by Focus
© 1999 Focus, all rights reserved
Where we lived we were about 5 miles from town. We were at the junction of two roads, Avenue 13, the pavement of which ended about half a mile east of us, and Road 30, which was only a mile long. We had a neighbor across the creek from us: the Lilles family. Nana and Grandpa Fred lived a quarter of a mile east of us. The Shitanishi family was off the road about half a mile south of us. And the Calvin family lived a little over a mile south of us. The Lilles, Shitanishi, and Calvin families all had kids, but they were all boys, and a bit older than us.
So it was quiet where we were. There were the normal animal sounds of a farm - lowing, bleating, clucking, crowing, barking - and the occasional sound of a tractor. But there was very little traffic. It was quiet.
Except one day of the year. This was the midsummer day that the motorcycle club had its cross-country meet. The afternoon before the meet one motorcyclist would come past our house, carrying a basket of little sacks with a white powder in them. At the corner of Avenue 13 and Road 30, he would toss out a bag. The bag would burst, and make a bright white streak. From the placement of the streak, the meet participants would know which direction they were supposed to go.
The year before, my sister and I had stayed outside all day to watch the cyclists drive past. But this year I had an idea. My sister and I worked together to implement my plan.
First, we got a new sack from Mom, as nearly identical to the broken bag as we could find. Then we took a broom, and swept all the spilled powder into our new bag. We couldn't get quite all the powder off the road, so we got some dirt, and sprinkled it over. We didn't have quite enough white powder, so we got some flour from Mom to make up the difference. We tied our bag with the same string that the bikers had used. Then I got on my bicycle. Lois handed me the bag. I pedaled down the road as fast as I could, then threw the bag down as the biker had - but on the other side of the road!
It worked great! It made a dramatic streak of white, just like the original marker - but pointing another direction. We were ready.
The next morning, early, as expected, we were awakened by the sound of a motorcycle. The cyclist sped by our house, heading east, towards Nana's. We threw our clothes on, and were outside in time to see him return, look again at the marker, and speed off toward Nana's again. We could see him circling at Nana's corner. He went east from there, toward the end of the road, out of sight over the railroad tracks. Then he came back to Nana's and headed south, out of our sight again. Then he came back to our corner, and went south instead of east - in the direction the original marker had told him to go. We didn't see him again, but before long another biker came by, and went through the same rigamorole. All day bikers roared past our house, and past it again, and past it again, while we giggled.
But the next year, they chose a different route.