My lungs got plugged up on Saturday to the point I couldn't yawn. As the infection makes its way out, it sometimes falls back into my lungs and plugs them up, making them itch and hurt. Still, I forced myself to go on a long walk, and then did a few extra treatments. But the mucus plug wouldn't clear, so I decided to take treatment to the next level the next day.

It was a gorgeous day; sunny and 70. I found all of my gear and fueled up my dirtbike early in the morning, and then carried the 100 pound iron rack from my backyard to my front yard so my dad could load up my dirtbike. It was probably the hardest walk I'll ever do between my back yard to the front yard. As my dad loaded up the dirtbike, I looked for the straps to hold it down, but couldn't find any, so we used the only strap my dad had to hold my dirtbike on the rack just enough to make it to Walmart. 

We stocked up on snacks and drinks for the ride, as well as bought a couple extra straps to hold my dirtbike on the rack, before heading south towards Sedalia. I was jacked up on soda that is like Mountain Dew but healthier, and I was twitching to ride since I had been pent up and sick for so long. I needed to ride. I knew it, my body knew it, and my dad knew it. 

We stopped by the gas station to fill up on caffeine, gasoline, and check my tires. As my dad filled my dirtbike tires with a little air, a young man approached us. He was dressed just like me; a camo cap, camo hoodie, blue jeans, and dusty cowboy boots. The kid smelled of diesel and chew, and had a deep and familiar Minnesotan accent.

"You just get it?" the kid ask, pointing to my bike. 

"Naw, I've had it for awhile." I answered. 

"That's fun. Track or trail?" 

"Trail."

I glanced over at the kid, and realized he was an old classmate from my previous school, but I didn't say anything, since I assumed he didn't recognize me. If he did, I assumed he wouldn't have asked me if my dirtbike was new, since that's the one thing I boasted about in school.

"You headed up to the trail today?" he asked as he spit some chew. 

"Yup." I nodded, "She's ready to go." 

"I was thinking about getting a CR250, but I passed 'er up for a 1986 Yammy [Yamaha] 250 two-stroke for two-hundred bucks. I spent another eight hundred fixing it, but now she runs like new." the kid explained as he took another pinch of dew, "Two-strokes are fun as hell."

"That's awesome! I agree!" I smiled, "Mine's just a little '96 80, but she's still gotta hell of a lotta horse-power. She beats my brother's 'Zuki [Suzuki] 450 by a long shot."  

"That's fun. CR[80]?" the kid asked.

"Yup." 

"Well, have fun. Be safe! Long time no see!" the kid said as he spat some more chew and wandered back to his old truck.

"Damn. I should've told him I recognize him from school." I thought to myself, but it was too late.

Dad was done filling up the tires, and was already waiting for me in the Xterra, impatiently revving the engine. 

"I'm coming dad! I'm coming!" I shouted as I made my way back to the front seat and sat back, "That was an old classmate of mine. He's pretty cool. A little strange, but still friendly."

"Oh fun. What'd he want?" my dad asked as he put the Xterra in drive.

"He was just asking about the bike." I replied, taking a swig of soda. 

We finally began driving south towards Sedalia. For most of the drive, I was doing everything I could think of to try and unclog my lungs. My dad didn't ask me too much about it, but instead egged me on to keep coughing and spitting until something came up. It was rough, and I did everything I could, but still, my lungs wouldn't unclog. 

After an hour or so of driving, we made it to Rampart Range Road, a few miles west of Sedalia. Rampart Range Road is a 20-mile-long road connecting to tens of OHV trails, roads, and campsites, winding through the mountains. It wasn't too busy, but those who were riding today were a bit wild, perhaps in the same boat as me; pent up, twitchy, and well over ready to ride. 

Dad and I pulled over to look at a map, and take pictures of said map. We decided to check out a small trail that was labeled a beginner's trail. It was a half-mile loop through the woods around a campsite. 

When we got there, Dad unloaded my dirtbike as I geared up, and told me he'd sit in his Xterra and listen to the football game. I nodded and headed out towards the small beginner's trail, where I saw a couple other dirtbike riders riding. 

