Kicking Up Dirt Read online

  In motocross, double and triple jumps are high-speed, long-distance maneuvers that require momentum and steady rhythm. In supercross, jumps are more numerous, and they are steeper, almost perpendicular—the kind that will shoot a rider straight up in the air. Technical precision and nerves of steel are required to be a supercross star.

  Supercross has a bigger following, partially because the competitions are set up like concerts or baseball games, taking place in metropolitan-area stadiums that can hold fifty thousand or so fans. Supercross is accessible—spectators might visit the stadium to watch a concert one week and then return the next week to watch a supercross race, regardless of whether they have any connection to motorcycles or supercross whatsoever. Motocross, on the other hand, is rural, and races will take place out in the boonies. And its fans generally have some kind of family connection to the sport. Perhaps they raced or their father raced—either way, they tend to be hard-core.

  * * *

  The first real race I ever went to was at an indoor stadium in Detroit called the Pontiac Silverdome. It was a supercross race and I remember munching on hot dogs and popcorn, transfixed by the spectacle going on below us. In 1996, when I was six years old, my parents bought their first motor home—a Coachmen Catalina Class C—and that allowed us to start traveling around the country so I could see the different types of tracks and races. In 1997 we went to the Mini Olympics—a huge amateur race down in Gainesville, Florida—and watched a young James Stewart work his magic on the track. (James is one of today’s biggest motocross stars and a hero of mine.) Sitting up there in the bleachers, watching real racing, my perspective shifted. For the first time, I actually saw people riding not just for fun, but to win.

  “I Wanna Race!”

  In 1998, my mom, my dad, and I took a vacation to Florida. We were supposed to hang out at Disney World but ended up spending all our time riding at an ATV park called Croom Forest in Brooksville. That’s where I told my dad to take off my training wheels. I was ready to ride—for real. Perhaps I had been inspired by watching the professional races. Or maybe I had grown more confident. Either way, my folks were delighted—they had been encouraging me to get rid of the training wheels for a while, mainly because they actually made riding more difficult for me. The bike would always lean to one side or the other when the wheels were on, making me feel like I was going to fall off.

  So off came the training wheels, and off I went. I rode around in a circle for a few minutes, but that wasn’t enough. I told my mom and dad I wanted to follow them through the woods while they rode their bikes. They looked at each other, surprised, but they agreed to let me do it. I zoomed around behind them for hours, no training wheels and totally independent. No longer wobbling and out of control, I finally felt at ease on the bike and like it could take me anywhere. It was a whole new feeling. When we got back to the motor home, I knew I had fallen in love with motorcycles. There was no going back.

  Riding off into the Croom Forest for the first time without my training wheels.

  * * *

  Four-Stroke Versus Two-Stroke Engines

  Modern off-road motorcycle racing is done with either a two-stroke engine or a four-stroke engine. The four-stroke delivers a smooth broad range of power, and the two-stroke delivers a snappy, less controllable burst of power. I’ve never heard either, but I’m told the four-stroke sounds more like a high-performance car engine and the two-stroke like a chain saw (most chain saws have a two-stroke engine). The sport is graduating to nearly all four-stroke motors, with two-strokes still found in the amateur ranks, especially on smaller machines raced by children.

  * * *

  The next day we went to Pax Trax in Bunnell, Florida—a real motocross track. I tore it up on the kids’ peewee track, which is shorter, gentler, and less treacherous than an adult track. I must have gone round and round it nonstop for a good three hours. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the big track. Every lap I would stop, look at my dad, and point at it. He would smile and sign, “No, not yet.” The big track was for racing, he explained. “Well, I wanna race!” I signed, determination on my muddy face.

  Being deaf, riding gave me a whole new way of expressing myself. It gave me freedom. My mom noticed that my personality started changing—before motocross, I was introverted, clinging to my mom and dad whenever I met new people or was in unfamiliar places. But motocross made the outside world less scary. I became eager to get dressed and leave the house, because I knew that being outside meant we might get to go riding. As a rider, I could walk up to a group of motocross kids and feel like I belonged, because we all had one thing in common—we loved the dirt. Motocross was helping me escape the silence in my head and connect with the outside world.

  My First Race

  Right after coming home from Florida my dad went on the Internet to look for races happening nearby. I had said I wanted to race, and he wasn’t going to wait around so I could change my mind. He knew the Michigan amateur circuit pretty well, having worked it himself, and picked a race called the Spring Fling at a track called Log Road in Coldwater, Michigan. Held in March, it’s one of the earliest races in the motocross calendar. At that time of the year, Michigan’s tracks are generally pretty wet and muddy—but I don’t think any of us had any idea just how miserable the conditions would be. My parents almost didn’t let me enter when they saw how slippery the track looked, thinking that they didn’t want my first experience of racing to be about a mud bath. But I wasn’t giving up that easily. All I wanted to do was race—no matter how muddy it was out there. Eventually my parents relented and let me line up with the other kids.

  * * *

  Getting Started

  If you’ve never ridden a dirt bike before, just be warned—once you get on that track, there’s often no going back. Motocross is an enormously addicting sport, provided you have the right blend of patience, determination, and daring. A high pain threshold helps, too.

