Not even five years ago, I was scared of my own shadow. My confidence was under the ground, and my social life was pretty much non-existent. I was bullied so badly in my first middle school, that I had to change schools. My bullies scared me into silence and destroyed whatever confidence and self-esteem I had. My teachers weren't great in that school either, and I ended up serving detention every single day because I was "too lazy to do my homework."
When I started going to my second middle school, which was an all girls school that focused on leadership, that fear and self doubt was pretty evident, but the students there accepted and embraced me immediately. Still, I was depressed, anxious, and afraid. I didn't know where to turn. I was in therapy twice a week, in a school that gave us lessons on confidence and leadership, and in Tae Kwon Do sparring. I should've felt empowered and confident. I should've been trusting of the students and staff alike. But I couldn't get myself to trust anyone no matter what. And I certainly did not feel empowered or confident.
I fell into a pretty deep pit of depression, and questioned if life was really worth living. I wanted something, but I didn't know what I wanted. I knew I wanted confidence, bravery, and the ability to trust again, but I didn't have a way to get there. I saw Tae Kwon Do as a chore, and didn't always enjoy it. I saw school as school, and even though I wasn't being bullied or chastised by ignorant teachers the first year, I couldn't get over what the previous school had done to me, and I dreaded waking up in the mornings to go to a place I didn't want to go.
On Christmas day of 2015, I was at my dad's house. The year before, he got me a BB gun that he hid behind the curtains like in the movie A Christmas Story, and we spent all of Christmas morning shooting at old milk jugs and cheap sodas. This year, however, my dad decided to get me something even better. It was actually Clarke's idea, and together my dad and him got my gift and carried it into the garage. Dad hid it under a blanket so I wouldn't notice it until I lifted the blanket Christmas morning.
Under the blanket was a little blue pitbike. A pitbike is a dirtbike, but smaller. We needed to clean out the carburetor, but once that was finished, the little thing started right up. I took it for a ride up and down the street. I was definitely a little big for it, but my dad said I could get a dirtbike as soon as I was finished with the pitbike.
For the next 6 months, my dad taught me how to ride and how things worked. I spent some good money on essential motocross gear, including a helmet of my own and a pair of motocross boots. The little blue pitbike only went a maximum of 25 miles per hour, but that was enough to get me started. I took it out to random fields on the eastern plains, onto trails in the mountains including Beaver Creek, Rollins Pass, and Cascade Creek, and even took it to a motocross track on the mountainside that had a mini track for pitbikes.
The more I rode, the more confident and happy I felt. I finally had an outlet. I was finally doing something athletic I was both good at and enjoyed. I finally had some sort of chance at gaining my confidence and bravery back. My depression slowly became a distant memory, since I had something to look forward to doing almost every weekend.
That pitbike taught me how to fall the safest way possible, and how to overcome fears and challenges. I learned that falling didn't hurt nearly as bad as I expected it to, and I could overcome obstacles in my way. However, I learned that it's sometimes ok to back off on challenges and adventures.
Beaver Creek was a pretty humbling trail. When we arrived with the pitbike strapped to the rack behind us, we were met with a rocky road that steeply ascended up the side of a mountain. I was confident enough to try it, but about halfway up, I hit a large rock, stopped, and gravity dragged both of us down. The gear chain snapped as the pitbike slid down on its side, and that was the end of that ride. Dad and I still explored the trail, only it was in his Xterra with the pitbike tied down on the rack, and the broken chain in my lap. The trail took us 14,000 feet high, and we only stopped and turned back when we came to a large snowdrift on the road.
The chain was an easy fix, and the next weekend my dad had me, I was riding again. But I began to notice some minor power issues. The pitbike was already pretty powerless. It was a 110cc four-stroke. Most lawn mowers I know have more power than what the pitbike had. But when I was riding, sometimes the engine would sputter and stall at random. When it did this, I'd just kick it to life again and it was just fine, until I brought it to the track one early morning.
As always, I raced around the empty pitbike track with ease, until the engine sputtered when I was a few feet in the air. When the engine stopped, the gears locked, so when I landed I fell. The crash bent the gear and I was a little scraped up. But, once my dad bent the gear back to where it was supposed to be, I rode again. But not even ten minutes later, it happened again. My dad accused me of just not giving it enough gas. He used the phrase "pin it to win it!",and sent me back on the track.
After about 20 minutes of riding without incident, I was riding around a corner with a dip when it happened again. This time, the 150 pound pitbike landed on top of me, and the engine didn't cut out completely. My left foot was stuck between the back tire and glowing hot muffler of the running pitbike, and I couldn't move. My foot was being burned, and I was in terrible pain. I screamed for help as I desperately tried to pull myself out from under the pitbike, but I couldn't move without pulling it further on top of me. My dad and another guy who was riding on a plateau directly above me, came sprinting to my rescue. My dad lifted the bike while the unknown rider yanked my foot free. I crawled away, and then tried to stand. I struggled at first, and the rider thought I had broken my ankle, but thankfully I stood up and was able to limp back down to the pits.
My dad strapped the pitbike down on the rack while I took off my left boot to inspect my foot. The skin on top of my foot near the ankle was raw and peeling, and it stung like hell! I just put the sock back on, slipped it into my shoe that I didn't bother to tie, and sat in the Xterra. Dad took me out to lunch, and while food did distract me from the pain for awhile, as soon as I got home and took off my shoes and socks, I noticed my burn was starting to boil. For a week, I wore nothing but crocs and medicated bandages on that foot, but thankfully the boil went away and the burn healed, but not without leaving a rough scar behind.
In an interesting way, that crash gave me confidence and reduced a lot of my fears and anxieties. I knew the pitbike was finished, and I also knew I could crash and survive just fine. I found that I could even laugh and brag a bit about that day. So, as I wrapped up my wound and replayed the event over and over again in my head, I figured that perhaps motocross was a sport I'd like to further pursue.
By then, it was nearing the 2016 school year. I had moved to the far western side of town, and was about to attend a private Christian school for my sophomore year. I wanted a dirtbike, and my dad looked all over town for one. When he found one he thought would be the perfect fit for me, he took me to see it.
The dirtbike was at a warehouse in a sketchy Denver neighborhood. We were met with two very large biker guys, who had the dirtbike set out for us. They had done a full engine rebuild on the dirtbike, replaced its shocks so it was a smooth ride, and gave it new plastics. While much of the dirtbike was still 20 years old, it ran and looked brand new. However, I wanted a four-stroke dirtbike, not a two-stroke. This dirtbike was a mean two-stroke. When my dad test drove it, the front tire lifted off the ground in first gear. If the front tire could lift off the ground with a man twice my size riding it, how was I supposed to ride? Before I could ask this question, my dad had already fallen in love with the dirtbike, and gave $700 to the bikers.
