The White Line
Chris Huff
Riding up the path toward the trail, I pedaled with force and stood up. I'd heard of people using special bikes at similar suicide rides – they were lighter with more traction. I looked down at my mountain bike with its big clumsy wheels and winced at the image of myself barreling over the side, limbs flailing, and envisioned my poor mother getting the news that her one remaining son had gone to join the first. The White Line, I can see it, calm and present and menacing. A white stripe of fine-grained sandstone painted high across a red rock cliff — it looked like one large flatline above all the beauty in Sedona, Arizona. My brother always talked about this place. He had said, "You can die at the White Line. It's the scariest bike trail in the world…one small mistake and you'll tumble all the way down." My eyes darted to the floor…I had that same image of clawing and shrieking through the air. All at once I shuddered and the image turned off.
Simon smirked and nudged me backward. "You're afraid of everything, Jo-Jo."
I pushed him with both arms, but he didn't budge. "My name's Jonah! Take me with you, Si…I can do it, I'll show you."
He ruffled my hair and patted my head. "You're only twelve, Jo-Jo…hey I'll get you something cool while I'm out in Sedona. Something from the trail."
"I'm gonna ride it someday, by the time I'm eighteen, just like you are," I said. I made the vow to him back then, and I remember him looking at me, and me looking back at him, and both of us trying to figure out if I meant it, if I would actually do it.
"You're always trying to prove yourself, lil bro. You don't have anything to prove, Jonah, you've already made it, just by being who you are. You're the musician, I'm the dumb jock and daredevil," he said with a laugh. Si had a deep, hearty laugh that made it seem like everything in the world would be okay, as if it were up to him. I admired him so much and even wanted the sound of my laughter to be like his. He was my father figure for as long as I can remember because my real dad left us when I was only a baby.
Simon set out toward the White Line, but he never made it home. He died in a wreck when a trucker fell asleep and crossed over the center line. That morning, Si, his girlfriend Alyssa, and his best friend Dane got in his old black truck, and they all headed north to Sedona on the I-17. Skipping class and they were gonna make a day of it. The White Line was intended to be the first stop, and afterward they wanted to spend time in town, doing whatever they pleased, but it wasn't to be.
When I turned eighteen, I knew I had to ride the White Line. Not just for me, but Si also. But I'd had a severe fear of heights for as long as I can remember. That meant no roller coasters, and I'd sit in the middle or front rows on the bleachers when we'd watch Si’s games. Just looking at pictures of the White Line made my legs go weak. As the day closed in, I was close to backing out, even though I'd planned it for months with my best friends Travis and Greg. They eventually agreed to go because they knew what it meant to me, but I went into a full-on panic attack the night before and didn't sleep much.
I snapped-to just in time to pull on my handlebar brakes, sending the back wheel up and slamming one leg down for balance. I nearly steered into a large prickly pear cactus, drifting off in thought as I'm known to do. I shook my head, then looked up at the dirt cloud created from my hard braking, and it made me think of Simon stealing bases. He gave pitchers fits. They’d hurl the ball across the plate, to the catcher – who would also be on edge – knowing they had to contend with one of the leading base-stealers in the state.
In grade school, I'd hear from my teachers, "Hey, are you Simon Adler's brother?" when they'd read my name during roll call on those perennial first days of school – their eyes glowing as if I knew someone famous. He still holds high school records for the most passing yards and touchdowns – even though his senior season was cut short by his death. But baseball was his love, and you could feel the shift whenever spring rolled around.
During the season I played baseball as a child, the coaches would toss me into right field, and I'd tremble under the lights, praying urgently to God, asking that he wouldn't let the ball be sent my way. That signal must've been received by the batter, and I imagine he got a whiff of my fear before sending a high pop fly out in my direction. I'd usually succumb to the pressure, my glove raised high and slack, trying to figure out the trajectory of the baseball's descent, and where it might end up. I'd hear the "Sssssssssssssss" sound as it whirred above me, then running toward the fence, while I scrambled through my shame to avoid an even worse one. And worse would happen. Sometimes I'd scurry to the ball and would go to pick the damn thing up and I'd kick it, or I'd try to scoop it with my glove, but it'd slide back to the ground. Some of the lucky ones earned in-the-park home runs by hitting it out my way. Simon tried his best to help me – we'd spent hours at the park – him popping the balls way up, and me catching them while under the glow of his confidence – but during the actual game something else took over, and anything that could go wrong usually did.
