Kicking Up Dirt Read online

  Kicking Up Dirt

  A True Story of Determination, Deafness, and Daring

  Ashley Fiolek

  with Caroline Ryder

  For Dennis Fiolek, who loved the outdoors, and loved to ride.

  And for anyone who has a dream and is told it is

  impossible—nothing is impossible!

  Contents

  Introduction: Steel City

  1 First Revs

  2 The Gate Drops

  3 Florida Dirt

  4 Rude Pea

  5 Acceleration

  6 Going Pro

  Photographic Insert

  7 Hurry Up and Heal

  8 Factory Girl

  9 Summer of Reckoning

  10 Checkered Flag

  Epilogue: We’ve Only Just Begun

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  INTRODUCTION: STEEL CITY

  The crash happened at Steel City in Delmont, Pennsylvania, during the very last race of the 2009 motocross season. I was only eighteen years old, but people said I was faster on a dirt bike than any other girl in America. All I needed was to finish in eleventh place or higher, and the championship would be mine. I certainly never imagined that I’d end up in the hospital.

  At the track, I went through my usual pre-race routine—I prayed with my mom and dad, asking God to keep me safe out there and help me win. Our whole family had worked so hard to get me to this point. We’d lived in motor homes for much of the last decade, chasing the race and chasing my dream. Now everything hinged on today. We needed God on our side.

  I talked to my mechanic Cody Wolf—we call him C-Wolf—who had arrived at the track the day before to work on my bike. Before each race he strips it apart, breaking it down piece by piece and putting it back together again, so it is born anew. C-Wolf gave me a broad smile and thumbs-up, indicating that the bike was in perfect racing condition. I felt calmer. At twenty-one, C-Wolf was only a few years older than me, but I trusted him 100 percent.

  I went into the motor home to get dressed—knee pads, socks, big racing boots that made me look like I was about to take a walk on the moon. I put everything on in a very specific sequence; it’s something I’ve always been superstitious about. There’s so little you can be sure of once you’re out on the track—knowing I have put my socks on in the right order gives me one thing to hold on to.

  C-Wolf hopped on the back of my red Honda dirt bike—all modern Hondas are red—and we drove through the pit area together, out into the crowd and over to the starting gate at the bottom of the valley. Twenty or so of the nation’s top professional racers were lined up to the left and to the right of me, preparing to do battle on the track. I gazed at the rocky Pennsylvania dirt that lay ahead of me. If this track could talk, it’d have some tales—of championship battles, impossible victories, and broken motocross dreams.

  The gate dropped, and adrenaline surged through my body. I pulled back the throttle of my 250 cc Honda and it roared into action, propelling me onto the track. After a shaky start, I pushed my way up front. I was in second place, cruising the laps, riding smart and riding steady. The sunshine felt warm on my back as I imagined myself crossing the finish line, and for a second, the championship felt like it might have already been mine.

  It came out of nowhere—an unexpected rut in the track. I hit it at an awkward angle and lost control. The bike jolted out from under me and my five-foot-one body slammed to the ground. I felt muscle tearing across my shoulders, followed by a familiar numbness, the sensation of something horribly out of place—something was broken. Later, I’d learn that my collarbone had snapped clean in two.

  Maybe I should have waited for a stretcher. Maybe I should have let them carry me off the dirt and to a hospital—but I knew if I didn’t get back on my bike and finish that race, my championship dreams were over. I heaved myself up, ran over to my bike, and used every remaining ounce of my energy to haul its two-hundred-and-fifteen-pound weight out of the dirt. The handle-bars were completely mangled, but luckily the engine was still running. I got on and twisted the throttle, ignoring the pain that accompanied every turn of my shoulders. Dirt spewed out behind my back wheel as I headed in for another lap. The championship wasn’t going to wait for me just because I was injured. I was back in the race.

  I was wobbly, riding like a grandma compared to how I usually ride. A few of the other girls pushed ahead of me, and I prayed to God, asking Him to help me remain in the top eleven. Behind me, a rookie racer was putting pressure on my position, but I held on tight. I even made a couple jumps to make sure I stayed ahead. By this point, I’d forgotten about the pain—all I could feel was the determination to win. When I crossed the finish line, it was in seventh place—the happiest seventh place I’ve ever gotten. Even in seventh, I still had the points I needed. I was the women’s motocross champion of 2009. I felt really glad I had put my socks on in the right order that morning.

  Four days later, I was lying in a bed in St. Vincent’s hospital in Jacksonville, Florida. I had a hot date with the surgeons, who would insert a plate and six screws into my body the next day. Grandpa Motorcycle—that’s my grandfather’s nickname—stopped by the hospital to wish me luck. “They puttin’ Humpty Dumpty together again?” he said, teasing me. It wasn’t the first time he’d visited me in the hospital. Pain, broken bones, and drama—they’re par for the course in motocross, one of the most dangerous and least understood sports in the world. It’s not traditionally known as a women’s sport, and my fascination with motocross is all the more unusual given that I’m profoundly deaf—I’ve never even heard the sound of my dirt bike. Imagine wearing a soundproof helmet—one that you can’t take off—and that’s pretty much my world. I’ve always been at peace with my deafness, though it has definitely gotten me a lot of attention in motocross. Some people can’t imagine what it must be like not being able to hear riders coming up behind you—but I’ve never known any different. Being deaf is fine by me, and it’s never stopped me from riding aggressively, like the boys. That’s why the inequality in my sport has always frustrated me. In America, men get paid more, they get more practice time on the track, they get the sponsorships, the press conferences, the TV time. But things are changing every year. Women’s motocross is evolving like never before, and opportunities that were unimaginable for girls ten years ago are a reality today.