  You first step should be to find the right bike—I recommend you start with something that doesn’t have too high an engine capacity, and don’t forget to learn basic bike maintenance. Try joining motocross message boards to find good deals on used bikes—you’ll find some steals at the end of the season or when new models come out and riders want to trade up.

  If you’re just starting out, buy secondhand gear—there’s no point in spending a ton of cash on brand-new gear, especially if you’re young and still have some growing to do. You should buy a new helmet, though—that’s the most crucial part of any rider’s gear. Start getting fit. Motocross is tiring, and you’d be surprised at how many crashes happen just because the rider is exhausted.

  Visit sites like mxsports.com, which will guide you in how to get started as an amateur racer. There are important rules and regulations every rider needs to be aware of. Walk the track before you race it, and then, during your practice session, look for all the different lines you can take. Always wash your bike between races—mud is heavy, and can slow you down. Oh—and don’t be late to the start line. Early mornings and long drives are part of the motocross lifestyle.

  And as you improve your technique, check out the many videos on YouTube in which experienced riders share the secrets of their technique. There weren’t too many videos when I first started out, now the internet is packed with amazing information for the beginner motocrosser.

  These days, there’s no excuse not to become good!

  * * *

  There were twelve of us peewee riders, and while I can barely remember anything of the race itself, I know I did pretty well. I came in fourth and I got to take home a little trophy. I held it tight all the way home. This was my first taste of winning, and I liked it. I think that’s when my parents realized that I wasn’t kidding around when I said I wanted to race.

  Every weekend after that, all I wanted to do was race. My new obsession with dirt biking was unnerving at first for my mom because like all novice motocrossers, I would fall off the bike all the time. Bu
t I’d always bounce right back up again. My mom often observed that her friends’ kids were always bashing themselves up just playing in a playground or scooting around on their bicycles—yet I’d be on my dirt bike and not get bumped or bruised half as much as they did. I guess I was tougher than I looked.

  Of course, it helped that I was well protected—I wore all the gear. Even when you’re just starting out, you simply can’t ride without full gear. You need it to protect you from the heat of the bike and the impact of falling. Because falling is what motocrossers do best. Bearing that in mind, we dress to protect: our pants are made from thick canvas material with leather patches strategically sewn on where the hot exhaust pipes could possibly burn us. We also wear jerseys, like regular football or sports jerseys, made of thin, breathable fabrics—if it’s cold, we can just add layers underneath. Jerseys are always long sleeved in motocross, which helps protect us against the “roost”—the rocks and dirt that shoot up behind riders. Get caught in someone’s wake as they go around a corner, and you’ll be “roosted”—never a pleasant experience. Of course, we always wear a helmet—with full-face coverage, for maximum protection—and goggles. Our boots are tough too—leather with steel toes and thick soles. I also wear a neck guard, even though it is not required. And I usually wear a chest protector—but not always.

  Leading the charge in a peewee race.

  My dad would like for me to be even better protected—he is always trying to persuade me to wear a kidney belt to support my innards. There’s so much bumping up and down in moto-cross, it can permanently shake you up on the inside. When he was racing, he didn’t wear one and now his kidneys are really weak—he’s always racing to the bathroom. The kidney belt, which looks kind of like a tool belt and sits under your jersey, is supposed to hold your internal organs in place so they don’t bounce around too much. Most riders don’t wear them and I never really liked them because they always felt too big for me. Feeling comfortable is sometimes more important to me than feeling protected.

  Feeling the Bike

  Soon I moved up from an automatic 50 cc bike to a manual 65 cc bike. That’s when I faced my first real challenge on a dirt bike: learning how to shift gears. Most riders know when it’s time to change gears by the way the engine sounds—if it’s screaming, you shift up; if it’s chugging, you shift down. Not being able to hear anything left me at a major disadvantage, one that could have prevented me from ever getting really good at riding a dirt bike.

  Thankfully, my parents don’t think there should be any limitations placed on me just because I’m deaf. So when it came to shifting, my dad said we simply had to figure out another approach. Some friends suggested we install a red light on my bike that would light up every time I needed to change gears. But having to keep an eye on a light at the same time as watching the track would have been impractical. Instead, my dad devised a different solution—he taught me how to feel my bike.

  When the bike was revving he would make a sign. “When you feel it like that, it’s time to shift,” he signed. It took me a while to get the hang of it—sometimes I’d flip over the handlebars if I accidentally put the bike in neutral at the wrong moment. But we kept on at it. Eventually, my body learned how to tune in to the changing vibrations of the engine. I became so connected with my bike, it became almost like an extension of myself. Today, I always know when things aren’t right—because I can feel it.

  People often ask me to explain what “feeling the bike” actually feels like. Well, it’s like a whole-body kind of thing, with each part of me absorbing information from the engine. The motor sends vibrations through me in every place I am touching it—my legs, my hands, my toes. I don’t consciously think about feeling my bike anymore; it’s become instinct. And it’s something everyone could do if they tried. Maybe they should teach more moto-crossers to feel the bike. Because in the long term, I think it’s made me a better rider.