Dad and I took it back to his warehouse in Golden, where I had also left my pitbike. The red two-stroke was twice the size of the blue four-stroke, but was also a lot faster and lighter. In fact, the two-stroke weighed about 145 pounds with a full tank of gas, and the pitbike weighed 155 pounds with a full tank. My dad did his best to convince me the two-stroke would turn out to be my best friend, but I was skeptical; very skeptical in fact.
My dad was proved right. The moment I rode my dirtbike for the first time, I fell in love with it. I didn't leave first gear the first few rides, as I was still getting used to the power of the two-stroke. I rode in a field on the ranch Clarke used to live on. I tore up the land in that rattlesnake infested pasture, and made sure to avoid the occasional escaped llama and stray wildlife.
My dad would watch me from his Xterra, occasionally stopping me to tell me to go faster. He told me to remember to hold in the clutch every time I changed gears, and the powerband wasn't gonna buck me off, as long as I kept most of my weight forward and my eyes ahead. He even wrote some notes about the gears on a sticky note and taped it to the handlebars. Dad always encouraged me to switch gears and go faster, and I did. Over time, I gained more confidence and lost my fear of the two-stroke power. But, I always rode with the cheat sheet duct-taped to the handlebars in front of me, until I didn't really need it anymore and threw it away.
I rode well into the winter. As long as there wasn't too much snow, I was in that pasture every day I could. Sometimes I rode when it was snowing. Sometimes I rode when the wind kicked up dust and covered my goggles. Sometimes I rode in the rain, and I rode even when I heard the familiar sound of rattlesnake tails. My fear of getting sick from the weather quickly disappeared, and confidence in myself grew even more, especially since I was comfortably riding in rattlesnake territory with motocross boots that could crush the threat. Every day I rode, I felt stronger and more powerful than ever before, and it gave me a chance to escape my reality for a few hours a weekend.
I couldn't think about how much I hated school, or how much I doubted my faith, or how much Cystic Fibrosis hurt to live with when I rode. In fact, when I filled my ears with loud music, and raced back and forth across the golden pasture, I couldn't really think at all. All I could think about was what was right ahead of me. Sometimes, I'd stop at the top of a bluff that was in the middle of the pasture. From there, I'd listen to the ambiance of the eastern plains. Sometimes I'd see pronghorn and deer grazing and galloping across the plains. Sometimes the neighbor's horses and cattle would be nearby. The horses would often play, and the bulls in the herds would butt heads. Birds of all kinds would sing, and sometimes I'd hear coyotes yelp and howl. Even in the dead of winter, the plains were alive and thriving.
When Clarke moved off that ranch, my riding was forced to change. I didn't have 50 acres to myself anymore. I only had county roads to ride on, but that was ok. At least, I still had acreage in Minnesota and North Dakota to ride. And the county roads were relatively safe to ride as well. So, that's where I decided to start.
My summer trip to North Dakota in 2017 was pretty special. I was left to do whatever I wanted for the two weeks I was there. My grandparents and their siblings were busy renovating the old farmhouse, and the early June weather was almost perfect. It would rain from time to time, but it wasn't storm season. The plants I was allergic to hadn't sprung up yet, and the bugs were minimal. A strong cold wind would blow everyday, keeping things cool and fresh air moving. Sometimes, that wind would pick up dirt from the young crops and blind me for a few seconds, but I was having too much fun to complain, and the bandanna I wore under the full-face helmet protected my lungs.
I'd ride from the moment I was ready, until the stars began to shine. I easily spent about $100 on gas and oil for my dirtbike, and my grandpa was nice enough to pay for the Mountain Dew and beef jerky I grazed on. Donnell cooked us breakfast, lunch, and dinner, which I'd join everyone for. Otherwise, I was either in my room or riding my dirtbike.
I was glad to finally be out of that Christian school and on a well deserved vacation, but I was still struggling a bit. I was struggling with my faith in God, and anxious about my health. I didn't feel sick, but something just felt off. I also dreaded the next school year. I tried to tell myself that the school I was going to would be an answered prayer, but I couldn't convince myself that it would be ok. I had some sort of sense that something terrible would happen, but I didn't want to think about it. I just did my best to ignore my concerns, and went riding for hours on end.
I saw the most beautiful sunsets in North Dakota. Every evening, I'd ride out to the far hill at the end of the pasture, and watch the sun slowly set below the horizon. Killdeer, pheasants, meadowlarks, sparrows, and hawks would fill the air with their songs. Frogs and crickets chirped. Cattle bellowed in the distance, and the wind whispered through the grasses as I stood alone in silence next to my dirtbike on the hill. Sometimes, I drank a Mountain Dew, since my grandparents and their siblings liked me to join their card games and play late into the night. But I wouldn't start my dirtbike again until the sun was well below the horizon.
I've always revered the beauty of nature, and felt it was wrong to miss those sunsets. Those sunsets provided a comfort from life that I had been craving. There's just something reassuring about it, like a vision of heaven or an answered prayer. God's beauty truly shined every evening, and is honestly one of the things that kept my faith standing. It was a rare time, where I could sit still and rest in my mind, without worrying about things or dreading the near future.
Shortly after I returned home from North Dakota, dad and I drove to Minnesota with my dirtbike on the rack behind us. The journey to Minnesota was long and unpleasant. The AC belt snapped somewhere between Sterling, Colorado, and North Platte, Nebraska. We were caught in a heavy rainstorm somewhere in the middle of Nebraska, and the rest of the drive was hot and muggy, but at least it was cloudy. Dad kept a lead foot down on the pedal as we charged through Omaha into Iowa. We had the windows down, but that honestly didn't help make things any more comfortable. We couldn't talk to each other over the roaring of the wind as dad drove close to 90 miles per hour. I couldn't even hear my music in my earbuds, so I just stared out the window and prayed that it would stay cloudy.
After 13 hours of driving, we finally arrived at my grandparents', where we just stayed briefly to chat and get some dinner. Grandma was waiting for us on the front porch when we arrived and talked our ears off, while dad and I worked to lift the dirtbike off the back hitch and park it in the granary. We met grandpa in the kitchen, who was patiently waiting for dinner to be served. My dad and grandpa talked some, but we all fell silent when dinner was served. We were starving, and grandma didn't even have a chance to sit down before me and dad were finished, and were ready to go to my uncle Wes's for the night.
The next day, after breakfast at grandma's, my dad rode my dirtbike for awhile because he wanted to "just warm it up". He squeezed his big head into my helmet (which he somehow makes fit), and darted outside before my grandparents could question him. Grandpa just leaned back in his wheelchair, crossed his arms in his lap, and stared outside where my dad was trying to kickstart my dirtbike alive in the granary.
