Note: I'm really bad at names. 

I was never very good at school sports. I couldn't compete against my peers most of the time. In school, except for maybe the first few grades of elementary school, I was the runt of the litter thanks to my disease. I was always the last to be picked when a peer was asked to sort out teams. I was often bullied and jeered at during PE, so I quickly learned to hate it. 

The only PE sport I could compete against my peers in was dodgeball. It's not very surprising. I didn't have to race my teammates or do anything with a ball except pick it up and throw it. I'd stand back and wait for most of my teammates to get out of the game, then come in with one hell of an aim and an arm to execute it. For some reason, I just knew when to back up, back down, come back in, throw, etc. which made me a pretty valuable teammate for dodgeball. Of course, the fun police just had to come in one day and ruin PE for me, but it was great while it lasted. Against the stereotype, I wasn't picked on in dodgeball, only in everything else. 

Everything else in PE sucked, and by the time I was actually strong and big enough to compete fairly against my peers, I had almost no interest in it. Throughout 8th and 9th grade, I was only good at PE when I wanted to be good. I had peers who cheered me on and did their best to induce adrenaline in me, but it only worked during games like tag, where I got to chase down something or someone.

In 8th and 9th grade, most of my friends in PE were just like me; aggressive adrenaline junkies. Only they could catch, kick, and dribble a ball, and I couldn't. In fact, I was often in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was hit so hard in the hand by a soccer ball that it went numb and limp for a few minutes. I almost went to the ER. Another time I was at the bottom of an accidental dog-pile during basketball, which I surprisingly walked away from without even getting winded. Both of those incidents had me literally rolling on the floor laughing. Instead of crying, I laugh whenever I get hurt, and only start to freak out if it's really, really painful. 

Back in elementary school, I enjoyed tag, but I was usually too slow to actually play it. But in 8th and 9th grade, I actually had some muscles in my legs, and my legs were about as long as they are now, give or take a few inches, before my torso finally grew up too. 8th grade was the year I stopped wearing shorts. I often got so focused on tagging a person or ripping one of the flags off my opponent's belt, that I'd forget where my feet were. I was never a quitter though. I'd always get right back up and keep chasing. Even when my socks were bloodied by my skinned knees, I wouldn't actually go to the nurse's office. Turned out, cold water from the drinking fountain and a few napkins from the lunchroom were enough to clean up the damage. I stopped wearing white socks, so the blood didn't show so much. Thanks to all of the falls I took while wearing shorts, my knees are rough and bare due to the scarring, and all I wear now is jeans. I haven't had bloody, skinned knees since. 

The only time I'd go to the nurse's office was when my nose bled, or the one time I had food poisoning in the middle of science class during an important lecture and puked my guts out in the class recycling bin, which became the recycling bin. Even then, my peers weren't actually mean about it. Because that school's curriculum revolved around athletics, injuries and illnesses were often. There were plenty of those recycling bins, trash cans, and buckets, I was just the first to come up with that term. There were plenty of incidents where the hospital (which was just a block away) would send EMTs on foot, because it would take longer for an ambulance to navigate the downtown city streets, and it was much louder. Pretty much every student in my PE friend group was carried away by the silent ambulance at least once, except for me. I was the invincible one. 

Thanks to those experiences, and many others, I quickly learned that extreme sports were for me, since I realized that I can endure the pain just fine and keep going. My brother's dad, Clarke, was the first to encourage me, but the fear of pain and not being good enough kept me out of them. Then, after 8th and 9th grade, extreme sports were all I could think about for awhile. If I zone out now, chances are, I'm planning out my next dirtbike adventure right down to the kind of oil I'll mix with the gasoline. 