It wasn't the greatest trail ever. It was slow and rough. It wasn't made for a dirtbike like mine; only four-strokes could take such a slow trail. But, I still rode it. Because it was such a slow trail, my dirtbike stalled thrice. Two-strokes need plenty of speed and can't idle so slowly, which is why it stalled on the trail so much. After that, to make sure nothing was backed up in the expansion chamber, I did 15 minutes of wheelies and small jumps around the parking lot. This warmed the dirtbike up so it wouldn't have a chance to freeze-stall (if a dirtbike freeze-stalls, it'll stop but the rider will still be going. I've seen it happen. It doesn't look fun), and got me breathing faster, but my lungs were still clogged. My left lower lung had almost no air, and it was getting very sore. 

I started to freak out a little bit. The worst case-scenarios and bad questions started spinning through my head as I did everything I could to cough the stuff up. What if this doesn't go away? What if my lung dies? Can a lung die from a clog? Were just a few of the thoughts. Those thoughts may seem ridiculous, and looking back, I think they are, but fear is rarely logical. 

I did a couple more wheelies and hit a few more small jumps, before stopping by the Xterra and curling over in an attempt to clear my lungs out. He didn't ask if I was ok since he already knew my answer, so my dad just took this as a cue to start loading up the dirtbike, and then joined me in the Xterra to figure out where to go next. 

He had a picture of the map since we had no cell service, and he pointed out a few other roads and trails. There was a road, labeled 502, that was open to both dirtbikes and cars. We decided to go there, since my dad could follow me on the road and I could go faster, so my dirtbike wouldn't clog up like my lungs. That's another thing about two-strokes; because there's oil mixed in with the fuel, it has a potential to clog up the engine parts if the dirtbike isn't kept on the powerband. I've clogged it up before, and it took around $200 to fix.

Anyway, I agreed with my dad, and we headed off towards road 502. 

Rampart Range road was slick in a lot of places, and we almost drifted off a few times. I guess there's a reason why there's speed limits, even on roads in the middle of nowhere. A few lost drivers stopped us to ask for directions, assuming we knew where we were. Half the time, Dad and I were lost too, but we never let those drivers know that, especially the sketchy ones. After ending up in two very busy parking lots and a few more dead-ends, we finally found road 502. 

I got super excited when I saw the road. It was wide and smooth. It was exactly what I hoped it would be. There were very few people, and those who were there were mainly on dirtbikes and mountain bikes. I talked to one mountain biker to ask how rough it was, and he told me it was smooth for two miles before it got gnarly, but even the gnarliest part of the trail was still very doable for me and my dirtbike. I shook hands with him, pulled on my gear, turned the volume in my earbuds almost all the way up, and hit the road with the throttle pinned, leaving my dad in my smoke and dust. 

The road had wide turns and was sloped down, so I was leaning on my dragging ankles as I railed those turns, and kept my body closer to my dirtbike as I rode faster and faster. Eventually, I caught some air as the road sloped towards the sky, and was slowed down by gravity. The road sloped down again, and I sped up until the road split into two trails. I drifted to a stop and waited for a few minutes as my dad caught up, and he signaled right, so I headed that way. 

The road was rockier and narrower, so I didn't go faster than 30 miles per hour, according to my dad. But I still kept my speed and glanced briefly at the pretty sights. We crossed over creeks and rode alongside a small river. The trail led through grassy valleys and piney woods, and eventually I stopped to really take in the beauty of the trail. By then, I was two miles into the 10 mile road, and in need of some water. Below my boots, there were faint cougar tracks heading into the woods, but unfortunately, I didn't think to take a picture. However, my dad thought to take a picture of me.

The trail was very rough and steep beyond the little place we parked and rested for awhile, but I trusted I had enough power to make it. After all, as long as the elevation stays below 9,000 feet, my dirtbike will run just fine. So, I took in my first deep breath, which at the time, I didn't realize meant my lungs were unclogged, and pinned the throttle. 

My dirtbike was having a hard time. I kept the throttle pinned so it wouldn't stall, but at times I worried that it would. I worried that the powerband would kick in at a horrible time, sending me over the cliff or into the side of the mountain. I was also worried about oncoming drivers. I probably wouldn't be in very good shape if a driver came suddenly around a corner towards me. But I remembered words my dad has told me in the past, "Don't be a pussy! Pin that shit and go! Don't think about the bad things that could happen, think about the good, or don't think at all! Only stop if you have to!", so I turned the volume in my earbuds all the way up, leaned my body forward, and pulled my throttle hand all the way back. 

