Fiction excerpt: Aspen author Pete Holman’s ‘Cruz’

Although my uncle worked for them, I had yet to meet any of the family that lived in the Red Mountain mansion. I often came home after dark and used the back entrance to the cottage. All I knew of the family was that Mr. Campbell, the owner, was a right-wing Colorado State Representative and had recently voted in favor of the Immigration Reform and Control Act. Domingo would often mutter spiteful things under his breath about Mr. Campbell, but was also smart enough not to bite the hand that fed him.

One Saturday afternoon, Dom needed help preparing the grounds for a big political rally Mr. Campbell was having at the residence. I worked diligently, aligning parking cones, organizing tables and blowing debris from the driveway. As more cars entered the residence, the 1984 Bruce Springsteen hit, “Born in the USA,” began to blare from a PA system, and some anti-immigration signs were lifted into the air by spectators.

Dom and I finished working and stood around the corner watching the rally in disbelief. The crowd grew to over 150 people in the next hour and eventually, a town car arrived with a very special delivery. Mr. Campbell greeted the car and opened the rear passenger door. Out stepped Summer.

With a thunderous roar from the crowd, Mr. Campbell grasped Summer’s hand and kissed her cheek warmly. Lightning coursed through my veins, and my heart felt as if it was being compressed by the weight of thirty stones. “Summer is Mr. Campbell’s daughter?” I asked Domi with a mixture of surprise and disgust.

“How do you know Summer?”

“From school. I had no idea she was Mr. Campbell’s daughter,” I answered.

Mr. Campbell wasn’t necessarily a bad man. We were just so dissimilar. I guess in some ways he represented the American Dream of opulence, decadence and excess. He had clearly raised a beautiful and respectful daughter, worked hard to obtain a prominent position in the government, and lived in one of the most beautiful houses I had ever seen. I just didn’t understand why he was so against immigrants. Did he care about his Mexican employees like my uncle who so arduously took care of his property? Did he see who we were as a people; our work ethic, our love of family, our humility? Would he have me deported or jailed if he found out about my illegal status? Most importantly, did his daughter share his beliefs? As Summer stood next to her father in solidarity my lovesick heart quickly filled with confusion.

The single most magnificent woman I had ever seen was not who I thought she was. Domi saw me pacing behind the cottage, fists clenched, and nostrils flared. “Are you okay, son?” he asked.

“Do I look okay?” I snapped back. This was a feeling I had yet to experience in my seventeen years on this earth. I wondered if this was what Pops experienced before he stepped into a boxing ring. A primal rage coursed through me. My internal organs twisted into knots, and my head felt compressed, as if it was being squeezed by a vice. My heart raced and I couldn’t stop moving. I began to feel unhinged.

“I have to get out of here,” I thought to myself. I needed to get far away from the sign bearers, away from the Congressman and away from Summer.

I ran back to the cottage and not sure why, but I swiped Mama’s cross pendant from the desk lamp and put it around my neck. Wearing jeans, a loose T-shirt and tennis shoes, I grabbed my bike and rode towards the only place I knew that could calm my spirit — the place where the hawks fly, the rock radiates maroon and the water glistens. My brain seemed to shut down, sound disappeared, and my vision tunneled. The only thing that I could truly feel was my connection with the bike.

As I rode, an image sequence began to play in my head like a movie on the big screen. I saw the Diaz family shake in distress as they were closed-up in a crate, the unforgettable crackling of gunfire appeared as orange flashes of phosphorescent light, and then I saw myself from above, running for my life into the abyss.

My mother’s necklace gently bounced off my chest like a metronome, helping me keep a heartbeat-like cadence. Unlike the Sierra Gorda range, the pavement was smooth and consistent, and my riding felt effortless. Ahead of me was an echelon of bikers on their way up to the Maroon Bells. Someone yelled something out to me as I flew by, but I had my rhythm and was locked in. I barely noticed the group as I punched past them.

Delatori laughed aloud, snapping Manuel back to the present. “That’s incredible,” he said. “I would love to have seen the look on their faces when you blew past them wearing jeans.”

Manuel laughed as well. “Me, too. Of course, they were behind me, so I couldn’t see the look on their faces.”

Both men smiled. “I later learned that the group was the seven-time State Champion Aspen High School Cycling Team, coached by Chris Carmouche. He was a member of the first U.S. Cycling Team to compete in the Tour de France earlier that year. Chris was following the team in a vehicle providing extra water, energy bars, replacement wheels and coaching tips. Coach Carmouche later told me that when he and his assistant witnessed me rip by their A-Team like they were standing still, they looked at one another like they had just seen an alien!”

Delatori chuckled again, “Little did they know, you actually were an alien!”

Manuel, grinning widely, nodded and continued.

My new bike was smoother, lighter, and twice as powerful as The Red Rocket. After four years of hammering up the Sierra Gorda mountain range on an antiquated, limited gear Schwinn Sting-Ray, my Colnago felt like a NASA-designed rocket ship. Sustaining 96 rpms in an aggressive gear, by the time I reached the top, I had put significant distance between myself and the Aspen Cycling Team.

I set my bike against the fence and stared up toward the Bells. I felt light, elevated and euphoric. The sun, which had just descended behind the mountain ridge, thrust pink and orange hues of light across the dome of the sky. The Aspen High School bike team and Coach Carmouche pulled in about 45 seconds behind me. Johnny, the team’s captain, was so fatigued that he struggled to dislodge his right cleat from his bike pedal and nearly toppled over behind me. Surprised by the loud scraping of his cleat on the concrete, I turned to see the entire team staring at me.

Coach Carmouche got out of the truck and studied me from head to toe. I originally couldn’t figure out why he was so focused on my tennis shoes, but I noticed his team were all wearing expensive-looking cycling cleats.

Coach Carmouche’s eyes shifted upward; my baggy blue jeans contrasted starkly against his team’s tightly sewn and brightly-branded Lycra bike shorts. My loose-fitting shirt, which I had failed to tuck in prior to the ride, had been flapping in the wind throughout the ascent.

“Who are you?” asked Coach Carmouche.

“I’m Manuel Cruz Delgado,” I said emphatically.

“Cruz is right! You just ‘cruised’ by some of the best high school riders in the state wearing tennis shoes and jeans!”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess I was in a zone,” I replied. Johnny watched as Coach Carmouche, clearly impressed, eyed me with curiosity.

“How ‘bout you join us on the Aspen High School Cycling Team? We are training for Nationals, and I think you could really help our team.”

“No, thanks,” I replied. “I train Aikido. But good luck at Nationals!” I added with a slight wave.

I mounted my bike and offered Johnny a smug smile as I passed the team. I pulled my mother’s necklace out from under my shirt and kissed it. “I will never leave your side again, Mama,” I thought to myself as I headed back home.

Pete Holman is an Aspen-based physical therapist, personal trainer and entrepreneur. “Cruz” is his first novel.