Nebraska Motocross Narrative

It was April 14th, 2013. The first race of the Nebraska motocross series. I love the pure adrenaline rush and the competitiveness of racing motocross. I had been riding every chance that I could. My new bike felt amazing in-between my legs. Being way faster than I was on my old bike, I felt like I was going to have a great season. To my friends and I dirt bikes gave us the happiness and freedom that we desired. I was the lucky one that found out that they can also give you sadness and suppression.

My dad was trying to convince my buddy Perry and I to do the hill climb in Logan, Iowa that was the same day as the race. We both kept telling him no because I didn’t want to roll my new bike down a huge hill and we both loved racing. We washed

our bikes and threw our gear into the washing machine. I told Perry that we should change oil in our bikes and clean our air filters. This took quite along time and it was pretty late when we started doing this. We loaded up my truck with our bikes and all of gear. Perry, the genius that he is, forgot his race gas and a cooler he packed at home so he had to drive to his house at like two a.m. to grab them. I set my alarm for six a.m.

and went to bed before he got back.

I woke up at six to shower and eat breakfast. We were out the door and 6:30 and off to Ashland, Nebraska. We had the hammer down only stopping in Ashland to grab three Red Bulls apiece. We chugged our energy drinks while driving a couple miles out of town to the raceway hoping to get awaken by the rush of the sugar. We parked our truck by our buddy Jacob after getting signed in and paying our entry fees. We made fun of Jacob for awhile for being such a die hard and having to be one of the first ones at the track. Setting up our canopy and unloading our bikes took about 5 minutes because we wanted to hurry up and walk the track. The track was a freaking mud pit. They had overwatered it. I was hoping that it would stay a little muddier after practice until the moto’s because I could out ride three-fourths of the guys in my class in the mud. After the track walk we all walked back to our trucks and got our gear on. The C riders were first to practice. The first kid to start up his bike just revved the piss out of it not letting it warm up like it should. We started shaking our heads because our dads taught us to respect your things and not mistreat them. Leaving our little camp

to watch the C riders practice we heard them starting to take off. We watched how they were making mistakes and not having any throttle control at all. We all knew that throttle control is the key in the mud. Half of the riders in C class went down in practice and their bikes were just caked in mud. We walked back and started our bikes the correct way because they called the B riders to the gates. We rode down to the gates and shut off our bikes so we could talk to one another before we went out. We are all very competitive and talked mad smack to each other. The C riders were called off flagged off the track so we started our bikes. We were towards the right side of the gates so we would be the last let on the track. The first guys took off and the official started pointing at other riders signaling to go. I was to the left of Jacob and Perry so they would be behind me. The track official pointed at me. I revved my bike practicing my start and dropped my clutch. I flew down the start stretch and hauled around the first turn.

I was feeling really good in this mud. My new bike was cornering perfect and hooked up so well. I was flying by guys! Half of the guys in the practice raced open class and were on 450s. I raced the lites class on a 250. You could tell if you passed a 450 just by the deep thumping sound that they made. After passing 15 to 20 guys I got really squirrely in the whoops. Almost losing it and going down, a couple guys closed up the gap I had between us. I proceeded riding not letting up a bit. Coming around the first corner on my last lap, I passed a rider on a 450. On the exit of the corner my front tire cross rutted and I slid out. In my mind I had to get up very quickly. I jumped up, grabbed my handle bars. I had my bike up and was about to hop on. All of the sudden I am on the ground and there is the guy I just passed going over the bars after hitting me. I tried to get up but I couldn’t. Trying and trying my legs were not cooperating. Bikes were flying around me. I finally crawled off the track not getting any yellow flags from the track officials. Finally, one of the track guys came over to me. I was very angry at the time. He asked me, “Are you okay?” I responded in a shout, “Do I look okay? I just crawled off the track with 20

bikes flying by my face and not getting a flag to warn them I was down!” I calmed down after he apologized for the lack of professionalism. A lady on a four-wheeler rode over to me and asked where it hurt. I told he it was my legs. She examined them and asked me to move my feet. I was able to move my boots around a little because they are very stiff. She told me they weren’t broken and helped me onto the four-wheeler. The other guy grabbed my bike and rode it to my truck. She asked if I wanted to go to the ambulance but I declined and wanted to go to my truck. Jacob and Perry were back at our camp by the time I arrived. I was able to hop on one foot by then and hopped over to my lawn chair and took of my riding pants. Jacob’s mom is a nurse and checked me out. I had a huge headache so she checked my pupils and looked at my leg. My knee had swollen up to the size of a slow pitch ball. She thought I I should go get it checked out at the ambulance but I just took a couple pain pills. They made me an ice pack with ice from the cooler and a sandwich bag. After practice was over, the races started and I had to watch all of them. I forgot about my knee because it hurt more to be watching from the side of the track.
I got home and my dad told to toughen up and be a man. That is just what I did and a week later it was still giving out on me. My mom made me an appointment to get an MRI to see what was going on. The doctors told me that I had torn my ACL and explained the surgery to me. I had surgery one month later. The recovery time was six months. No walking for two months and no strenuous activity. I hurt not only on the outside but the inside. I watched everyone around me do the fun things that I had waited to do since last summer. I went from being one of the happiest guys around to one of the saddest. It’s funny how life can change from being crazy and happy to dull and sad in just a matter of moments.