  It feels good thinking maybe I had something to do with that—in fact, it makes every broken bone worth it.

  Courtesy of American Honda

  chapter 1

  FIRST REVS

  I was born in 1990 in the shadow of Detroit, in the pleasantly nondescript suburb of Dearborn Heights, Michigan. The Gulf War was brewing, Nelson Mandela had just been released from prison, and Nirvana was about to make it big. I’ve never actually heard Nirvana—or any music for that matter—but my folks have told me they’re very good.

  Picture cookie-cutter streets lined with evergreens, oaks, and maples; neighbors chit-chatting over garden fences; Wendy’s fast food restaurants and early morning school traffic—my neighborhood was the epitome of suburban normalcy, just one hour’s drive southeast of the city.

  America’s greatest car maker, Henry Ford, was born in the vicinity, and to this day, most everyone in my hometown has gasoline running through their veins. GM, Chrysler, and Ford are headquartered nearby, and on the weekend, rather than going to the zoo, families will go to the Henry Ford Museum and stroll around a replica of the factory where Ford built his first automobiles or take a test ride in a restored Model T. Combustion, ignition, and fuel—those were the things that kept Dearborn’s motor runni
ng.

  My Father, the Dirt Bike Rider

  I owe my success to my parents—to my father for believing that little girls can ride motorcycles just as well as the boys, and to my mother for the support that turned my adrenaline-filled dreams into reality. Like all motocross families, they have given up so much—financially and emotionally—so that I could live this life.

  Dirt bikes run in my family—my dad, Jim Fiolek, was a motocross racer, as was his father, whose name is Jim Martin Fiolek but whom we call Grandpa Motorcycle. My dad was raised in Dearborn, Michigan, which is circled by Dearborn Heights. He was around five when Grandpa Motorcycle bought him his first dirt bike. At first he wasn’t especially interested in it—he was more into hockey. Then when he was around twelve or thirteen he competed in his first amateur motocross race and fell in love with the sport. He always plays down his talent when we talk about his time as a racer. He’ll say things like “I was a decent B rider” or “I was just an intermediate.” Truth is, I would never be where I am today without the knowledge and skills he passed on to me.

  He was racing in the late 1970s and 1980s, a few years after the motocross boom of 1970. Motocross was a simpler pursuit back then—riders would get in their vans and go to the races on the weekend. Now everyone in motocross has a motor home, and the races can last a week. It wasn’t an underground sport by any means—a healthy thousand people or so might have attended a regular weekend race—but the competition wasn’t so intense in those days, particularly not among young kids.

  My dad, Jim Fiolek, racing at age eighteen.

  The biggest difference between then and now is that the bikes were nowhere near as powerful or as resilient as bikes are today. Modern dirt bikes have incredibly deep suspension—springs and shock absorbers that protect riders from feeling every bump and dip in the track. But back then, there was no such cushioning. With spluttery engines, saddles as comfortable as a wood bench, and a tendency to spit riders into the atmosphere without warning, old bikes had the handling and reliability of a rusty lawn mower. As for jumping—only the bravest riders would dare.

  Motocross was still recognized as one of the most dangerous sports out there, just as it is today. My dad had his fair share of crashes, as is customary—he broke his ankle, damaged his kidneys, got some stitches. In 1983, after six years of bumps, breaks, and bruises, he decided to quit while he was ahead. He was eighteen and knew he wasn’t going to turn pro. With the high risk of injury, he figured there wasn’t much point in carrying on unless he was going to take it to the next level. “I reached a point where I started worrying too much about ending up in a wheelchair,” he told me. “I knew it was time for me to get a job.”

  He said good-bye to motocross—for a little while. Once the sport’s under your skin, it’s pretty much there for life.

  * * *

  The History of Motocross

  I tend to live in the moment—but it is important to know the roots of your favorite sport. Motocross is thought to have originated in France (one of my favorite countries). In fact, it was the French who first started calling it “moto-cross.” In 1924, the first competition, or “scramble,” was held in Great Britain, where the sport was flourishing. In scrambles riders would race their rickety motorized bicycles over roads and natural terrain, traversing foggy marshes and forest streams. “Scrambles” don’t have anything to do with eggs—that was the term the Brits liked to use to describe what Americans now call motocross races.

  America was watching, and in the same year, 1924, the American Motorcycle Association was born. But only a handful of races took place each year and the sport almost disappeared during the lean years of the Great Depression. Europe would continue to dominate the sport until the very tail end of the 1960s, when a rider called Gary Bailey from South Gate, just outside of Los Angeles, became the very first American to be crowned world champion. His success sparked a homegrown motocross explosion, and the number of races grew a hundredfold in the 1970s, the boom era of American motocross.