After a few laps around the farmyard and a failed wheelie, my dad gave me my dirtbike and went inside to try and wipe the grass stains off his white cargo shorts. I also did some laps around the yard, before heading down a trail that led to the pasture and pond. Unfortunately, the grass was almost neck high, so I didn't even get ten feet before I had to turn around. It's a bad idea to ride a dirtbike when you can't even see it!
My dad was just getting in his SUV when I came from the high grass in the pasture. He told me to follow him to my uncle Wes's, and we'd be hanging out there for a little bit. I was hesitant at first. I've never ridden my dirtbike on the county road before, and even though the speed limit was supposedly 30 miles per hour, my family and their friends usually went about 70, at least. The county road was shaded by many trees and wound around many farms. My dad told me to keep my eyes forward and keep towards the shoulder of the road, and I would be fine. Plus, he would be driving right there behind me.
Before we left, I ran into the farmhouse to gather my phone charger and wallet, and say goodbye to my grandparents. My dad took all of my things for me except for my phone, and we headed off rather slowly. I didn't know how fast or slow I should've been going, but I took the hint to go faster when I glanced to my left and saw the hood of the Xterra right next to me. I shifted into 3rd gear, but slowed down again to take a sharp left turn onto the stretch of road that passed both my uncles' houses, and quickly sped up again until my dad was behind me, not beside me.
Wes's was only a quarter mile away, but it seemed farther. I was admittedly scared, but I put that fear in the back of my mind. When I gained enough courage to hit the powerband in 3rd gear, I ran over something soft and slick just as I hit the powerband and reached the crest of the hill. I stuck out my legs as my dirtbike fishtailed to the side. At one point I was drifting, and I was using every muscle I could to keep myself from skidding out of control. Thankfully, after my dirtbike fishtailed a few times, the back tire let go of whatever the hell it caught, and I successfully regained control. I shook my head, then my shoulders, and let out a huge sigh of relief. There was no point in stopping on the side of the road, since Wes's driveway was 100 feet ahead of me. My dad had pulled ahead and was parked by the time I reached Wes's. I was still jumpy and full of adrenaline, so much so that even when I anticipated my dad's touch, I about jumped out my skin when his hand brushed against my knee while he closed the gas valve.
Dad asked what happened back there. He had seen the whole thing. I didn't know. Jess, Wes's wife, came up to ask what all the fuss was about. I was just sitting on my dirtbike, laughing hysterically and shivering slightly, and my dad seemed to be doing all the work for me. He closed the gas valve then reached up to undo the strap keeping my helmet on. I also jumped when he did this, so he held me by the nose guard and pressed the button that undid my helmet strap.
Dad explained to Jess that I had hit a T shirt or something on the road, and almost lost control going 45 miles an hour. Keep in mind, other than my helmet, goggles, and bandanna, I was just in a T shirt, jeans, and motocross boots. My arms would've been chewed to bits by the gravel if I crashed. Jess smirked and shook her head. My dad was almost offended when he asked her what was so funny about his daughter's near-death experience. It turns out, it wasn't a T shirt I ran over, and the road between Wes's and my uncle Wade's was littered with "T shirts".
"Someone had a little too much fun a few nights ago." Jess giggled and shook her head.
"What?" my dad asked.
I stopped playing on my phone and turned my head to hear Jess better.
"Monday morning, we drove over several pairs of underwear, a tank top. a coat, a pair of pink and black short shorts, and the dog found a bra that he was chewing on when we came back from work." Jess said, all the while trying not to laugh too hard.
"What?!" Both dad and I shouted together. We couldn't believe what Jess was telling us.
She repeated the story laughing hysterically and ended with, "Look for yourself! A pair of undies almost killed your daughter!"
I got off my dirtbike and wheeled it over towards Wes and Jess's garage, while dad and Jess continued to talk. My dad couldn't stop laughing when Jess's words finally sunk it, and he was tempted to walk over and see the road of underwear for himself. He took me along and found a stick on the way. Sure enough, we found a black sweater and a pair of underwear with my dirtbike tracks torn into it. My dad picked it up with the stick and flicked it in my direction.
"Oh hell no!" I shouted as I ran away back to Wes and Jess's. It turns out though, running in motocross boots that weigh ten pounds each is kinda hard.
I couldn't trust my ornery dad with a pair of dirty underwear on a stick, especially after he flicked it at me. Dad's also thrown dead mice in mouse traps at me, has a habit of flicking me in my ear and punching my shoulder when he gets bored while driving, and will always ambush me with nerf guns and water guns when he gets the chance. It's all playful, and I find ways to get him back, such as the time I put his straw in a ketchup packet and left it in his drink, so when he returned with our food, instead of Coke, he got a nasty surprise. I trust my dad with my life, but I don't trust him with a nerf minigun and an airhorn, or a wolf spider in a jar. But, I must admit, I love my dad's immature humor. Anyway...
Jess had offered my dad a discounted AC belt for his Xterra, and she'd give us the keys to her SUV while her coworkers fixed ours. So, she drove the Xterra away, and dad offered to take me to lunch in Lake City, since he kinda felt bad about throwing a probably diseased pair of underwear towards me, and I agreed. I got a few pictures of the scene, including the pair that almost killed me, on our way to Lake City.
A few days later, after hours of riding and good fun, I started noticing some issues. My dirtbike would sputter and stall at random, and I was pretty sure I knew what was wrong with it. The more I rode, the more power my dirtbike lost. It's engine sounded deeper and sick in a way. It didn't sound like a wasp nest anymore, it sounded like an angry dog. It finally clunked out in the field behind Wes's house, just as the family arrived for his birthday dinner. My cousin Troy jogged over to help me bring it back, and my cousins, my dad, my uncle Wade, my uncle Wes, and a few friends were all around my dirtbike trying to figure out what was wrong. Even my grandpa requested to be pushed over there to brainstorm possible issues. Meanwhile, I was in the house washing my hands and the sweat off my face.
I heard what sounded like gun shots, and rushed out to see what cool new toy Wes was showing off to everyone. It wasn't a gun, it was my dirtbike. Every time my dad kicked down the start lever, my dirtbike would backfire and a sizable red flame would shoot out the muffler. My uncle Wade diagnosed the issue as being an oil backup, meaning the oil in the oil-gas mix was too thick. A thick layer of crusty oil covered the surface of the inner engine parts, and it would be at least $200 and three weeks to fix. My dad and I both let out the same growling sigh, but whatever, it was fixable at least. So that was the end of my riding for the trip!
Our mistake kept me off the dirtbike for about four months. Well, not really. It was in the shop for a month, but then I got sick and couldn't ride for awhile. By the time I was well again and the dirtbike was running, it was cold and snowy. But now I had an instinct to ride, so I bundled up and started the engine anyway.
I was riding wheelies, and I'd pin the throttle in the highest gear downhill. I made sure to keep my body low towards the dirtbike, my head forward, my legs squeezed against the dirtbike, and a death grip on the handlebars. If I didn't, I'd literally get lifted off the dirtbike by the wind. I've done it a couple times before, and that's a scary feeling.
