My Parents and Motocross

I got some feedback the other day from a guy called “bmf”. He left a link to his website, which is mostly about music, but it also has a few pages and photos chronicling his adventures in motocross. One of the stories is a moving tribute to his father, a great guy who did all he could to support his son's involvement in the sport.

That essay triggered some memories of my own parents, and I'd like to share them with you now.

Most of us know motocross as a family sport, a wonderful opportunity for parents to bond deeply with their children as they learn new things, meet new people, travel perhaps, encounter and overcome obstacles both literal and figurative. However, for some of us that wasn't the case. Our families choose NOT to be involved with the sport we love, so we had to go at it alone until we could establish bonds with other racers in a sort of “extended” family.

That's the way it was with my parents. They were not at all motorcycle fans when I somehow got the bug, and they had to be begged, prodded and otherwise cajoled to get them to do anything motocross-related. To this day, I'm still unclear as to why they relented and bought a minicycle for my 15th birthday, but I'm extremely grateful, that's for sure!

I guess they actually believed I would be happy doing endless laps around our medium-sized backyard. And for a good while, I was. I also had the pleasure of sometimes being joined by my good friend Mark Butler, who was just as motocross-crazy as me. Together we would take turns thrashing my XR75 as we learned such esoteric knowledge as how to get moving by slipping the clutch.

Occasionally, my father would take me out to my uncle's house in Beltsville, Maryland, where I could blast around wide open on deserted gravel backroads. My father had absolutely no interest in riding, though, or even in watching me ride. He would help me unload the bike and then disappear in his brother-in-law's house to drink beer and watch sports on TV. That was perfectly okay for me then, as all I wanted to do was ride. Yes, there were moments when I would perfect a new technique and want to show it to him, but I quickly learned to stop bothering him about it.

My father rode my minicycle exactly one time, and the resulting loop-out slammed the door shut on any further attempts.

Despite this, I was somehow able to talk my parents into letting me ride in an actual race. My mother was very upset that I even wanted to race; she tried to get me to promise that I wouldn't actually try to compete, but that I would just ride around “for fun”. What was interesting was that when race day arrived, my father was somehow “unavailable” to take me to the race, so my mother did! It was her first ever motocross race, and I have no idea what she was expecting, but she quickly found some other racer's moms to relate to, so she didn't do too bad that day.

When my father finally took me to a race, an interesting thing happened: he got involved. He started talking to other fathers and the next thing I new, he had negotiated the purchase of a used Honda CR125. I was 16 at the time and clearly too big for my XR75, but I didn't really care, since it was all I had and I was racing. But suddenly I owned a real motocross bike and I could barely believe it. To say I was ecstatic doesn't really capture the joy that I felt! And on a less conscious level, I was elated because it seemed that my father and I were beginning to bond over this motocross thing.

Once we got the 125 home, though, reality set in. This was a serious piece of machinery and there was no way that I could ride it in the backyard or on the roads around Beltsville. The new bike required a commitment that my parents weren't sure they were prepared to make... but it was too late for them to back out. The purchase of the CR did have a hidden benefit for my friend Mark. For some reason, his parents decided to buy him a brand new Honda 125, so we could race together. It was his very first motorcycle.

The “magic” of motocross began to work its charms on our respective families. Our fathers would get together and take us to practice sessions at tracks like Budds Creek, and our mothers would likewise get together to take us to races when our fathers weren't inclined to do so. Transportation was pretty much the extent of their involvement, however. There was no discussion of training issues, racing strategies or any of that stuff. All of the wrenching was my responsibility; my father was a professional mechanical engineer, and his job had him designing and testing missile parts. He was literally a rocket scientist of sorts, but he couldn't tell you what to do if a sparkplug fouled. It didn't matter to me anyway, because all I wanted to do was race, and that's what they were helping me to do. Once my mother broke out the old Super 8 home movie camera and filmed one of my races. When we reviewed the footage, I pointed out that my bike was pogo-ing over a rough section and needed some suspension work. To their credit, they bought me a fork kit the next week!

We didn't get to ride on a regular basis, mind you. Once a week was completely out of the question; once a month was even questionable. Once every six weeks was usually when we would get out to the track and try to come to terms with the bikes and the obstacles. To make up for the lack of seat time, I would memorize every off-road riding tip published in every dirt-oriented magazine, and study photos of top riders to try to analyze their techniques. Riding lessons? We couldn't afford them.

By that point in my life I was a senior in high school, and I was in pretty good shape. I played varsity soccer on a championship-winning team and was captain of the wrestling squad. But my heart was in motocross and I started having that all too familiar dream of becoming a top pro racer. Considering the fact that I was a back-of-the-pack novice, I knew that I had a lot of ground to make up. Yet I felt that if I could devote the same amount of time and energy to improving my racing skills that I had to my mainstream sports, I would at least have a chance. And that was where my parents drew the line.

My parents believed in the American dream, but they believed that the only road to achievement and financial stability was through higher education and traditional employment. They would not even permit a conversation about alternatives. As far as my father was concerned, if the sport could not at least provide the opportunity for a college scholarship, then the sport was not legitimate, and certainly nothing on which to pin one's future. Their message to me was crystal clear: after graduation it will be time to put the toys away and get to work.

The little support that my parents provided for my racing dried up completely that spring, though, as I suffered a concussion from a fairly hard crash. Unfortunately for my mother, it was one of those races that she had drawn transportation duty for, so she was the one behind the wheel rushing me to the hospital as I repeated the same two sentences over and over and over... The incident soured her on motocross forever; that would be the last race she would ever attend. While I didn't suffer any broken bones, my CR was pretty mangled, and my parents had zero interest in paying for repairs. My racing days as a minor were over.

So I started college, turned 18, and began to grow up. And yet, I still entertained dreams of becoming a late blooming pro racer. Although my parents made it clear that they were out of the racing hobby, I made it equally clear to them that I wasn't finished with the sport. I had a part-time job as a lot porter for a new car dealership, and I convinced my folks that I could race during the summer (while paying my own expenses) and still do well in school the rest of the year. They co-signed a loan for a new bike, a 250 Honda, they paid for my safety gear (that was an easy sell), and they let me use their car as a tow vehicle. But that was the extent of their involvement. Sometimes when I got home from the races my father would ask me how I did, but it seemed to be more out of courtesy than genuine interest. All my mother wanted to know was if I was okay and not hurt. If they ever brought up the subject of motocross, it was usually to express their desire that I stop racing.

20-some years later and 3,000-odd miles away, I had very mixed emotions about informing my parents about my choice to return to racing. In fact, I kept the information away from them for months, believing that they would be happier not knowing, so they wouldn't have to worry about me. But eventually I told them what I was up to, realizing that I am entitled to live my life as I see fit, and that there was no need for me to compromise my integrity in order to protect them from the truth: I unashamedly love motocross.

And so for you very lucky mothers and fathers out there who are enjoying the times of your lives with your children by taking them riding and racing, I salute you. You may think you know, but you really have no idea of the lasting effect your love and enthusiasm is having on your kids. And for those very fortunate racers that are basking in the devotion and support of your parents, please... thank them often. Don't take them for granted. Thank them for me and for others like me who wish we had what you have.