This was a new day though. I wasn't going to buckle beneath the pressure or the fear. Still a distance out, I pedaled. The ground was smooth and the pathway free from the many loose stones and rock ladders we’d hurdled through on the lower trails. The incline continued to get steeper, so eventually I jumped off the bike and pushed it. I felt a presence calling from up there, and I wondered out loud if it was Simon. Until that point, I fended off the idea of what I was doing, but it was so close now. I gripped the handlebars – my hands sweating, and I looked straight ahead. Squinting, I tried to steel myself against the fright that seized me anytime I looked to the line. I worked to gain control of myself by remembering what I was there for.
"Hey fucker…are you trying to leave us behind?"
I looked back and saw Travis grinning up at me, walking beside the expensive bike his dad just purchased for him. Greg came into view a few seconds later, his head tilted downward, and his lips tightly wound.
Travis was the only one who had his life all planned out. From the time I'd known him, which was grade school, he knew he wanted to go into the Marine Corps like his dad. Greg didn't know what he wanted to do with his life, but seemed okay with that, and was going up to Flagstaff to attend NAU because he was tired of the hot, endless summer of Phoenix. Early in the year, Travis and his dad went in on me about how I should join the Corps also. I relented, and soon after, I was in front of a recruiter whom I verbally committed to join with but had yet to sign the paperwork. I thought about what Si would say about me joining the Marines. I knew he'd think I was just trying to prove myself again. I'd never shot a gun in my life and didn't want to know how to. My dream was to play my guitar and mix it up with songwriters and producers in Nashville.
Crazy as it is, I was trying to lose them – Travis and Greg. I felt the need to be alone the closer we got to the line. I wanted some silence to talk with Simon – to tap into his voice if I could. My fears of him slipping away were strangely sedated in the times I was afraid, like I was when riding toward the White Line, because those were the moments when he was always there for me. A collage of his advice and encouragement welled up within. You don't have to be anyone else…be Jonah. It's not that serious, Jo-Jo. It's just sports. Sports don't make you a man. I'd give you my throwing arm for your music talent. Use the fear to help you focus.
"I would've caught up sooner if I didn't have to drag that one along," Travis nodded over to Greg. "Greg says he's not gonna make the ride. I'll bet he wishes his mommy was here to take him home."
Greg looked up. "This is insane. All it would take is running over a loose rock, having a malfunction or a tire slippage, and we’re goners. It's a crazy, death-defying thing to play around with. Stupid really. I'm just not feeling it."
I thought of my own mother. She had to work that day – the day we went to Sedona – at a local Italian food spot, Dominic's, where she picked up a waitressing job part-time. I couldn't tell her about the White Line, or she'd have tried to stop me. I did let her know I was going to Sedona to honor Si. She said she wished she could take the trip too, and that we would celebrate my birthday together as soon as possible. She held onto both sides of my face right there in the living room, the morning I headed out. Her hands were always cold, but they were delicate. She said, "I know what this means to you…what he means to you, Jonah." A few tears slipped down my face as she spoke, and I held onto my mother. As we embraced, I thought of our quiet house the months after Si left, a silence that never left us. Her doors were shut some days and so much time would pass that I'd go check on her, kneeling by the bed while she sobbed. It doesn't seem like we ate anything at all in those months. When we did, it was pizza delivery.
I wanted to tell her I needed to go to Sedona because I felt like he was disappearing, that after six years it seemed like Simon was almost forgotten. Every day at school, at least once, I'd peer into the trophy cases, to the plaques, and try to bring him back, even if for a moment. Sometimes I would have to concentrate hard to remember what his voice sounded like. I'd look for interviews and news articles of him online, and we had some videos of his games. He was fading away, and I needed to let him know, somehow tell him I wouldn't let that happen – or I needed his permission to move forward and to ask his advice on how.