I had a few close calls. Denver's adventurous bad drivers seem to like wandering onto unfamiliar country roads, and have made a few bad choices around me. One guy failed to use his turn signal, and I almost slammed my elbow against his passenger-side rear-view mirror. Out of anger and shock, I glanced back and flipped him off. He didn't see me at all.
Another guy swerved into my lane for no apparent reason, other than to scare and piss me off. I revved my engine and made an angry gesture with my arm. I think he said something back, but I'm not sure since I haven't seen him.
A school bus popped out of absolutely nowhere around a bend and I had to hit the ditch to avoid running into it. Around that same bend, someone thought it would be a good idea to pass me, only to slow down immediately after cutting me off since there's another bend 200 feet away, and my tires skidded on the gravel as I turned to avoid rear-ending him. He was the only guy who was genuinely sorry for his actions, and I forgave him.
It's not just cars that are hazards though. I've almost run into multiple dogs, deer, and a cow on those county roads. I'm always watching for animals, but they like to run across the road out of nowhere, and the dogs love to chase me. I haven't seen the two huge Great Pyrenees dogs that would run out and chase me any chance they had, since November. That was always terrifying.
One day, I ignored the weather warnings and went out for a ride. It was perfect, but the wind was forecast to gust near 80 miles an hour, and blow at a steady 60 miles an hour. It didn't feel that windy until a massive gust roared from the south, and pushed both me and my dirtbike into the ditch. I stopped my dirtbike about 20 feet from the neighbor's mailbox, stood trembling for a bit to calm down, and then carefully rode back to the house. That same day, the trampoline almost went through our sliding glass door, and several large trees were downed.
It was obvious that I was way braver and stronger than ever before. That dirtbike taught me how to be truly brave. I rode in spite of my fear, and learned how to deal with sudden issues with control. Sure, I've yelled at a few drivers for being idiots, and when I was blown into the ditch I was trembling for about 20 minutes, but I haven't actually lost control in those situations. This new way of thinking helped me control my anxiety a lot better when I was at school, and probably really helped me battle Pseudomonas.
I had survived my first bout with Pseudomonas, and won without suffering any permanent damage. I had also been riding for well over two years, and my confidence while riding was sky-high. However, my confidence in school was near rock bottom. As far as trust went, I still couldn't really trust people.
I made friendly acquaintances with pretty much everyone at school, but I seldom opened up about my disease. In fact, I didn't tell anyone until I returned to school after being out for 9 weeks. When I returned, everyone I met acted like they were shaking hands with a ghost. One girl even went pale when I walked into the empty classroom behind her and sat down next to her. A rumor had spread that I had died, and the students made up a conspiracy that the teachers were lying when they said I was still alive. Thankfully, that rumor blew over pretty quickly when I returned.
My teacher in Anatomy class put me in the spotlight the day I returned. She wanted to educate the kids about genetic diseases, and wanted me to explain why I was gone on top of what my disease is. I didn't complain, but I didn't want to say anything either. I stuttered from nervousness pretty much the whole time. I wasn't sure how everyone would react. In the past, a lot of people bullied me, some treated me like I was a fragile little flower, and others completely cut ties with me. I once asked a student why she stopped talking to me when I opened up about my disease in 9th grade. She sighed, and with tears in her eyes she explained she really liked me, but didn't want to befriend someone who was dying. I told her I wasn't dying. CF isn't cancer or ALS, and chances are I'll live just as long as anyone else. It was nearing the end of the year though, so she sadly didn't get to know me much better.
To my surprise, only a few students raised their hands to ask questions after I was done stuttering over my words, and most of those questions were like, "So... um, is that why you leave five minutes early for lunch?" and my answer was, "Yes. Yes it is. The only good thing about CF is that I get to eat before everyone else, since my digestive enzyme pills work right away and I have to run down to the office to get them."
And to my even greater surprise, almost no one treated me that differently. For the first four weeks of school, I was normal in their eyes. I mean, I definitely stuck out of the crowd when it came to my style of dressing, talking, and learning, but my body didn't seem different than anyone else's. No one can tell there's something wrong just by looking at me. And when I returned, my normality stuck with my peers for the most part. It wasn't unusual for people to ask me questions, especially in Anatomy since my teacher blasted that door off the hinges, but I wasn't too bothered by it.
I still kept a lot of secrets, such as what I really do to treat my disease, or what my hobbies were. But once I started telling dirtbike and hunting stories, more guys began to approach me with little things like, "Hey, if I get my truck fixed, will you go riding with me someday?". I was too young and busy with life to even think about dating, and I think they knew it.
After Christmas break, I began to get sick again in January. A few students noticed that I was more tired and less hungry than usual. In fact, a few of them noticed before I even cared to put much thought into it, and asked me if I was ok. My anatomy teacher had also been watching me closely, and a couple weeks before I got sick, and a few minutes before the bell rang for class, she pulled me into the chemistry room and closed the door. She said she was battling a rare stomach cancer, but hadn't told anyone else, and she also asked me to keep it a secret. I agreed, and thanked her for acting as a sort of support. She was the only teacher who didn't really question it when I didn't get in my work while I was sick. She was the only teacher in my history to actually understand what I was going through in a way.
A week before I dropped out, I could hardly keep my illness invisible. I struggled to climb the stairs I was climbing with ease before. I was more distant in class, and didn't raise my hand nearly as often. I didn't tell nearly as many jokes as I did before, or interact with my table at lunch nearly as much. People were concerned, but couldn't help since I didn't even know what was wrong. All I knew is that I was feeling terrible, and I was scared to tell anyone about my illness.
The week I dropped out, my doctors did the usual tests, and found there was Pseudomonas in both my sinuses and my lungs. They listened to my breathing, and it was so bad that they could feel my chest rattle. The infection was deep, and they decided we'd hit this infection with everything we had. I was on three different antibiotics, as well as the medication my mom found out about. Those antibiotics destroyed my digestive system to the point I wasn't digesting anything, and the antibiotic I breathed in dried everything up. I was bleeding constantly, and would have to change shirts after coughing fits and nose bleeds. I was rapidly losing weight and hope, and I was beginning to reflect on life as if it was coming to an end.
I remembered all of the CFers who were sick and had died before me. I remembered their faces, since I interacted with them over social media. Every week, at least one CFers died from Pseudomonas. I saw them in my nightmares, and I began to look like them myself. I wasn't the girl I remembered. I was skinny, pale, with thin stringy hair and sunken eyes. I couldn't stay standing for longer than 5 minutes, or stay awake for longer than an hour. I ate only because I had to, and every meal crippled me. But, after a month of this, I successfully killed Pseudomonas again, and was on the road to recovery.