Extreme sports often attract people like me. In fact, extreme sports glorify the underdogs and the freaks. Metal Mulisha, one of today's most influential clothing lines in the extreme sports world, was co-founded by a kid nicknamed "Twitch", who rebelled against professional motocross when its riders were supposed to be super clean and conventional back in the 1990s. Twitch got his name because he has a bad case of Tourettes, which really showed when he was riding for Metal Mulisha. Even though he ended his career with motocross and Metal Mulisha a few years ago to become a full-time dad, he and his buddies completely changed the extreme sports world in just a few years by misspelling "Militia", drawing some graphics inspired by the helmets soldiers in WW2 wore, and putting them on T-shirts, hats, and dirtbikes. 

People who liked the clean version of motocross (or just extreme sports in general) were so pissed off, that they tried (and actually still try) to slander Metal Mulisha out of existence. They've called Metal Mulisha nazis, because apparently the helmet looks like something a nazi would wear, even though pretty much every soldier in WW2 wore the same helmet, as well as satanic, even though Metal Mulisha is actually a Christian company run by Christians. It's interesting to see how society reacts to something extraordinary, no matter who or what it is. Yet, just like Metal Mulisha, I've risen above the slander and the bullies and will probably never change. I show off Metal Mulisha stuff with pride and without fear, like I do with a lot of my extreme sports stuff and Gadsden flags. Being different, change, and acceptance are the exact opposite of fascism after all.

I can really relate to Metal Mulisha, because even now, I'm still stigmatized by society for my lifestyle. I'm not offended by it at all. I understand why people react the way they do when I tell them about my adventures in extreme sports. But it's still annoying when people say something like, "Shouldn't you be doing something else with your life? Motocross, sparring, hunting, etc, is too dangerous!"

I'm well aware of the risks. I've been kept awake at night by the throbbing pain of an injury. I've walked away gushing blood, limping, breathing heavy, etc. I've gotten scars from my injuries. I've seen my life flash before my eyes. I've gotten the wind knocked out of me. I've seen stars and temporarily lost vision thanks to adrenaline flushing out of my body. I've come home looking like a cheetah or a paint horse from all the bruises. I even broke my toe while surfing in California. Yet, I'm still very much into extreme sports, because they keep me alive and they keep me well. They force my lungs into overdrive, as well as my heart, and every other muscle in my body, numbing the pain with adrenaline, and keeping me strong and ensuring good health. Injuries don't equal illness. Attitude however, does. 

Clarke grew up with a lot of the guys who ended up in groups like Metal Mulisha, so he understands the psychology and personalities of extreme sports athletes. He grew up snapping snowboards, breaking bones, sabotaging snowmobiles, destroying dirtbikes, and slicing skin doing dumb and dangerous stunts for fun. He went semi-pro in snowboarding and opened up a snowboard shop in a Canadian mountain town, which was Red Bull sponsored and where a lot of his professional friends came by for custom snowboards. But Clarke decided he wanted a family, so he raised a few Canadian kids, sold his shop, moved to the states, became a roughneck, met my mom, had my brother, and the rest is history. 

Clarke's never been pushy about getting me into extreme sports, but he's been telling me stories about it since he met me when I was five. His stories, on top of all of his cool sports-related things, and the encouragement I got from him, drove me into extreme sports, especially later on.

Clarke had me get a taste of his lifestyle every now and then when I was little. I have countless memories of either riding in the back or the front of his ATV, from the high plains of Colorado, to the mountainous woods of Priest Lake, Idaho. I'd wear the smallest helmet and biggest hoodie Clarke could find, and hang on as we wound around wooded trails and did small jumps over prairie dog mounds. I experienced the thrill of extreme sports long before I actually got into them. 

I'm in the white helmet behind Clarke. My brother is the kid in the front, and my brother's half-sister, Hannah, is the kid to the right. This was in Idaho.

Clarke also tried getting me to ice skate in hopes of teaching me how to play hockey, but I never caught onto it. Much like a lot of things, I couldn't keep my balance on the skates, and I definitely wasn't very fast, so I quickly lost interest. The same went for skateboarding, rollerskating, BMX-riding, snowboarding, and skiing. I'm just not made for those kinds of sports, but Clarke reassured me that it's ok, and there was definitely something out there for me I just hadn't discovered yet. 