Travis pushed his bike up to where I was, and we stood in silence. I wasn't feeling it today either. I was close to resignation, like Greg, already preparing myself for Travis's teasing all the way home, and for him and his dad to have a good laugh about it over dinner. How a mama's boy like me couldn't face my fears, like they knew I wouldn't be able to all along. How I'd never make it in the Marine Corps.
We pushed our bikes in silence, and I fumbled around in my pocket to bring out my headphones, then plugged them in. Turning up the volume on my phone, I focused on the music to distract me from the near future.
Maybe I'm wrong, or maybe I'm right
Maybe it's just too late but this is keeping me awake all night
The sound stopped in my right ear as the earbud went falling. Travis was in my close periphery…he let go of the wire and it fell back to me.
"I said what are you listening to?" he asked.
"Kodaline."
"Greg's in a panic – I don't think he's gonna make it," he said. His voice was an urgent whisper, and he looked at me like I might have the answer, which struck me as odd because that's usually how Greg and I looked at Travis when we were undecided. I wondered if Travis was having second thoughts too.
"Make it, like make it to the top?" I asked.
"He's not gonna ride the White Line," Travis said.
I shrugged. "He’ll sort it out.”
"When ain't he scared, that little bitch," Travis said with a smirk. But for the first time, I felt like his smirk was hiding something. Like we were all experiencing the same fear together.
I looked up at Travis, who had a glint in his eyes – the same glint as when he looked at his father three weeks earlier – and I worried for him. I wanted to ask about that day and see how he was holding up. All three of us were there, playing basketball in Travis's backyard as we'd done for years. Dribbling, jumping, shooting, shoving. Same as we'd always done. Mr. Magnuson was doing work in his garage and at one point we asked if he'd join us, to help even up the teams for some two-on-two.
It was overcast, a seesaw of cold-warm contrast throughout the afternoon. Mr. Mag walked out to the backyard. He was a towering presence, even though he was my same height. He lifted weights religiously and hit the heavy bag. Ran every morning.
"If you ever hear me talking about yesterday's news and how in-shape I was way back when…I'll give you my rifle and you can put me down," Mr. Mag once said to me. "I'm forty-seven, but people tell me I look like I'm twenty-seven, and I'm in better shape now than I've ever been."
He didn't look like he was twenty-seven, but none of us had the guts to mention it. I never wanted to guard him. Mr. Mag was still a force to be reckoned with, whether it was basketball, tennis, darts, football – if I ever did get stuck guarding him, or playing against him in anything, I tended to take my foot off the gas a little, secretly wanting the game to stop as soon as possible. He had this competitive streak in him where he seemed like he was still out to prove something to someone, somewhere. I felt like there was something wrong with me because I didn't have much of that spirit at all when it came to playing sports. I just didn't want to mess up, make a fool of myself. I didn't need to hit the winning shot…I just didn't want to miss the one that lost us the game.
Travis never held back, and on that day, he matched Mr. Magnuson's fervor. They had a cement half-court with a painted free throw line and three-point arc. Travis was hitting threes without mercy. Right in Mr. Mag's face. His dad wouldn't let him drive in to take a close shot, forcing Travis outside by holding his ground and shoving Travis back. Mr. Magnuson stuck to him and threw his hands up in front of his eyes, but Travis just couldn't be stopped. I don't remember him missing a single shot. Travis had the look of someone fighting. Fighting hard to prove something to his father that I couldn't quite understand. I never had to prove anything to Simon.
I put my earphones back in and looked toward the red sandstone formations. We were close. I put the song on speakerphone, and let it play out loud to break up the tension. No one was talking. I looked over at Travis, whose face was emotionless, unreadable. The music blared.
