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.