Motocross Madness by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

Okay?”
    â€œSounds like a plan,” Frank said. “We’ll catch up with you at our garage bay after they shoo out the public.”
    â€œGreat,” Jamal said. “See you then.” He took his bike back to the makeshift garage, then headed up to the announcing tower to see Corri, who was still covering the race.
    The brothers, who had already put their cycles away, headed for the concession stand. They got a good view of the track on the way, and caught a bit of the action. Marissa Hayday seemed to be driving well. Her pink and purple bike whipped around the track, getting good air on the whoopdedoos. Jules Kendallson rode fairly well, but almost wiped out after a big jump. His bike hit the ground hard, and his armored shins brushed against the dirt as he turned.
    â€œOuch!” Joe said. “I bet he’s glad to have on that black and green armor. Otherwise he’d be picking rocks out of his legs for weeks.”
    â€œElizabeth Navarro’s not doing much better,” Frank said. “Look, she’s gone down again.”
    As they watched, the young rider hit the bottom of a berm and spilled off her bike. Her yellow and black riding armor protected her, though.
    She scrambled to her feet and got back in the race.
    â€œAnd the skull on her helmet keeps on grinning!” Joe said.
    Frank chuckled. “You have to admire her determination—and her dad’s enthusiasm.” He looked to the pits near the track, where Richard Navarro was jumping up and down, rooting for his girl.
    The brothers grabbed some bratwurst and sodas from the concession stand, then decided to take a walk around the grounds as they ate. The track lay on the west side of the fenced-in area, with an extension of the course running off to the north. Thick woods abutted that side of the property. The brothers spotted several trails running from the edges of the dirt track into the trees.
    â€œThat must be part of the cross-country course for Sunday’s Enduro race,” Frank deduced.
    â€œRight,” Joe said, confirming the information on the map that had come in their registration packet.
    From there, they looped back past the edge of the metal-walled garages and prep areas. They checked the office, which seemed both deserted and secure, then circled toward the main gate on the south. As they walked, they had a good view of the industrial property to the east, which seemed to manufacture enormous concrete pipes.
    â€œThis is a pretty nice course,” Frank said, gazing around the Fernandez compound. “Too bad they’vebeen struggling financially. I wonder how they’re doing at the box office?”
    â€œIt looks like they’re closing it’ down right now,” Joe said, gazing at the small kiosk near the front gate.
    As the last race wound to its conclusion, spectators drifted from the stands and toward their cars in the nearby parking lot. Some cars were already rumbling down the dirt driveway past the gate.
    A short, dark-haired woman came out of the brightly painted kiosk near the raceway’s main entrance. In her hands she held a big, gray cashbox. A tall man in black riding leathers and wearing a scuffed-up black helmet came out of the building a few steps behind her. The two of them headed toward Pops Fernandez’s office, on the east side of the property.
    â€œThe size of the crowd should indicate a good take today,” Frank said.
    â€œTomorrow’s crowd will probably be better,” Joe said. “It’ll be Saturday, for one thing. And I’m sure the publicity from the Henderson crash will bring more people through the door.”
    Frank shook his head. “I hate to think of people—even nice folks like the Fernandezes—profiting from a serious accident.”
    Joe nodded his agreement. “It would be ironic if Henderson’s injuries helped pay for Corri’s rehab.” He cast his eyes back to the woman leaving the