We go out on our own…it's a big, bad world outside…carrying our dreams and all that they mean…try to make it all worthwhile
"That's a good song man…who'd you say that is, Codine?" Greg asked. His head was bowed toward the ground, and he didn't look over.
"No, it's Kodaline. Just discovered 'em a few days back…this is the only one of theirs I know. It’s a new song," I said.
"It's good," he said, his voice robotic and distant as if he was considering for the first time the danger that waited up ahead. I knew because I had to remind myself to breathe.
I drifted back to that day, on the basketball court. All three of us watched Mr. Magnuson get increasingly agitated as the game went on. There was a palpable tension climbing between Travis and his dad. Greg and I looked on like we were watching someone who was out of our reach and starting to fall.
Travis was the only one who didn't get the memo. I'd watched his dad get competitive, and fight hard, but had never seen him play so rough. The fouls became blatant. I stood paralyzed when he elbowed Travis hard while dribbling with the other arm. Travis made a noise and held his stomach, catching his wind.
"That was…a foul," Travis said. His breaths were rapid, and he tightened his face against the pain.
"You want to call a foul, little sissy, call a foul then!" Mr. Magnuson threw the ball, but Travis ducked it. My eyes fixed on Travis, captivated by his resilience in the face of his father. He was stoic – even more than he normally portrayed – and it occurred to me that this was something Travis must have seen before.
"All right, I'm a sissy calling a foul then. You can use your elbows in Muay Thai, dad, not basketball," Travis laughed.
The rest seems like it is slowed down, timeless. Mr. Magnuson wound his right arm back and smacked Travis with a good amount of force. Then Mr. Mag pushed him with both arms, but he didn't need to – Travis was already falling. Travis didn't try to avoid the hit and absorbed it flush, but it didn't seem to have enough velocity to knock him to the ground. Now I realize he fell to avoid getting hit again. Travis held a hand over his face and winced a little in a pathetic attempt to shield himself, but there were no further attacks. I didn't look up until I heard Mr. Magnuson's footsteps moving away and the back door to their house slam. Greg and I went over to Travis, but he refused our attempts to help. Travis pushed the ground and stood up straight. His left cheek was bright red, with eyes that radiated a mixture of shame and cold hate, but there were no tears. He never showed fear, just like today.
We made it there, to a large red rock; we were going to need to climb it to get to the White Line. I turned and started to ask Travis to hold my bike and pass it up, but I caught eyes with him. I didn't see a future Marine – I saw a boy who was held down by the love and hate he had for his own father. I wanted to tell him right there that I didn't want to join the military, that I was just trying to escape from my own painful life. And that even though I didn't understand what it was like to be the son of his father, I understood pain. I understood how pain could drive you to do crazy things and convince you to rise to occasions that didn't even have to exist.
"Hey, I know this is our last trail, our last ride." I put my hand on Travis's shoulder and one on Greg's. "But I've got to do this last part on my own," I said.
Travis pretended to object, but I could see the relief in his eyes and feel the pressure released from his voice.
"Oh, thank God," Greg said. "I was getting ready to puke my guts out."
I climbed the rock to get up to the White Line trail.
"I'll pass your bike up," Greg said, reaching.
I paused for a moment. "No, I don't need it," I said, and my smile opened, like a slow parachute. It felt like the end of something just to make it there, and I relaxed for a moment.
"We'll meet you back at Chicken Point," Travis said. "Don't take all fucking day."
I remained, again looking through Travis's tough exterior.
"Aye, aye, cap'n." Before I turned to face the White Line, the fear caught up to me again. Buying myself time, I thought of what we would do afterward.
"My mom's working tonight. We can pick up some beers at Travis's. Crack 'em over at my place." They nodded, their faces ghostly and taut.
I gave them time to make it back down, then I started on the line. I felt unsteady right away – it was difficult to walk straight. The path was off-camber and extremely sketchy. Not man-made. On the bike, I wouldn't have made it a quarter of the way through the slanted slickrock path before quitting. My heart kicked and thumped as I hiked, and I forced my eyes to focus on the line to distract myself from the steep drop-off. My breaths were short and rapid, I tried to soak in each moment, the way people do when they want to memorize something. Amidst all the brilliant shades of rock, The White Line told my story somehow. It was telling me something, leading me somewhere.