I was so weak, that I couldn't even lift my dirtbike up a millimeter off the floor, when I could easily lift it up to balance on the foot tall stand before my illness. My love for riding was kinda dead too. I wanted to ride, but just thinking about riding made me yawn. Yet, I was determined to get better. And when I was finally looking more like my old self again, my dad asked the best question I've ever been asked in a very long time.
"Do you want to go for a ride?"
I knew exactly how to answer that question. I opened up my garage and slowly backed my dirtbike out. My dad lifted the dirtbike on the back hitch without my help, and together we tied it down. We stopped at the gas station, and while dad filled up, I got three Mountain Dews, some beef jerky, and some pretzels. My dad had one dew, and we shared the large bag of pretzels on our way into the mountains. I hated the traffic, but once we got through that we were moving swiftly on the winding roads.
We decided Rollins Pass trail would be a fun ride. It was still early in the season, so there wouldn't be a lot of people on the trail, but that also meant that snow could be an issue. I was so desperate to ride, that I didn't even care about that. I might as well ride through the snow if there was any. My dirtbike could handle that.
The trail was wet and cold. Streams of snow melt trickled off the mountain into holes and depressions on the road. There were large pockets of slush and snow in the shaded areas of the road, and the trail was full of hazardous rocks that weren't yet pounded into the ground by traffic. A cold wind was blowing off the Continental Divide, causing snow to occasionally fall off the trees onto me, and turning my legs in my soaked jeans numb. Besides a few jeeps and a few other dirtbike riders, dad and I were alone. It was almost silent except for the obnoxious sound of my engine that scared away any and all wildlife within a couple miles of us.
Despite the discomfort, I continued on with a smile on my face. I hardly noticed the cold or the wet. I didn't even know my muscles were as strained as they were. Adrenaline and passion work wonders I guess. I rode mere inches from the side of the mountain, which is a steep drop-off to the valley below. I just focused on the music in my earbuds, wiped my goggles with my gloves often, and trusted myself and my ability to ride.
I was on the road for almost an hour before I had to stop. Ahead of me, the trail was heavily shaded, and the snow was slushy and at least waist deep. A jeep driver was parked and contemplating whether or not to go forward. I stopped to ask him how far we had made it, and I couldn't believe it when he said we were three miles from the trail head. Then, my dad pulled up behind us, asked the jeep driver the same thing, checked the clock and shouted to me, "Don't you meet your tutor at like 5 or 6 tonight? It's almost 2:00!"
It took awhile for his question to hit, but once it did, I flung my dirtbike around and ushered him to follow. I didn't go slower than 2nd gear, but I was still forced to slow down. I had to wait for group of inexperienced riders coming my way to pass, only for one of them to whisky-throttle their 250cc two-stroke and almost hit me. After that I just rode through a 6 foot tall snowdrift and headed on my way.
Near the trail head, some genius thought it was a good idea to drive their Prius up Rollins Pass, and both me and dad had to wait for them to turn around which took about 5 minutes. Finally, I was able to ride a mile to Moffat tunnel to meet my dad in the parking lot. When I relaxed, every bone and muscle in my body burned, and I got pretty nauseous. While I was curled over a fence by the Moffat tunnel hiking trail, my dad was nice enough to load up my dirtbike and drive home with the windows rolled down. It was a cold drive, but it made me feel better. It just shows how far I'm willing to go for a ride.
The next weekend my dad had me, we decided to hit the trail a second time. This time we hoped it would be less snowy. But where there's no snow, there's bound to be annoying hikers and campers, but I decided to ride it anyway. I was in need of a ride. I had just gone through one of the hardest weeks I can remember, and both me and dad were pretty torn up over grandpa's passing. So, like before, we drove up to Rollins Pass.
I forgot to warm up my dirtbike in my driveway before we left, so it was a little harder to get going. But once my engine started, I sped off up the rocky trail. It wasn't nearly as muddy and cold as before, though there were still streams and puddles of cold water here and there. It was a gusty day, but the wind wasn't cold enough to freeze my fingers around the throttle like before. In fact, halfway up the trail, I stopped to unzip my hoodie and get a long cold drink. I had to wait a few minutes for my dad to catch up before I could get access to water, but once I did, I was back on the trail, going a little slower so I wouldn't lose my dad.
The trail was busier than before, but at least it was full of people who seemed to know what they were doing. There were several large groups of enduro riders, which are stereotypically made up of 50-something-year-old, recently-retired men on very expensive KTM 690s. Judging by what I saw that day, that stereotype is very true. There were also plenty of parents riding on ATVs with their kids, lots of Jeeps, and definitely your regular dirtbike riders like myself. Dad and I were actually pretty excited. From what we heard and saw as we drove further up the trail, it was almost completely clear of snow and mud.
But, a ride isn't a ride without a little challenge or a struggle. I drifted around the bend to the steepest part of the trail. That trail was heavily shaded, and was covered in large loose rocks. A stream of water rushed across it about 500 feet from where it started, and the trail wound at least 600 yards up the mountainside. I swallowed, leaned forward, and pinned the throttle in 3rd gear. At first my dirtbike was doing great, then I started pushing with one foot, then both feet, and pretty soon my dirtbike growled and gave up, and I slammed on both brakes before gravity could get the best of us. I glanced back to see my dad carefully turning his Xterra up the same trail. He gestured me to keep going, so I just looked back up and pulled in the clutch. As I was pulled down by gravity, I attempted to kick the dirtbike back to life. The engine didn't even sputter. So, I gave up, pulled in the front brake, and threw my free hand in the air in defeat.
"You're not riding it right!" Dad shouted as he trudged up the trail towards me.
"Yeah I am! It's not me, it's the bike!" I shouted back.
"You can't blame everything on the bike!"
"I know, but this time it is the bike. It ain't me!"
My dad scowled as I got off and handed the dirtbike over to him. He attempted to start it, and he got it to ride another 20 feet up before the engine died.
"You just need to throttle it up!" Dad said, "Use the clutch!"
"No, it doesn't sound right! Plus, there's no power." I shook my head.
"Alright." Dad shrugged as he got off, "We'll just drive up the rest of the trail and let the bike rest against a tree. It might be flooded."
Gas was dripping out of the overflow straw connected to the carburetor, and dad dragged the dirtbike into the woods next to the trail. I followed him and made sure the gas valve was closed, before I slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door. Dad put the SUV in drive, and we slowly ascended the trail. Dad's Xterra is very reliable for what it is, but it failed to make the drive very smooth. We were violently jostled around at times, especially since Dad will often drive like he's behind the wheel of the General Lee. But Rollins Pass doesn't allow much room for bad driving and worse ideas, so Dad remained rather cautious.
We eventually made it to what Dad and I call "the twin canyons of death", since we can never get through them and they always kill our adventures. Even in June, there's at least a foot of slushy snow on the road between the two ravines. But, after thinking about it a bit, we decided to go for it. There were a few other people parked nearby, and they promised to pull us out if we got stuck. I thought this was for sure a "hold my beer" moment, and I was glad I had on some motocross gear.
