop, working on his ride. When he saw me, his expression darkened. “What the hell happened to you, Pony?”

“It’s Johnny. The Socs jumped us again. He’s in bad shape, Dally. We need help.”

Dally’s jaw tightened. “Those bastards. Where is he?”

I explained about the cabin, and without another word, Dally grabbed his bike and followed me back. The ride seemed quicker this time, urgency driving us forward.

When we arrived, Johnny was barely conscious. Dally took one look at him and cursed under his breath. “We need to get him to a doctor, Pony. He’s not gonna make it otherwise.”

“But what about the Socs? They’ll find us,” I protested.

Dally’s eyes were steely. “Let me worry about the Socs. You focus on Johnny.”

We carefully loaded Johnny onto Dally’s cargo bike, and I rode alongside them, keeping an eye out for any signs of trouble. The ride to the outskirts of town, where a sympathetic doctor lived, was tense and silent.

The doctor, an old friend of Dally’s, didn’t ask questions. He treated Johnny’s wounds and gave us a place to stay for the night. “He’s gonna be okay,” the doctor said, but the worry in his eyes told me otherwise.

We spent the night in restless anticipation, watching over Johnny and waiting for any sign of improvement. As dawn broke, we knew we had to move again. The Socs would be looking for us, and we couldn’t stay in one place for long.

Chapter 8

The morning was quiet, the air heavy with the scent of impending rain. We decided to head back to the old bike shop, our usual hangout. It was a risk, but we needed to regroup, to figure out our next move.

As we rode into town, the streets were eerily empty. It felt like the calm before a storm, a moment of uneasy peace. When we reached the bike shop, the rest of the Greasers were already there, their faces etched with worry.

“How’s Johnny?” Sodabike asked, his voice strained.

“He’s holding on,” I replied, exhaustion in my voice. “But we need to stay out of sight. The Socs are gonna come after us hard.”

Dally nodded, his expression grim. “We need a plan. We can’t keep running forever.”

As we huddled together, discussing our options, the door burst open. Bob Brakepad and his gang of Socs stormed in, their faces twisted with anger. “Time to settle this once and for all,” Bob snarled.

The air was thick with tension as we squared off, the room charged with the anticipation of violence. “This ends now,” I said, stepping forward. “No more running. No more hiding.”

The fight that followed was brutal and chaotic. Fists flew, bikes clattered, and the air was filled with the sound of shouts and grunts. It was a blur of motion, a whirlwind of pent-up rage and desperation.

In the midst of the chaos, Johnny, who had insisted on coming despite his condition, found himself face-to-face with Bob. “You’re done, Brakepad,” Johnny said, his voice steady despite the pain.

Bob lunged at him, but Johnny was quicker. He dodged to the side and delivered a punch that sent Bob sprawling. “This is for all the times you’ve messed with us,” Johnny said, standing tall.

The fight raged on, but gradually, the Socs began to falter. We fought with everything we had, driven by a determination to end the cycle of violence. One by one, the Socs were forced to retreat, their spirits broken.

As the dust settled, we stood victorious, but it was a hollow victory. Johnny collapsed, the exertion too much for his weakened body. We rushed to his side, fear gripping our hearts.

“Hang on, Johnny. We’re gonna get you help,” I said, my voice choked with emotion.

The Socs, seeing the state Johnny was in, seemed to realise the gravity of what they had done. Cherry Pedalton stepped forward, her eyes filled with tears. “Please, let me help. We need to stop this fighting.”

With her help, we managed to get Johnny to the hospital. It was a long, anxious wait, but eventually, the doctors came out with news. “He’s stable,” they said. “It’s going to be a long recovery, but he’ll make it.”

The relief was overwhelming. We had fought, we had bled, but in the end, we had survived. The rivalry with the Socs wasn’t over, but it had changed. The events of that night had shown us all the cost of our hatred.

In the weeks that followed, Cycleridge began to heal. The Greasers and the Socs still had their differences, but the intensity of our rivalry had lessened. We had seen the pain it caused, and we were ready to move forward.

Johnny’s recovery was slow, but he grew stronger every day. We visited him often, bringing him updates from the tracks and the road. Our love for cycling, for the thrill of the ride, was what united us, and it was what would eventually bridge the gap between us and the Socs.

