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.
