The Chase

Last season I pedaled like a madman, and the tiger was hungry. A couple of times he almost got me, and in the closing race, he gave me a flat. This season has been different - I’ve been struggling to reach the top 20, slipping on rock sections, and constantly choosing the wrong lines. The tiger has become slow and uninterested. I think it’s because of the 20K sponsorship I got. The money made me careful, and I felt responsible to do well.

In the last race, I was so wrapped up in my head that instead of taking a jump, I went around it. When I finished, the cheering of fans was forced, and a fellow rider got off the hot seat; concerned, he walked over just to ask: “Are you okay, man?”

I picked up downhill when I was a teenager, too late to become a professional, but just right to have some fun and break a bone or two. A couple of years later, with all my bones intact, I was winning race after race. I was never a strong pedaler, but the lines I took were clever and audacious, and the speed I developed from them was mind-blowing.

Sometimes after a race I’ve won, the press would ask me what my secret was. It was the tiger. But I never told them this. Over the years, I’ve come up with several answers to this question, they seem to work well: “Oh, it’s the support of my team that makes me do my best” or “I’ve really been training hard this season, a lot of effort has gone into improving my agility”. The tiger doesn’t care about me lying; what I say to others is irrelevant.

The tiger lives in my little black notebook. It’s pretty bruised from the outside, and sand has scratched off its shininess. When I first started drawing him, it was a game. I had bought the notebook to write down my goals and stay committed, but unable to come up with any, I started to doodle. Soon a tiger emerged from the crooked lines.

For a couple of days, he stayed there alone, but he began to chew the notebook’s corners and left long nail marks inside the covers. So I drew gorgeous antelopes and deer for him to chase, wild pigs hiding in the lush grass, and some goats for the lazy days. I sketched rivers and filled them with fresh sweet water. I planted vibrant lemon trees that cast long shadows. Some pages were rainy, and some were so dry they required gentle handling; the moon and the sun were fighting to illuminate them. In time the notebook became his home, his territory of 192 pages.

At first, I wasn’t sure how this untamed animal would fit in my life, but it made sense to take him to the mountains. It wasn’t long before he started chasing me down the tracks. He gave me power and focus, but most importantly - a wild thrill that I hadn’t experienced in years. Then the sponsorship came, and I felt like a fraud receiving it. After all, I was just playing around.

I started training harder than ever, I bought new gear, but all that did was make me lose. The tiger was fed up. He snarled at my new chestguard. He liked me riding t-shirts; that way, if he caught me, he wouldn’t have to chew through expensive plastic.

I was worn out and confused. A big race was approaching, but I just wanted the tiger to chase me like he used to. With nothing else coming to mind, I sat down to draw white rabbits, my peace offering.

The night before the race, it was pouring, and although it stopped in the morning, the damage was already done. Juniors and women went first, and they left the track close to unrideable, a steep potato field after harvesting. Slippery rocks, high jumps with impossible landings.

Just the way the tiger liked it.

I saw him maneuvering through the crowd, hungry flame in his eyes. His gait was soft and calm, he wasn’t startled by the commenter yelling in the microphone nor the fans ringing cowbells. I was the center of his attention.

While sitting in the chairlift, I noticed him slowly ascending the mountain, his striped back disappearing in the woods and emerging again in meadows blanketed with fireweed, the brilliant pink sea trembling as the tiger waded through it. When I approached the mountain top, he picked up the pace, and I lost sight of him.

“Good luck, mate!” “Yea, you too.”

I was on the start gate with the tiger nowhere in sight. Adrenalin boiling in my body, eating up all sensations and thoughts, I took off. 20 seconds into the course, I was going through a rock garden, the fans were screaming. From the corner of my eye, I saw the tape was broken where other riders had slipped out of the track. I crossed rough, muddy boulders, grasping the handlebar so tight, it felt like I would never be able to relax my fingers again. It took all my focus to stay on the bike.

My rear wheel slipping, I pulled out of the rock garden and onto a slope that was too steep even to walk on. The tiger emerged behind me. I felt his anger burning my back. He was a wounded animal, neglected and disappointed in me. I could hear his nails tearing up wet roots. The tiger was out to get me; he followed me through narrow, sketchy tree passages, down rocky open sections, over fallen branches and small streams.

I took the last 20-meter jump; running beneath me, the tiger roared so loud the air around me shook, and as I landed, something was off. The yelling of the fans had become muffled; they seemed puzzled and worried. The cheering intertwined with distressed screams, but I barely noticed it. The only thing I could distinctly hear was the tiger’s wheezing breath.

Fuelled by the jump, I was going at around 60kph, the finish line was already in sight. I bent forward and pedaled as hard as I could. I straightened my back as I went through the finish line arch, and among the spectators, I noticed a woman in a disposable raincoat. Her eyes were frightened, and just as I started dropping speed, she yelled: “Tiger!” But instead of running away, she jumped over the barriers and hurried towards me. She brushed right past me, and I abruptly flipped around. I saw her dropping on her knees in the muddy grass, and a dirty limping labrador jumped on her, licking her face.

“Tiger, are you alright, sweetie?” she asked.

I did the same.