  In 1972, America birthed its own version of the sport—super-cross. The first supercross race took place at the Los Angeles Coliseum at an event organized by rock promoter Mike Goodwin, a motocross enthusiast who was fed up of having to trek around in the heat and dust to watch races. He wanted to create an easier experience for the fans, and that he did. Supercross, housed in stadiums and far easier to televise than motocross, was an immediate hit.

  America continued to dominate the global motocross scene throughout the 1980s. In 1987, when President Reagan invited the American motocross team to the White House, it was clear—America had officially adopted the sport as its own. Today, the sport continues to expand and evolve, and is tougher, meaner, and faster than ever before.

  * * *

  Girl Meets Boy

  My mom, Roni, was born into a Polish family in Garden City, Lower Michigan, not far from where my dad grew up. Her mother stayed at home and raised the kids, and her dad worked for Ford. Her parents would never have let her do the kind of wild stuff she lets me do—they were protective of their brood, and my mom and her two siblings led quiet lives growing up.

  My mom’s parents happened to know my dad’s parents, so Roni and Jim grew up aware of one another—vague acquaintances, you could say. But Roni never paid that much attention to Jim until after high school, when they ended up getting jobs at the same place—EDS, a computer company, where they were training to become computer programmers. Roni was nineteen, and Jim was two years older than her. Jim had a serious girlfriend at the time, and my mom was dating here and there. This was around 1987 or 1988.

  My dad was always an outgoing, popular guy, and he was known for his obsession with motocross. Physically, he’s compact—five foot five and around 120 pounds—but athletic, with steely gray eyes, high cheeks, and a strong jaw. His small frame barely contains his boundless energy. My father has always known what he’s wanted and gone after it…including my mom, Roni. She is just a little shorter than him, around five foot four, but softer in appearance and in personality. Her hair is a wavy brown, her cheeks are dimpled, and her eyes glow a warm hazel. People say she and I share the same smile. Unlike my dad, my mom was always really shy and kept to herself. She would listen politely when my dad talked to her about dirt bikes—she wasn’t even sure what motocross was at the time. That would soon change.

  It was at the wedding of a work friend that they acknowledged their feelings for one other, and after dating for around six months, my dad decided that Roni was “the one.” He took her to one of the tallest restaurants in America, at the top of the Renaissance Center in Detroit. It revolved slowly and had incredible views of the whole city and of the Canadian border. My mom went to the bathroom to fix her hair, and my dad got on one knee. He waited for her to come back, ring in hand, enjoying the view of the skyline as the whole floor slowly revolved. The view came around a second time, and by the third revolution he was starting to feel antsy…had his future wife snuck out and ditched him? He sent a waitress into the bathroom to look for her—and there she was, fussing with her ’do. When my mom finally reemerged, she wondered where my dad was—he was kneeling down on the floor and she couldn’t even see the top of his head. She thought maybe he had ditched her because she had taken so long in the bathroom.

  Luckily, it all worked out in the end, and they were married in 1989, in a traditional Catholic ceremony in Dearborn Heights. They were young—my mom was twenty-three and my dad was twenty-five—and the first in their group of friends to settle down.

  My parents on their wedding day.

  Baby on the Way

  My dad has never been one to wait around for anything. When he knows what he wants, he goes for it. First my mom, and then a family. I’m not sure my mom planned on getting pregnant quite so fast, but early in 1990, after they’d been married a couple of months, she learned that I was on my way. She started craving ice cream and dairy products while she was pregnant with me, which makes sense—the only thi
ng I love as much as motocross is eating.

  While I was in her belly, my mom worked for a contracting company based at the Ford plant. Workers and other personnel were always coming and going—it was a real hub. The doctors who eventually diagnosed my deafness think I might have caught German measles in the womb while my mom was working there. That’s the only good explanation anyone has been able to come up with. Normally, deafness is hereditary—but there’s no history of deafness in my family, as far as we’re aware. In utero exposure to the measles virus is the most plausible explanation for my deafness.

  I came into the world on October 22, 1990, two weeks late. My poor mom was in labor with me a full twenty hours—and despite the pain she refused any drugs. She and I are similar in that regard. We’d rather deal with the pain than have any unknown elements injected into our bodies. It’s a fear of the unknown. I weighed seven pounds, four ounces, and the doctors said I was healthy and normal as could be. I guess that’s how it seemed. In hindsight, there were early signs of my deafness—my mom would be vacuuming under me as I slept in my crib and I wouldn’t wake up, for example. It just took a while for everyone to put two and two together.

  Celebrating my baptism. Faith has always been important to us Fioleks.

  “Mildly Retarded”

  When I was about one and a half, my mom became concerned that I still hadn’t started to talk. My dad had been a late talker, so she assumed that was probably the explanation—but she took me to a pediatrician nonetheless. The doctor examined me and shrugged his shoulders—there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with me. Just give it time, he said. Six months later, when I still wasn’t developing any speech, my mom set up an appointment at the local hospital.