  Between 1994 and 1998, as well as learning to ride my dirt bike, I was learning what it meant to be a deaf person. It was as though I was exploring two entirely different worlds, both of which would shape my identity in so many ways. When I wasn’t riding, I was going to school at Whitmore Bolles, learning sign language and making friends in the deaf community. I was a Girl Scout, which I loved (an interpreter from Whitmore Bolles would go with us), and I started taking gymnastics, ballet, and jazz dance classes in Dearborn. Almost always, I was the only deaf kid in the room.

  Then I made a good friend, Britnee Hursin, who was in my class at school. She was hard of hearing, and we immediately bonded. Her brother, mom, and grandmother were all deaf, so she knew how to sign really well. She was the only other child I’d met who I felt could relate to my experience of the world. Britnee was my first best friend, and we did everything together—we went to school together, we took dance classes together, we bugged our parents to take us to McDonald’s together. Britnee’s mom took it upon herself to show my family the ropes, introducing us to their deaf friends and inviting us to parties.

  With Britnee (left), and two of our other deaf friends from Whitmore Bolles Elementary School, Jarvis Beaver and Andrew Hursin (Britnee’s brother).

  When Britnee and her family left Michigan and moved to California in the summer of 1998, it left a hole in our lives. So much so, that my parents started reconsidering whether Michigan was in fact the best place for us. With Britnee and her family—our good friends—gone, coupled with the lack of good schools for deaf kids and the state’s pushy oral policy—suddenly Michigan didn’t feel like a place we wanted to call home anymore. We felt drawn toward a warm climate and started looking at their options. It came down to a choice—California or Florida.

  Catching some air at an amateur race in Gainesville in 1999.

  chapter 3

  FLORIDA DIRT

  Sunshine, at Last

  In August 1998, my mom, my dad, and I said good-bye to Michigan and headed south, to sunny Florida. Our new home was in St. Augustine, a history-steeped colonial city in the northeastern part of the state, about thirty miles from Jacksonville. St. Augustine was the first settlement established in the U.S. by the Europeans and is the oldest port in America. My mom would find old Indian arrowheads in the land around our house—unsurprising, as several native tribes lived in the area before it was conquered by the conquistadors, led by Juan Ponce de León, the first Spanish explorer to arrive in Florida. Legend has it that Ponce de León arrived in St. Augustine in search of the fabled Fountain of Youth, whose magical waters gave the drinker the gift of agelessness. Today, there’s an actual fountain in town, and thousands of tourists flock to it each year, hoping perhaps to erase some laugh lines. The fountain, the history, the people—older folks, deaf people, and a large gay community—give St. Augustine a colorful flavor all its own.

  Even though our new house was barely eight miles from the ocean, it felt pretty rural, on ten acres surrounded by sand, sand, and more sand. At night my dad would light fires and invite friends over—he’s always been a social guy. The back was secluded enough that my dad could build me a little practice track, and I’d drive my dirt bike on it all day, until the sun went down. After the cold dark winters of Michigan, stepping into this southern dreamland with its perpetual sunshine and turquoise coastline was a little unsettling. I was used to four very different seasons—but in Florida, each long sunny day blends into the next. The climate wasn’t the only reason my parents picked St. Augustine—the Florida School for the Deaf and the Blind (FSDB) was the main attraction. It’s the biggest school of its kind in America. Ray Charles, the famous blind jazz pianist, is its most famous alum, and it is government funded, so my folks didn’t have to pay for me to go there—which helped, of course. Money’s always tight when there’s a motocross kid in the family.

  I joined the school in third grade, one of around eight hundred students. Some were blind, but most were deaf, like me. We followed a regular Florida curriculum of English, reading, writing, math, and science, tailored
to fit our needs. Coming from a school and community where I was one of very few deaf people, this exposed me to a whole new world. Suddenly I wasn’t in a minority anymore. For me, a kid who came from a hearing family, being immersed in a world where everyone was like me was life-changing.

  Even the city itself felt more welcoming—because of the school, there were deaf people everywhere. Go to any restaurant in St. Augustine, and there’s a good chance you’ll see a family of deaf people having a conversation in sign language. Going to the school wasn’t just about getting a good education, it was about connecting with a whole new community.

  At the school, we didn’t really study sign language—that was already my language—but my fluency rocketed because I was using it constantly to communicate with my new friends. Learning nouns and object words is easy in sign language, so I was fluent when it came to having simple conversations about tangible things. It was the concept words that were tricky. “Who,” “what,” “when,” “where,” and “why”—the “W” words—can be hard to master at first, because you can’t associate them with anything visual. But we worked hard until I had mastered them—I remember sitting at home and watching sign language videos with my parents, fairy tales like “Little Red Riding Hood” and “Goldilocks.” I especially loved all the videos with Linda Bove, the deaf actress who played Linda the librarian on Sesame Street. It brought us closer together as a family, having to learn sign language as a team.

  Most kids at the school were boarders and stayed in dorms, because their families lived outside of St. Augustine. Around two hundred of us, including me, came home at night after school. I loved being able to go home to my family, and was grateful that my parents had uprooted their lives so that they could be close by.