Dax Jumps Again

An aging stuntman struggles to pass the torch.

Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash

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Eighty thousand feet pound the stadium like a drum. Between two steep ramps, a hurdle forty cars high. Giant stakes poke from the vehicular mound, threatening impalation. And, as if to defy the February cold, the whole pile is on fire.

“DAX! DAX! DAX!”

They chant for the living legend—the man who jumped Hoover Dam with a Ford Pinto; he who flipped his Harley over the Vegas Strip; The Man Who Is Not Afraid of Death. Soon, Dax himself, in his iconic, custom outfit of leather jacket and blue bootcut jeans, will rev out into the field. And fly.

Tonight, he will escape death once again, or die. The collective beat of their hearts and roar of their voices demand it.

Down from the on-ramp, inside the entrance to the field, Dax stands shivering in his undershirt. He is forty-eight years old, with twenty-five broken bones to his name. In this cold, his thrice-crushed pelvis sends shockwaves of pain up his spine. For the very first time, he cannot bear to mount his bike.

Dax’s son, Tony, is pulling on the leather jacket. He already wears his father’s bootcut jeans. He reaches for the helmet.

“It’ll be okay, Dad. They won’t suspect a thing.”

He is too ashamed even to speak. His wife helps him into a sweatshirt and helps him sit down, her own dread clear in the quiver of her hand.

Tony affixes the helmet and climbs onto the CR500. He revs the engine.

They’ll know, Dax thinks.

The fear is sickening.

He watches as Tony kicks off—then it’s only a second before he’s up the ramp, making contact with the air.

He’s flying.

The lurch in Dax’s heart is visceral. He’s up there instead, suspended in the air; looking down at the burning mass, then up into the blur of shocked faces. Wondering; exhilarated: Am I going to make it? Am I going to die?

Will I ever jump again?

Then he’s watching from the sidelines, Linda’s grip cutting the circulation in his arm.

He always thought it was funny: Linda’s terror during his jumps. Now he understands. There are too many cars—the spikes are too tall—It’s not possible to make it!

Why did I ever agree to train him?

The bike reaches the jump’s peak, and Dax thinks wildly: No, why didn’t I train him better?

Always so begrudgingly! Always with his arms crossed, barely looking—discouraging him at every turn. Envy aching at his son’s painlessness; at how naturally it came to him.

Now, Dax would give anything to take Tony’s place, just to be able to bear the injuries. He jumps to his feet. The pain in his pelvis—his shame—is nothing. The image of the motorcycle sharpens.

There’s the tip of the off-ramp—it’s possible! He can make it!

There! The bump of the landing—Oof! But not bad! Please, God!

And he’s done it!

It was beautiful!

Spectacular!

Flawless!

His boy has come to a stop. The audience is chanting his name.

But it’s the wrong name.

He gestures to his son.

Take off the helmet!

He wants them all to know.

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