Clarke was right; there was something out there for me. Once I found it, I was hooked for life. Motocross isn't just a passion. It's heaven. It's hell. It's everything in between. I love the adventure and the thrill. I know it's very dangerous, and any ride could end my life, but I have enough trust in myself, my dirtbike, my gear, and especially God to keep me alive. There's a reason why I bow my head over the handlebars in prayer before every ride.  

Now, Clarke teaches me how to do dirtbike tricks, still has a ton of custom snowboards, most of which hang on the walls of his house next to his favorite autographed jerseys, and is really fun and easy to beat in Mario Kart. He's often gone on the oil rigs, but he's never too far away or gone for too long. He always returns home, and always has another "I almost died" or *insert insane thing here* story to share.

Clarke's body is pretty wrecked from all the stuff he's put it through, but that makes it easier for me to relate to him. We both have liver, digestion, and sinus issues, so we both have incredibly strong stomachs and immature, twisted humor. I won't share the humor here, but let's just say it's usually too offensive in every way possible for anyone on the outside to appreciate. But they're just jokes and pranks, and they de-fang illness, pain, and fear for a time, which makes life bearable. 

Most of the athletes who were huge in the 1990s are wrecked too, due to the injuries they suffered or the issues they were born with. Twitch was born twitchy. Bruce Cook paralyzed himself after failing a dirtbike backflip, but was back on a modified dirtbike a year later. Wheelz was born with Spina Bifida but rides around in a wheelchair that's built for the skate park. Darius Glover broke his back on a dirtbike track, but, like Bruce Cook, came back a year later strapped on for the ride, and I could go on and on. The thing is, you will crash and get hurt in the world of extreme sports, and you'll probably either come in screwed up or retire screwed up, but a real athlete never quits. 

Even better, the athletes Clarke is friends with are incredibly nice and caring. One of the baseball players reached out to Clarke with several autographed jerseys and baseballs. A jersey and a baseball went to my brother, and the rest were auctioned off to raise money for Cystic Fibrosis like the player wanted. A couple of athletes supplied me with wild game before I could hunt to keep myself alive. And of course, they can't help but send Clarke autographs and official gear only sponsors and athletes get, some of which are handed over to me. 

In the world of sports, especially extreme sports, the sense of community is strong, unlike schoolyard sports. Strangers help out strangers. No one makes fun of someone else, unless it's a joke and they know each other well. We've all been that new rider on a miniature dirtbike who rides with their feet sticking out so they can catch themselves. We've all wussed out of a track, trail, or trick. We've all been completely clueless when we've tried to do our own mechanical work. So, instead of looking down upon others, the motocross community and communities like it lift them up. Strangers and family members alike become mechanics, teachers, and coaches.

But my best coach in the extreme sports world is my dad. He never went pro, but he would've if he lived like Clarke. My dad has a need for speed like me. He taught me how to drift his Xterra on the same country roads his dad taught him how to drive on when I was 14. My dad has also taught me most of what I know about riding and fixing dirtbikes, since he rode and fixed dirtbikes as a kid and a teenager. Sure, we both crash at times, and our solutions to most of my dirtbike issues are far from professional, but so far, no one has suffered any serious injuries, and the zip-ties holding my dirtbike together haven't worn out yet. Also, the smell of gasoline has finally left his company shop's bathroom, after we flushed two gallons of old dirtbike gas down the toilet two years ago. 

My dad can get frustrated with me at times, but sometimes angrily shouting at me is the only way to turn my fear into determination. I ride dirtbikes because I have points to prove to myself and others, one of those being that I'm not a little bitch. So when my dad lays on the horn, sticks his head out the window, and shouts, "PIN IT, PUSSY!" for the world to hear, you bet that throttle's gonna be pinned. I still have no idea how my dad's windshield hasn't been chipped or shattered by the rocks my rear tire flings as my dirtbike takes off in a wheelie.  