Dad backed up until the dirtbike rack gently hit a tree, and then he gunned it. Our tires skidded on the gravel as we launched forth like a rocket. We hit the snow, and dad fought the steering wheel to make sure we didn't slam into either side of the rocky canyon. After fishtailing side to side, we made it to dry land. We laughed, especially when I plugged my phone into the radio and blasted the theme song from Dukes of Hazzard. We got out to survey the next snowy ravine. It was actually worse than the previous one, and only 60 feet ahead of the end of it was a steep drop-off into the woods. We both agreed it wasn't worth it, and prepared to go through the same ravine we did before.
Dad kept a lead foot down as we charged through the snow again. We came dangerously close to smashing the hood into the left side of the ravine, but dad saved it just in time, and laid on the horn so no one parked on the other side would find themselves literally like a deer in the headlights. Some pretentious Denver hikers glared at us, while the Jeep drivers on the other side hollered excitedly. Dad reported back what we saw, and the Jeep drivers agreed it wasn't a good idea to drive through the second ravine. People have tried it before, and it almost never went well.
The drive down was faster since we knew what to expect now. It was still painfully rough, but we made it down to where my dirtbike was parked in the woods. When we arrived, the scent of gas was gone, and the overflow straw was bone dry. Dad brought it back up, and I got on.
"Now, remember, keep the throttle pinned! Don't be a wuss. Pin that shit and don't look back! I'll meet you at the trailhead." Dad said as he patted the handlebars and made his way to his vehicle.
His tone was slightly patronizing, and my eyes narrowed as he walked away. I decided to use the 200 feet of the steep trail as a sort of runway. I put the dirtbike in neutral, and as I descended, I kicked down the kickstart until the engine finally roared to life. I was determined to show my dad how I could really ride.
As the steep trail ended, the powerband kicked in around a 180 degree bend. I was riding in a wheelie by the time I made the turn, and nearly plowed right into a group of dirtbikers who had congregated on the side of the trail. They stared at me as I shifted into second, and hit the potholes and rocks on the trail like I would flat land. I'm not sure if my front wheel stayed on the ground for long, but I would be surprised if it did. My legs acted like a second set of shocks as I rode down and over the holes, some of which were filled with cold mud and loose rocks. I didn't care how cold, wet, and sore my legs were becoming, and I didn't slow down even when I started to wheeze.
The cold wind eventually numbed my wet and shaking legs a little, making the soreness in my legs a little easier to cope with. For a second, I was brought back to when Clarke sent me down the mountain on a pair of skis in Breckenridge, where I had no idea what I was doing and stayed in the "pizza" position the whole way down. It would've been wonderful if my legs had gone numb from the cold that day, like they were during the ride. But I was quickly brought back to reality when I jumped over a lip in the dirt, and splashed into a large puddle of ankle-deep ice water, soaking my lower torso and everything below. I shook the water off as best I could, but didn't let myself slow down below second gear.
It didn't seem long before I was pulling off to the side at the trail head. I was shaking from adrenaline, and I felt more alive that I had in a long time. I was surprisingly warm, so I pulled my bandanna down and opened my hoodie a little more, and then relaxed on the dirtbike while I waited for my dad. I was terribly sore, but it was a satisfying pain.
About 10 minutes later, my dad pulled up and had a look of great relief on his face.
"Phew! I thought you fell off the mountain! Wow, you tore outta there like a bat outta hell!"
"That's what happens when you call me a wuss!" I grinned at my dad, my eyes still narrow under my dark goggles.
"I guess so!" Dad replied as he shook his head a bit and stepped out of the Xterra, "Oh, and by the way, you were right. It wasn't you. It was the bike. It doesn't have enough power to run above 9,000 feet. You'll need a carburetor with wider jets to ride above that. I remember that's what our mechanic said when he fixed it last."
"Oh, well, that's good to know!" I sighed as I attempted to get off my dirtbike with my stiff legs. I nearly fell, but Dad caught me by the shoulder, "A little late though."
"Yeah, well, we had fun while it lasted." Dad replied as he picked the 150 pound dirtbike off the ground and fitted it on the rack.
"True." was all I said before I got in the passenger seat and leaned back with a long, satisfying breath. I never bothered even lifting my arms to take off my gear the whole drive back.
I've come a long way over these last few years. Motocross helped to bring me out of fear and depression, and in the end, has given me enough confidence to race my dad on dangerously steep and rocky trails, almost without thinking. Some call it reckless, but to be honest, my riding is far from it. Risky? Yes. But my risks are calculated, and I usually know when to quit. But when I get a little full of my riding skills, and think I can wheelie just one last time before dinner, well I've learned to think again.
Before my riding days, I was terrified of getting hurt or even slightly failing at something. But now, I've learned that I can celebrate my fails just like I celebrate my wins. Fails are just as good, if not better, for story-telling and writing than even my greatest dirtbike achievements are. In fact, I'll go as far as to say a dirtbike crash is a win. I once was told (probably by some random rider at a motocross track), that I should never stop riding, and I should cherish each and every scar my dirtbike leaves behind. I won't be young forever, and bones turn brittle.
Dirtbike riding has shown me (the hard way), just how tough and stubborn I can be. I almost wanted to get back to riding when I crashed that wheelie in North Dakota, but even my uncle Delton talked some sense back into me and convinced me to stay off for awhile. Once the adrenaline wore off, and the pain kicked in, I decided riding wasn't a good idea for a few weeks.
But it wasn't long before I was back in my helmet again. At Clarke's place, Ryder and I raced around on our dirtbikes, and even played a round of tag on the bikes, until Ryder crashed into the ditch and ended our riding for the night. Ryder trudged out of the ditch laughing, so I laughed and made fun of him for the rest of the night and next day.
While I'm not afraid of getting hurt or failing anymore, I still do everything I can to avoid it. I'm not a jackass, but I'm far from a little wussy. Unlike before, I don't let my fears get in the way of things I want to do. I still use common sense, but I won't back down on something if the reward is greater than the risk. And dirtbiking is definitely worth every scratch, bruise, and burn it has done to me. I may be broke and sore almost everyday, but I must say, dirtbiking has saved my dignity and self-esteem at the very least, so it's worth every dime and dollar. It. Is. Totally. Worth. It. All.
Do I recommend dirtbiking to anyone else though? Ummm.... No. Not really. I've been told many times that I have a screw or two loose, and I don't deny it. It takes someone with a lot of guts and craziness to ride, and anyone who lacks even a little bit of that insanity and/or toughness won't be in the sport for very long at all. Anyone can try it, but not everyone can ride. I've seen adults on pitbikes come off the track limping with tears streaming down their cheeks after a minor crash, but on the other hand, I've seen 6-year-olds on mini pitbikes have multiple crashes, but get up cheering after each one.