My dirtbike growled like it would stall at any minute as I ascended the road. My tires spun often, and at times my toes were dragging behind me as my dirtbike reared up like a horse, and other times I had to hold my feet up as my dirtbike dipped into deep ruts. But I kept going, and I promised myself that I wouldn't take my fist off the throttle even for a second. I could feel the heat of the expansion pipe on my leg and the heat of the muffler on my seat, but I didn't think enough to care. 

As I rounded a bend, a huge white Jeep Rubicon popped into existence seemingly out of nowhere!

"Shit!" was all I shouted as life slowed down. I leaned hard to the right and scraped my shoulder and knee into the mountainside. I heard tires skidding, and then someone faintly shout "sorry!!!", as I shakily blinked and realized I wasn't dead, let my dirtbike tip over, and turned around on my heels. If only the people in that Jeep could see my glare. I really wanted to run up to the driver and vulgarly shout about how he almost killed me, or perhaps punch out his driver's side mirror, but he had a couple of girls in the back who looked to be around 8-10 years old, so I resisted the urge and bent down to pick up my dirtbike. I would have no issue cussing out a grown man for nearly killing me, but not when he's got his kids with him. I still have morals. 

Five minutes later, I only pushed my dirtbike up about 10 feet forward. My boots kept sliding on the slick gravel, and the dirtbike weighs more than me, so I was getting tired and nowhere. Thankfully, my dad arrived, and he helped to push my dirtbike to a level place where I could successfully start it up and keep going. He was also almost hit by that jeep driver, and I told him about how I saw my life flash before my eyes. We exchanged nervous laughter which tapered off into silent scowls, and after a moment, we got back to riding and driving. 

About 300 yards of hell later, I made it to the top where there were several campsites and the road split again. I stopped and waited for my dirtbike to cool down and my dad to catch up. I touched the expansion chamber, and instantly pulled my fingers back, and did the same with the muffler. My dirtbike was glowing hot!

My dad came up behind me about five minutes later, and turned his left blinker on. By then, the cold wind had cooled my dirtbike off to a reasonable temperature. I nodded and headed out again, bobbing my head to some music I had found after hearing it on one of my favorite Freestyle Motocross movies. The road was wide, but it was full of rocks and holes. I was getting sore, so I stood up as I hit the holes and the rocks, going fast enough to keep my dirtbike from stalling, but slow enough so I wouldn't lose sight of my dad. I occasionally glanced back just to make sure I could still see him, and slowed down when other drivers and riders came from the opposite direction, so dad could stick with me. 

As I rode, the trunk of a car came into view, and I slammed on my brakes, held in the clutch, and panic revved until he stopped backing up. He didn't stop until the very last second, and I swerved to avoid him, still angrily revving my dirtbike, cussing, and resisting every urge to kick in his rear brake light as I passed him. There were a few hikers on foot who were trying to wave the car down as it backed up, and another rider coming from the opposite side of the road saw the situation, and pointed to let me know he was gonna talk to the driver for me, and I nodded and revved into a small wheelie in response.

While riders rarely know anyone else on the trails or tracks, there's a sense of familiarity and friendship between us that only we understand. We have a special language composed of hand signals and dirtbike noises to let each other know things. Only riders and those who hang out with riders understand what they mean, and it gives me a sense of community I rarely get to feel. 

I pulled over to the side to wait for my dad, and perhaps the unknown rider and hikers, but only my dad showed up and honked at me to keep going. As I pulled forward, I hit a rut that caught my wheel and pulled me into the ditch. I rode out, laughing and whooping, as I sped forward again to pass my dad in a wheelie. 

I'm not sure how much time passed before we finally made it to the end of the trail, but it was definitely the afternoon. I hadn't been going very fast because I was exhausted and the road was treacherous in places, and my dirtbike was definitely struggling to stay cool. But as soon as we made it to the end of the road, I got off my dirtbike and helped my dad load it up. That's where my dad commented on how clear my voice sounded, and I took in a deep breath in response saying, "Yeah, motocross is good medication." 

I coughed, just to find out if the clog was still in there or if it had made its way to my throat, and I pulled off my helmet to hack it into the woods. My dad looked slightly amazed, and I kicked some dust over it so no one else would have the pleasure of seeing what had been clogging up my lungs. After that, I just got in the Xterra like nothing happened, and we headed home.

If all other treatments fail, I know exactly what to do now! I can now say that motocross is literally a lifesaving sport!