It is dark now, and our little mob crashes through the brush towards the limestone drop “Triple Dipper” to cheer our boy on when he rides through. It’s Bushy out there this time, and we’ve missed him every other lap, what with the golfing, the refills, the wandering around, and this time we are determined to raise the roof when he rolls by.
The problem is, it’s dark out there, really dark. At one point as we cross the racetrack, someone bellows “rider up!” and Hambone flings himself into the darkness in a panic to get out of the way. “I’m OK, I’m OK!” he is hollering- even as he continues crashing and tumbling down the bank. Riders are flashing by, headlights blazing, and hitting the drop with varying speed and confidence. Margo is on watch a couple dozen yards up as a spotter, but it’s going to be hard to tell who’s who out here.
Pretty soon, we are screaming Bushy’s name for every rider. “BUSHY’S NAME!” we yell. “BUUUSSSHHY’S NAAAMMME!” and it really catches on with the crowd. The crowd has galvanized around this. We have solved the confusing dilemma of what to yell when riders pass. Occasionally we yell, “TINA!” though I couldn’t, and still can’t, tell you why.
By the time Bushy arrives we have a well-practiced crowd of 40 people screaming his name. Margo makes the positive ID and we announce to the crowd that this indeed is the authentic article coming around the corner. They go crazy. Girls are throwing their bras, guys are lighting torches, and everyone is screaming, “BUUUUUUSSSSHY’s NAAAAAAME!” and it hits him like a bolt of lightning. It was like the volume blew him up the trail, or plugged into him like a Tesla coil. KaZAM! He was out of there.
We struggled and tripped through the smilac to the next waypoint.
And so it goes.