I made it to the end of the high trail and looked down toward the lower shelf, then into the ravine below. This was the hardest part for bikers. Si called it the moment of truth – he said people who rode it would slide down the twenty-foot hill, going slow, using only their front brakes, then had to make a 180-degree turn to get on the lower trail. "This is the part where nothing can go wrong. If a rider overcooks it, he'll die," Si told me. Standing there, I looked out at the majestic rock formations in the distance and the canopy of trees below and became newly aware of how high up I was. My body seized, and my heartbeat throbbed so hard that I could see it beating through my shirt. It was a mistake to stop. Everything around me swirled and spun. I pressed my hand back into the sedimentary rock behind me, leaned over and vomited.
I brought out the stone Simon gave me so long ago. "Yours, lil' bro," he said. "It's called an Apache Tear. I found it on a trail near the mines out in Superior."
I lifted my head slowly, captivated by the black, bright stone. It had the color and shine of Simon's old black truck.
There was a crowd of spectators in the distance, at Chicken Point, where Travis and Greg were waiting. A guide driving a pink jeep led a group of tourists, probably telling them historical facts about the spectacular red rock formations. It was a rarity for them to see someone riding or even walking the White Line. A group of them hooted and whistled. I pulled in a deep breath, then cocked my arm back and threw the stone up as high as I could. The crowd yelled some more, and as their voices bounced from one end of the sky to the other, I felt his presence grow stronger. A great weight lifted off as the tears poured out. Years of sadness fell to the dirt. My sight seemed to amplify, and I had never experienced such a moment of clarity. I thought of Si and knew he could see and feel all the beauty that I had. He was here, out there, and everywhere.
The lower shelf was even closer to the drop-off, but it was mostly flat. The adrenaline still kicked, and a primal instinct took over. That part of the hike seemed automatic, inevitable. It felt like I was controlling myself from another location.
The end of the lower shelf came into view, and that's when dizziness set in again. My legs were rubbery, but I kept moving. Only steps away, a feeling of euphoric elation washed through me, and I was overwhelmed by the realization I was going to make it. I stood there for a long time, trying to catch my breath and take it all in.
I made it back to my friends. Travis yelled "HEY" and just as I looked up, I reacted and caught the can of beer flying toward me. Greg and Travis had already started on their cans. I felt otherworldly, still in shock at what I'd done, and was still catching up to the moment.
"Where'd you get these?" I asked.
"I brought one for each, to celebrate after the ride. Didn't want to see 'em go to waste," he said.
"I'll wait until we get back," I said. "I've got to drive home."
"It's only one, you pussy," Travis said.
"I know, I know. I'll have some when we get back."
I could've drunk the beer. We were a good distance from my truck, and it would take a while for us to make it to the parking lot. But I was soaking in the good feeling I had. Something close to invincibility. We laughed and shot the shit all the way back. Loose and full of life. Lifting our bikes on the truck I looked at Travis, then over at Greg.
"We made it," I said.
Back home, sluggin' beers by my swimming pool, I felt the electric surge still flowing. It wasn't the alcohol. It's as if I had become someone else. Standing up I felt a swagger as I walked to the pool and jumped in.
"Pass me my beer," I said to Travis.
"Say pleeease."
"Hand it over," I said grinning, motioning with my fingers. Travis held the can behind him, pretended he was going to take a sip, and then gave me the beer.
We grilled up some food and ate together – silently knowing there wouldn't be many more nights like this, and we drank through the rest of the cans while playing darts in the garage. I turned the music up, and we didn't even keep score during the dart game.
Maybe live long
Or maybe die young
Or maybe live every day like it's your last day under the sun
It was that same song from earlier. The chorus came on and we were arm-in-arm, drunkenly yelling out the lyrics. The words echoed and shook as we held on in a world that was big and loud and bright.
