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!