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.