Dirtbike riders are definitely a different breed, and the only reason why it's not an Olympic sport is because very few people are willing to try it out, and those who do ride are f-ing crazy! I mean, just look at me! (Watch the Crusty Demons of Dirt/ Nitro Circus movies on YouTube if you don't believe me. I may include a few links.) You have to be crazy to willingly taunt death every day you tighten the chin strap on your helmet. You have to be insane to ride a dirtbike.
Links to some good dirtbike videos (And no, I don't ride like they do in these videos):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4viC07kvXwE&t=42s
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fPLx5tZFrW0
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Kb2VTLBN8w&t=2s
North Dakota this year probably deserves a whole book dedicated to the two weeks I was there, but what I never really detailed were my dirtbike adventures. I didn't have much to do except for ride my dirtbike while I was up there, and I didn't have a lot of space to ride either since my phone was destroyed the third day I was there. I would've gone a lot farther and faster if I had access to my phone.
Nevertheless, I still pinned the throttle whenever and wherever I could. The hills in the back pasture acted as large jumps, which I'd use to launch myself over the crest of the hills. I don't think I went too high in the air, but I usually cleared the crests, and I definitely felt a sense of weightlessness while hovering above the hills. I kept it rather tame since my only way to get help, would've been to scream obscenities at the top of my lungs and hope someone was close enough to hear me. Otherwise, I would've laid on the ground, likely hidden in the grass inhabited by ticks and horseflies, until someone realized I was missing, which could've been hours. I'm a wanderer and I like my alone time, so it's not uncommon for me to be gone exploring by myself on the farm, for a few hours at a time. The image of me laying broken and bleeding in the grass, likely for hours with no access to help, completely at the mercy of the wild North Dakota plains, was enough to keep me slower than I would've gone if I could get instant help.
I also used the ditch in the front lawn as a little jump when I didn't feel comfortable in the pasture anymore. But I didn't have much room to gain any speed, and the ditch was no more than 6 feet deep, so whatever air I did catch was small. I still got some decent shots with the last hour of memory on my go-pro, although the fish-eye lens along with the puny tri-stand that came with it, messed up the best videos and pictures I got, and doesn't do them justice.
I still had fun, but that fun was always accompanied by some level of fear. Without music and my ability to command Siri to call 9-1-1, I was completely at the mercy of my thoughts and worries, which are often rough to deal with on the dirtbike. The dark skies to the west did not help. The storms pressed the hot iron brand of time against me. I rode until thunder rumbled overhead, and once that happened, I'd race to the farmhouse where I'd stay until the storm passed well after dusk. The sense of freedom I usually have on the dirtbike was almost completely gone during that trip. It was so far gone in fact, I almost didn't want to ride.
I rode every few days, just to see if that sense of freedom returned, but it almost never did. When it finally did come back, I had three days left before I went home, and going home excited me. I rode my dirtbike to celebrate, pulling wheelies whenever I could. For a half-hour, I was having fun. I had that sense of freedom back, and I didn't want to abandon it early. I kept an eye on dinner, but for the most part, I was focused on pulling back on the throttle and watching the front fender come up to eye-level with me.
It was all fun and games until the near-inevitable happened. I throttled it a little too fast and leaned back a little too far, panicked, tried to pull myself forward with my throttle hand, and for a brief second I was some sort of professional bull rider, before a bump in the lawn catapulted me 6 feet off the back fender. I landed hard on the left side of my body, eventually rolling over to my right where my helmet filled with sod and my right forearm was filled with gravel. I stood up as soon as I stopped skidding, and immediately threw my fists in the air and ran away from the scene cheering! I made it to the farmhouse, where my great aunts immediately stopped me and made me sit down so they could check me out. I was injured and disoriented, but seemed fine. However, I knew I'd have some rough days ahead.
I was sore; so sore in fact, I didn't want to move the next few days, and didn't even leave the car on the way home to stretch my legs at gas stations. No amount of ice or Advil could take away the pain. I just pressed myself against the window in the car and tried to focus my mind on the music I downloaded on my laptop, rather than the stinging and throbbing pain I was in. That crash left me bruised and limping for nearly a week, and now I have a gnarly scar on my right forearm after grinding it against gravel for around 15 feet or so. There's a dirtbike-size chunk of sod missing from the front lawn of the farmhouse, so that crash will never be forgotten. It's become a family legend now, and I just have to own it!
The crash couldn't have gone any better though. I crashed just hard enough to feel pain and get scarred without having to summon a helicopter from Bismarck. I gained more respect for my dirtbike and the sport of freestyle motocross, and I also love FMX even more after that crash. I can't really explain why that is. You'd think that after a crash like that, I would've sold my dirtbike to the neighbor kid and hung my helmet up one last time, and I've met guys who have done just that, but I didn't. Instead, I can't help but grin and express my love for the sport even more after that, and I still beat myself up for not having my go-pro filming when I crashed. In fact, almost nothing eventful happens until the second I press the "OFF" button on my camera. It's unfortunate, but at least I can still brag about the crash in other ways, and have the scars and eyewitnesses to prove it.
For the record though, crashing sucks! The scars and stories are cool and all, but that's not what makes them worth it. What makes the pain and frustration that go along with any motocross activity worth it, is the freedom I feel when I'm riding, and the feeling of awesomeness when a stunt goes perfectly.
The feelings are pretty much impossible to put into words. I feel like I'm flying, but it's so much more than that. It's magical to ride through golden grass in the evening light, though magical is an understatement. It's super epic to ride through the mountains, and gaze over mountainsides, knowing just one wrong move could send me to God right then and there. But at the same time, taking in the breathtaking views while sitting on a dirtbike, less than a foot away from certain death is amazing. It's crazy, but it's a good crazy. It's a crazy I bet most people wish they had, and a crazy I've been blessed with and cherish greatly.
I know my limits, and I hardly ever push them too far, but every time I kick down on the engine starter, I promise to finish that ride a better rider than I was the last time. That means risking a lot, trying new things, and riding so hard that my expansion chamber is almost glowing from the heat... That is, if my dirtbike survives the ride without stalling or acting stupid. I know I'm bound to fail. Every rider knows it's not a matter of if, it's a matter of when and how bad a crash will be. But, because I have a point to prove, I ride anyway. I wear some armor, say a prayer, and quit thinking the second the sweet scent of two-stroke smoke fills my nostrils.
When I first started doing wheelies, the front tire barely hovered an inch above the ground for more than a second. But, each time I felt the front tire lift up just a little, a surge of adrenaline and confidence shot through me, and I became addicted to that.