As I stood at the top of our favourite hill, looking out over the town, I felt a sense of hope. Cycleridge was changing, and so were we. We weren’t just Greasers or Socs; we were cyclists, bound by a shared passion and a desire for peace.

Maybe one day, the tracks and the roads wouldn’t be lines that divided us but paths that brought us together. Until then, we’d keep riding, keep pushing forward, and keep believing in a better future.

Because in the end, it wasn’t about the bikes we rode but the spirit with which we rode them.

Chapter 9

The weeks turned into months, and Cycleridge slowly began to heal from the divisions that had once defined it. Johnny’s recovery was a symbol of our resilience, a testament to the strength we found in each other. The fights had lessened, and a tentative peace seemed to settle over the town.

The Socs and the Greasers still had their differences, but there were moments of understanding, brief instances where we saw each other as fellow cyclists rather than enemies. Cherry Pedalton played a significant role in this change, often mediating between our groups, her calm demeanor and earnest desire for peace helping to bridge the gap.

One afternoon, as Johnny and I rode through the town, we noticed a group of Socs fixing a flat tyre by the side of the road. It was Bob Brakepad and his friends. For a moment, we hesitated, unsure if we should offer help or just ride past. But then Johnny, with a look of determination, rode over to them.

“Need a hand?” Johnny asked, his voice steady.

Bob looked up, surprise flickering across his face before he nodded. “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”

Johnny and I helped them fix the tyre, and in that simple act, something shifted. We weren’t best friends, but the hostility had lessened, replaced by mutual respect. We talked about bikes, about races, about the things that connected us rather than divided us.

It wasn’t a dramatic moment, but it was a start. A step towards something better.

The annual Cycleridge Bike Fest was approaching, and it presented an opportunity to bring our two groups together. The event was a celebration of all things cycling, with races, exhibitions, and workshops. Cherry suggested that we organise a mixed-team race, pairing Greasers with Socs, to promote unity and collaboration.

At first, there was resistance from both sides. The wounds were still fresh, the memories of past conflicts too vivid. But gradually, the idea took hold. The thought of working together, of setting aside our differences for the sake of the sport we loved, was compelling.

Dally, always the sceptical one, finally agreed. “If it helps to keep the peace and makes the races more interesting, I’m in,” he said, a grudging smile on his face.

Chapter 10

The day of the Bike Fest dawned bright and clear, the perfect day for a race. The town buzzed with excitement, the air filled with the sound of spinning wheels and the hum of conversation. The mixed-team race was the highlight of the event, and the atmosphere was electric with anticipation.

I was paired with Bob Brakepad, a pairing that seemed unthinkable just months ago. As we stood at the starting line, I felt a mix of nerves and excitement. Bob looked over at me, his expression serious. “Let’s give them a show, Ponywheels.”

We started off strong, our different styles complementing each other in surprising ways. The tracklocross sections were my domain, while Bob’s expertise on the road gave us an edge on the straightaways. As we navigated the course, I realised that working together wasn’t just possible—it was enjoyable.

We crossed the finish line in second place, but it didn’t matter. The crowd erupted in cheers, celebrating the spirit of unity and cooperation that had brought us together. For the first time, Cycleridge felt like a community, not a battleground.

As the day wound down and the sun set over the town, I looked around at the faces of my friends and former rivals, now mingling and laughing together. Johnny, still healing but stronger every day, stood beside Cherry Pedalton, their smiles reflecting the hope of a new beginning.

The Socs and the Greasers were still different, still unique in their ways. But those differences no longer felt like barriers. They were just different paths on the same journey, different gears in the same machine.

In the end, it wasn’t about the bikes we rode or the teams we belonged to. It was about the shared passion that drove us, the roads and tracks that united us. Cycleridge had found its balance, and so had we.

As I pedalled home, the cool evening air rushing past, I felt a sense of peace. We had faced our challenges, endured our trials, and come out stronger on the other side. The future was open, and the road ahead was full of possibilities.

Because in Cycleridge, we weren’t just riders. We were a community bound by our love for cycling and our belief in each other. And that was something worth riding for.