However, my dad and I get along very well when it comes to sports. He fixes my dirtbike, and I let him ride it, and then I learn just by watching him fix and ride my dirtbike. Because of him, I can fix a clogged carburetor, a snapped clutch, a pinched throttle line, and a few other things. Also, because of him, I can ride very well. Clarke teaches me wheelies and stoppies, and my dad teaches me valuable riding techniques.

My dad and I are also very into Go-Karting, even though it's insanely expensive. We still go to the indoor Go-Karting place every few months or so, which we get the whole track to ourselves if we arrive at 9 AM on a Sunday. The indoor Go-Karting place uses electric go-karts that go up to 45 miles per hour, and wind around a track in a large warehouse space. Each race is usually 15 laps, and dad and I always go for three races. 

We don't just compete against each other, but we compete with everyone else who has gone to the go-karting place. They keep track of everyone's speed and time. As of now, my dad has me beat by less than 0.8 seconds, which puts him at the top 98.5% of all racers, and me at the top 94% of all racers. Since I learned how to drift in my dad's Xterra, I know how to drift around corners in those extremely fast go-karts. I know it should probably be the other way around, but things sometimes work in weird ways.

The only thing is, my dad has a habit of executing the PIT maneuver on me when I'm just ahead of him and drifting around a corner, which spins me out while my dad speeds away. It's what the cops use to stop runaway cars by ramming into the rear side of the vehicle. It's technically illegal to do, but the refs running the race don't care when it's just me and my dad. We have helmets on, the go-karts are very unlikely to roll over, and the track is guarded by plastic barriers on springs. So, my dad is allowed to PIT me. Otherwise, I would be winning races, but he's just overly competitive like that sometimes. 

As I get older and better, motocross and sports like it have done nothing but improved my health. Stressing out my heart and lungs is the only way to truly survive. I've taken more than my share of hits and crashes, but I took them each like a champ. I've never suffered a broken bone as a result of my extreme sports adventures, unless you count a broken toe I suffered while surfing in Oceanside, California. Even then, that was a long time ago, and I didn't even know it was broken until I got back to the hotel. It wasn't anything some gauze and medical tape from the pharmacy store couldn't fix. 

My body is seared in scars, but I take pride in them. Clarke and the rest of his family are definitely scarred too, but I automatically win when it comes down to "who has the most/coolest scars?". Not only have I survived the stuff doctors put me through over the years, but I've survived every crash, every fall, and every other injury and never once did I go to the ER. I treated the broken toe myself, just like I have every other injury.

In fact, injuries are a source of humor for me and everyone else who knows me well. I mean, most of the scars and injuries we've had over the years have been from ridiculous fails. The scars on my arms were caused by the gravel I skidded on after I failed a wheelie in North Dakota. The skin on my knees will never be soft again after what I put them through. My knuckles will soon look like Clarke's if I continue to do my own work on my dirtbike and my jeep. (Clarke played hockey for a long time and got in a lot of fights. He never threw the first punch, but he almost always threw the last). And my left foot will forever be branded after I crashed and destroyed my pitbike, which resulted in my boot getting stuck between the muffler and the rear tire for 45 seconds, before my dad could make it up the mountainside and rescue me at Thunder Valley Motocross Track.

I'm not sure if people can find such injuries funny like I can, but I have to admit, both my dad and I limped down that mountainside laughing, even though I my foot was in terrible shape. In fact, whenever I get hurt, my first instinct is to laugh and celebrate. I guess it's just something those of us in extreme sports do. We laugh instead of cry, and don't go to the ER even if we probably should. The only time we really panic is when we're stuck somewhere and/or can't move. 

But no matter what happens, we're back doing what we love as soon as possible. I never gave up my love for extreme sports even when I got hurt. Sure, my interests have shifted over the years, but I've never lost my love for adrenaline-inducing sports, and I hope to God I never will.