On the day I was supposed to meet my teacher for the first time, I ignored my mom's pleas to come home not smelling like gas and ass, and headed up to the mountains with my dad to do some enduro riding and off-roading. I was incredibly stressed out and anxious that day. Not only did I have zero idea who my teacher would be, but I knew I would start school again the next day with that teacher, regardless if I liked them or not. Going back into school required me to muster up every ounce of courage and faith that I had, even though I didn't have much of either.

When my conversation with my dad died down while we were driving through the mountains towards Rollins Pass, I took that time to silently ask God for peace. I also begged God to answer His promise to me, and provide me with a teacher who actually knew what they were doing for once. I knew if my home school teacher was anything like any of my past teachers, I would never graduate high school. I wasn't about to put myself through the same shit I'd put up with for over a decade. I'd been called incompetent, lazy, and useless by my teachers all too much over the years. The last thing I wanted was to be told that in home school as well. Home school was plan Z, and I was about to execute it. 

I completely forgot about my evening plans the second the sweet scent of two-stroke smoke founds its way to my nostrils. I'd missed that scent for months, and it instantly awoke that little redneck in my soul that had been hidden away for months, almost completely forgotten about. It was true liberation to be out in the wilderness again, even if the sounds and smells of nature were blended in with the addicting scent of blue smoke and the ringing and ticking of my dirtbike's engine. 

I'd been imprisoned in my own home by a devastating lung infection pretty much since the school year began. I'd been pent up for so long that I'd forgotten how awesome it was to ride my dirtbike. Thankfully, I didn't forget how to ride my dirtbike. If I had, then I would've crashed almost immediately, because the trail I was riding on was not an easy trail.

But I did forget just how awesome it was to feel the wind rushing up against me as I engaged all of my muscles to work with the dirtbike, so we could successfully overcome obstacles as one. I also forgot just how difficult and engaging enduro riding was. But the adrenaline, coupled with cold snow melt getting kicked up onto my legs and back as I charged ahead fearlessly on my steel steed, and a strong headwind howling off the snowy continental divide, was more than enough to numb the pain of tearing muscles. 

When the ride was over, I was drenched in mud and sweat. I was shivering from cold and exhaustion, and also nauseous from putting my unprepared body through literal hell and high water, but I was more satisfied than anything. That ride proved to the world that I was well on my way to recovering back to my old self again. Cystic Fibrosis tried its best to kill me, but it failed yet again. That much-needed dirtbike adventure also opened up my heart to be more accepting towards God.

One of the many reasons why I was leaning toward atheism was because I was wilderness deprived. I hadn't been out in the wilderness for months, except for one day in the middle of October when I went pronghorn hunting despite my illness. However, I'm hesitant to call that adventure a hunt. It was like shooting fish in a barrel because there were so many pronghorn running around. My great uncle Courtney chauffeured me around in his heated truck, and only had me walk a few yards away from the truck to shoot. I had myself a pronghorn by noon. 

But the dirtbike ride was much more engaging. I wasn't in severe pain anymore that was caused by illness. Of course, I was in quite a lot of pain during the ride because my legs weren't exactly ready for the exercises I put them through, and it turns out my hands were almost too weak to control the throttle and the clutch. But, it was a good, reassuring pain, not pain caused by a Pseudomonas infection trying to turn me brain-dead. The soreness in my legs, and later my hands, reminded me that although I'd been at death's door, I wasn't anymore. If I was physically strong enough to race that dirtbike uphill over rocks, ditches, potholes, downed trees, snowdrifts, and through deep, muddy puddles, I was physically strong enough to get back to life as normal. Soon, I would be back to my old self again. 

Of course, my anxiety immediately returned as my dad drove me home. I knew I was not presentable in any way, shape, or form. My mom would be pissed if she saw the condition I was in, and I only had so much time to get cleaned up before my teacher came knocking on my door, whoever they were. My blue jeans were now a crusty brown color from all of the mud I rode through. Cold water sloshed around in my boots, and my socks remained soaking wet when I poured out the water. My hair was matted from being allowed to blow freely in the wind, despite my best efforts to stuff it into my hoodie, and also had clumps of mud and tree debris stuck in it. And, when I was filling up my dirtbike with gas before the ride, I managed to get some on my clothes, so I really did smell like gas and ass. 

But, I still returned home with an ear-to-ear grin on my face. For the first time since I got sick with Pseudomonas the second time, I was genuinely happy. I wasn't exactly proud that time. Instead, I was just relieved that I was on the upswing. My health was returning, and pretty soon, I hoped the clothes on my back wouldn't feel so heavy anymore. I'd regain my muscle, my lung function, as well as my energy that Pseudomonas stole from me. I'd be back to myself again in no time, and nobody could ever tell that I went through such a terrible tribulation.

However, I still worried that school might jeopardize everything. What if home school didn't work out for me, or was merely a temporary step to launch me right back into the classroom with all of my peers, where I'd likely end up with all sorts of fun lung infections? What if my home school teacher turned out to be just as bad as my in-school teachers? What if I lost motivation to do school, or I fell behind again, or I didn't remember anything useful from school? What if I flunked out of home school? 

All those questions and more spun through my mind as I cleaned myself up and waited for my tutor to knock on my door. To say I was gripped by fear would be a massive understatement. I was downright terrified. Yet, I managed to hide it. At least, I hope I did.