Now, I can almost ride vertically for more than five seconds, and when that happens, it's an amazing feeling I can't put into words. Screenshots from some once-lost footage from my go-pro, don't do the views justice, especially since my camera was always mounted at an unfavorable downward angle, and has a fish-eye lens. But, I've got to make due with what I have. I'm just glad Clarke's sometimes around to get pictures of me when I'm riding.
The more wheelies I do, the more comfortable I get. I've crashed and been scarred because my 100th-something attempt at a wheelie didn't go so well, but that's just how life goes sometimes. I have to say, one crash out of a year of successful wheelies is a pretty good record. In fact, so far, I can count the number of times I've crashed on both of my dirtbikes on one hand, so those numbers help to reassure me when I'm doing risky things on my dirtbike. I still know the risks and understand the probability of going to the ER is about 1/15 crashes, but with me, I don't think that probability is nearly as high. I know my limits, and I'm incredibly tough, and I'll only go to the ER if my life clearly depends on it.
Pretty much every time I ride around my dad, he'll blast the Jackass movie version of the song "If You're Gonna Be Dumb, You've Gotta Be Tough", on the way to wherever I'm going riding. Because of this, the lyrics are branded into my mind, and often repeat over and over again in my head while I'm riding. Those are typically the only thoughts I have other than "rock", "tree", "cliff", "car", or whatever else is right ahead of me. I don't really think about anything else. I can't actually.
Most people crash because they think too much. Either that, or they wuss out of a ride because they make up the worst-case scenario and convince themselves that'll happen to them. I used to do that. But after spending hours on the same square trail I made in the old pasture I used to ride on, I got bored and decided either I sell my dirtbike and do something else, or I get out of first and second gear, throw my wussy little cheat sheet in the trash, and go exploring other places. Shortly after, whether it was God answering my unintentional prayer or merely a coincidence, Clarke moved away from that place, forcing my riding to change.
I quickly got some earbuds and began to ride while listening to music. I also found a speedometer app on my phone, so I bought a little thing that would attach my phone to the handlebars, started setting speed and riding time goals, and rode to reach those goals. Shortly before that little thing finally broke after months of constant use, I reached 77 miles per hour pinning the throttle down a familiar stretch of country road. I've since deleted the app, haven't replaced the phone mount, and just go by gears, which half the time I don't even know what gear I'm in. In reality, I figure out my speed based on wind resistance.
But no matter how fast or slow I'm riding, I always take safety seriously. I never ride my dirtbike without a helmet. And not just any helmet. I ride in a full-face motocross helmet that's more safe and protective than the helmets knights and soldiers fought in. I also keep my helmets fresh. Motocross helmets can take a few crashes, but after the third crash, it's best to retire them. I switch between my three helmets pretty regularly, and am in the process of getting another one. Helmets are $120 at least, so I usually check my favorite dirtbike gear store once a week for clearance sales on helmets that aren't ridiculously overpriced (so, I don't spend $400 on a $600 helmet. No one should). A $120 certified helmet is just as safe as a $400-$600 certified helmet. They're tested by the same people, and have the same exact expectations.
Anyway, I may be tough, but I'm not exactly what you'd call dumb or ignorant. Sure, I have my moments, but we all do. I know how to ride, and I ride well. I push myself, but not too far. I think just enough to use common sense, but not enough to imagine what would happen if I went too fast around a mountainside bend. I leave my thinking mind behind when I go riding, which is a much-needed break, considering I have a tendency to overthink and over-complicate things on a daily basis. My music takes over the throttle, and my lizard-brain helps to avoid obstacles and keep my riding in check. It's like being terrified without the terror. It's like a roller coaster, only nothing except for the weight of my body and my death grip on the bike is keeping me on, and I'm the one in control. The world is my track and trail. The dirtbike is my key to true freedom.
Hours and hours of rough riding takes a toll on both the rider and the bike. I like to say for every hour of riding, there's at least 20 hours of maintenance, which is more maintenance per hour than most commercial airlines put into their planes. This includes keeping the dirtbike clean, replacing bolts and screws that get lost during the ride, and fixing it when it breaks. It sounds straight forward, but it's really not. My dirtbike, especially since it's a two-stroke, is finicky at best, but it's also very hardy. If a single thing is a millimeter out of place, my dirtbike will not run right. If a bolt or a nut isn't tightened to the point where it takes my dad five minutes to remove it, it will be lost by the second hour of riding.
At the same time, my dirtbike will refuse to give up even when the expansion chamber is glowing and the muffler is spitting flames. That's why I had to replace the muffler and should replace the expansion chamber. The heat literally burned off the paint and charred the metal on the expansion chamber, and my old muffler had severe carbon backup issues which set on fire during every ride. Even then, it takes a lot of to kill the engine, but thankfully it's rather easily fixed. The only time it's not easily fixed, is when the wrong kind of oil is mixed in with the gas, thus covering everything it touches in a thick, crusty sludge. I'll never make that mistake again.
It's usually fun to fix my dirtbike. If it's not in my dad's shop, it's in Clarke's basement. Of course, when we bring it into the house, it's been drained of all fluids and cleaned of all dust and dirt, but it still has a faint smell of gas and carbon that I may be addicted to. I wouldn't mind if someone made a candle that smelled like that.
I like to take things apart to see how they work. Two-strokes are simple yet complicated at the same time; kind of like me. The engine is almost as basic as it can get, and the way it's put together is pretty straight forward (there's only like 4 major parts; muffler, expansion chamber, engine, and carburetor). But when you dissect the bike, it gets more and more complicated the more you take it apart. My dad knows way more about my dirtbike than I do, but I'm understanding it more and more. The more screwed up my dirtbike gets, the more I learn.
When I first got my dirtbike, it didn't look like it does today. We had a back hitch that was way too small to properly carry the dirtbike, it had no stickers except for a couple of tiny Metal Mulisha stickers that are basically invisible, the throttle was made of cheap plastic and covered in a sticky rubber grip, the gas tank was even crustier than it is now, its muffler was crap, the clutch was bent almost at a 90-degree angle, and it didn't have grip guards.
Over the next year, my dad and I put in some money to change all that. While dad got a new back hitch, I bent the clutch back to a more reasonable position, bought a steel throttle, bought grips that weren't sticky and worn down, used gasoline and bleach to clean the gas tank up the best I could, bought an FMF muffler that wouldn't set on fire or be so loud, bought grip guards for when trail rides turned into the trees, and picked up stickers I found at little touristy shops that I liked. I never went crazy with the stickers, but my dirtbike now looks and rides like my own.
It's also nice to have a back hitch that actually works. Unlike before, dad and I don't spend our drives in tense silence, just waiting to hit the one bump in the road that would launch my dirtbike into the car behind us. It's also easier to load, since the hitch has a ramp. My dad still prefers to just lift the dirtbike onto the ramp, but as strong as I may be, I can't lift my dirtbike completely off the ground, so I can't load it without the ramp. I've tried, and I've failed.
