Confessions of A Motocross Mother
Confessions of a Motocross MOTHER
I never paid any attention to motorcycles. Oh, I knew they existed, but I never noticed them. I put them in the same category as tractors—they were there, but not important to me. Then one fine and fateful day my husband brought home a motorcycle for my son, who was nine. This motorcycle was a little one, about the right size for my son, and it was sorta cute.
My husband had never ridden a motorcycle before, but he was going to show our son how it was done. It was really too small for him, because when he got on it, there was no room for his knees. He started it, and immediately and without hesitation, proceeded to ride the new motorcycle right up a
Erdice Court
motorcycle up a tree. I may have overreacted, but I was embarrassed. The neighbors were watching.
I really thought that would be the first and last motorcycle at our house, because my husband never got any better at riding it. Our son loved it though, and I soon discovered that we had only just begun. Over the next few years I learned:
1) People don’t really enjoy having motorcycle ruts and tracks all over their front lawns, not even when all the lawns in the neighborhood have them in nice geometrical designs.
2) Motorcycles can be traded more often than baseball cards.
3) Motorcycles are like potato chips, nobody is ever satisfied with just one.
4) Five motorcycles in one garage leaves room for no cars.
5) My husband can wreck a big motorcycle as easily as he can ride a little one up a tree.
Yet, most of the time I could live with and even ignore motorcycles. Then one historic day my son broke the news that he wanted to race in something called motocross.
The only other mention of motorcycle racing that had been made in my life was a year or so ago when one of my ninth grade students failed my English class because he spent over a month in Florida racing. Who ever heard of missing school to race a motorcycle? Now, my son wanted to race. What happened to kids wanting to play football or basketball?
I had never heard of motocross and it took me a couple of months to figure out that I was either mispronouncing it or they were misspelling it. I still don’t understand why they leave out the “r.”
I learned how to pay for it much faster than I learned how to spell it. Our son would ask for a new gasket or something, and my husband would yell, pull out his remaining few hairs, and then buy it. He had never raced yet and he was driving us to bankruptcy. I knew racing was dangerous, because he got hurt so much practicing.
But my son seemed to hold up much better than the motorcycle. When the neighborhood kids came running to say my son had wrecked while practicing, I
quickly learned to stop asking, “Is he hurt?” and start asking, “Is the motorcycle okay?” He’d heal. It wouldn’t.
And those clothes! The cost! Listen, Gucci has nothing on Moto-X Fox. That little fox face is the most expensive designer signature I’ve ever seen. Those leathers cost enough to be worn to the President’s Inaugural Ball. Talk about color-coordinated! Why, this is ridiculous. His clothes have to match his bike? I don’t have a single dress that matches my car.
I kept telling myself, “Remember. He could be out drinking booze and smoking pot instead of driving us into bankruptcy,” because I quickly realized that all my son’s motorcycle friends were straight and
decent boys (just a little weird where motorcycles were concerned, and no one is perfect).
Finally, the great day arrives. (I had been thrilled to discover these races were held on Sunday—and the closest one was sixty miles, one way. This means I won’t waste part of a day, I’ll waste it all.)
We get up at six, load the car with enough supplies for two months, and head out.
I hear it before I see it. “How do people get here without four-wheel drive? Wait a minute! We’re in the middle of a field! It’s hot! It’s dusty!
“Where’s the race track? That’s it! That’s not a race track! That’s the side of a hill! People don’t race on the side of a hill! They’ll fall off!
“The Kentucky Derby isn’t held on the side of a hill! They don’t run the Indianapolis 500 on the side of a hill. My son can’t race there! He’ll be maimed! Why, it isn’t even smooth! It’s full of bumps and holes!”
No one listens to me—they can’t hear me. The racers all line up in one long line. I
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can’t tell which is my son. He’s dressed in his color-coordinated yellow outfit with matching bike, but half the racers out there are in color-coordinated yellow outfits with matching bikes.
Oh, the noise! I watch that long line of bikes sounding off, and I figure out that they are all going to try to go through that little passageway. AT THE SAME TIME There’s no way that can be done, and I’ll never get to be a grandmother. Just think, we PAID for him to do this!
He raced, and he lived. He raced not just once, but twice on the side of that hill. When it was over I was a nervous wreck, plus being dirty, deaf, dehydrated, and sunburned. And this happened Sunday after Sunday.
I learned to speak motocross. I could talk whoop-de-doo with the best of them. I became a connoisseur of camel’s backs. I knew what those little checkered flags meant. I also discovered that people at these events are friendly, helpful, and kind. If they would just furnish a swimming pool and an air-conditioned bar, it wouldn’t be so bad . . . except for the gut feeling of fear when my son was actually racing.
Then one Sunday, it happened. He got hurt. When I found out it wasn’t too serious I thought, “Oh, goody, goody He’s hurt, but it’s only a broken collarbone. Now I won’t have to get up at six every Sunday. I can sleep late and play golf.”
Getting hurt kept my son out for the rest of the season. For a month or so, I did enjoy having my Sundays to myself.
As time passed, I found myself missing the Sunday races. I missed the excitement and the people. I found that I had developed a respect for my son for having enough nerve to keep racing as much as he had, even though he never won.
I discovered I admired the racing for giving my son the self-discipline to stay in top physical shape, and to keep trying— never giving up. Motocross had given my son a feeling of belonging, of self-respect. It had been good for him. It had instilled in him values that will last a lifetime.
It’s about time for another racing season and my son is ready. So’s the kid who failed freshman English. He just got back from Florida again, and I am working with him at home once a week on his English correspondence course—so he can graduate with the rest of his class.
As for watching my son race this season, I’m ready and eager. ^
