Hey Matt, how was your race?
Kinda crappy.
My seven hundred dollar gps unit that I bought to make my beta more fun on group trail rides, but is essentially useless during harescrambles, besides being a (I’ll say it again, for emphasis) SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLAR weight to my handlebars, broke off the mount and went flapping around by the wires about halfway thru the first lap.
Unable to stop the race, or carry it, I decided it wouldn’t survive the rest of the course to the pits, I made a judgement call: losing it where I knew where it was increased my chances of recovering it after the race, vs just letting it flop around and hope it stayed connected through an entire motocross track, and about a mile of the softest silt I’ve ridden through to date, and then to the pit area, then to struggle with disconnecting it and leave it in the safe hands of my pit crew.
Nope. No time.
So, after 2 jumps, I grabbed a fistful of wires, leaned back, and pulled.
As an electrician, I died a little in that moment. I felt strands of copper conductors, plastic- rubber insulation, and solder crimps stretch and break beneath my gloved hand, and to my relief, my bike still ran
(Bike wiring was unharmed ✅)
and my Voyager Pro GPS unit, complete with mounting bracket, hard protective case, and mangled wiring came free in my hands.
Wires cheap. GPS unit expensive.
A gentle sweeping left turn, completely unbanked to force novice riders to slow down for the 150 degree turn to the next jump, I gritted my teeth and swung my
I’ll say it again…
SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLAR VOYAGER PRO GPS UNIT
…into a pile of rocks on the inside of the race track. Inside the course, where hopefully no spectators would stumple upon it.
And committed to memory
*left turn at moto track.*
*left turn. Moto track.*
*Don’t forget. Left turn. Moto track. Voyager pro*
No way Amy would know what a Voyager Pro was. But my friend Allie would. She helped convince me to buy the fucken thing.
Amy was right there, pretty as could be. Patient. Sitting there. At the end of pit row. Holding:
a water
an extra pair of goggles
and a cloth to wipe my dirty goggles.
She’s amazing. She came to watch me race. I told her to hold onto these things that I might need. She’s never seen a race before. Much less a dirt bike race. And she agreed to be my pit crew.
This course was much smaller. 5 miles. At a motocross track. Usually, desert racing is:
Start. Dozens of bikes in a blaze of dust and glory blast off into the sand and the sage to find what dangers lie in the desolate vastness of the northern nevada wilderness!
…
And then nothing.
For about 1 to 2 hours.
And then BOOM.
Bike
Rider
I NEED WATER GIMMIE GOGGLES RACE IS GOING GREAT YEA MY GAS IS RIGHT THERE GIMMIE OKAY YEA WATER THANKS SO MUCH IM OUT
Dust cloud
Nothing.
For close to another hour or so.
Then BOOM
finish line.
“Wow that was great this one time I hit a sage brush and I was passing this guy I thought I was gunna die it was awesome oh man did you get lost too at that one rock holy shit man I thought I was gunna catch you that was great omg I’m so beat have you seen the results? Holy shit man you got 3rd in your class thats awesome”
Beers get cracked
Trucks get loaded
Everyone goes home. Yes I know, I have dust in my teeth…. it was a wiiiiild day.
Todays race wasn’t like that. It was short. 5 miles. We went in fucked up sandy softy circles around the spectators. You could watch this one.
And there was Amy
Nowhere near the track
Completely unable to watch the race.
Sitting right where she said she would be.
I pulled into the empty pits.
Roll up to Amy.
“MY GPS FELL OFF. FIND ALLIE. TELL HER: VOYAGER PRO. MOTOCROSS TRACK. LEFT TURN. GO GET IT”
Zoom off. No water. No goggles. Poor amy. Sitting there in the sun for nothing.
In reality, the race was too short, and with covid restrictions, there was essentially no need for pits. You could basically wait by the side of the course and…
Well, not really……
2 laps go by. My GPS unit is sitting RIGHT THERE. SO EASY. WHY HAVENT THEY FOUND IT??
I pass thru the scoring booth, looking for Allie
Maybe there was confusion. Allie would know.
No Allie.
Wait. THERE SHE IS….
……….
Okay, so here’s the hard part.
The REAL reason my race was crappy.
I’m new to racing. I’ve done desert racing. I’m pretty good with that. Sand-whoops-rocks-hills-dust clouds. No sweat.
You know what I’m NOT good at?
Jumps.
Tracks.
Gaps.
Jumping big jumps and doing that swoopy scrub thing where you flatten your bike out mid air and then slap it back upright just in time to land?
Pretty bad at that. Or maybe just inexperienced. Yea. We’ll go with that.
So when they said this race was gunna be at a motocross track, I got nervous.
Not for me.
For them. The other people. The kids with nothing to lose and no job to go to on monday and aren’t afraid to just launch off these jumps.
Landing on top of me.
My first race after a looooong break. Everyones still rusty. I’m rusty. I’m slow. I’m on a track. I’m gunna get run over.
I found him. The kid. The kid I knew was gunna run me over.
And I’m not just saying that because he went to the hospital.
He was right next to me for most of the race.
He’d pass me, then wreck, pass me again, lose his pace.
He would do some dangerous things to get by me, and then he would slow down.
Or I would speed up?
I dunno. But he wasn’t riding in control. You can kinda tell when someone is in control of the bike, and when they miraculously make it through obstacles. You can See It, especially if you’ve done it yourself. That “how the hell did I DO THAT??” Look. You can see it in other people.
I saw him ride and said to myself…. this kids gunna be the one.
Of course I have no idea how old you are under a helmet and flashy riding gear. I guessed because of how reckless he was riding, and he was kinda skinny. Sue me for generalizing.
Anyway. The course goes from motocross track to bullshit sandy silt up onto a road, and then you go nice and slow through a little booth that records your number, and then BOOM. Pits to the right, OR
Straight stretch.
Then U turn.
Into the flat track.
After the scoring booth everyone’s hauling ass. 5mph thru until you hear a BEEP where the eletronic thingy reads the transponder tape they put in your helmet and then GO
Fuck the pits. We have a race. ITS ON.
Except it wasn’t for me.
I see Allie.
Halfway up the straight stretch. Standing there. I needed to talk to her.
About my stupid GPS thing.
When I went thru the booth, I saw/heard ZERO people behind me. Unlikely for 112 racers on a 5 mile course, but I was alone for the straightstretch.
And then I wasn’t.
I knew I wasn’t, because as I started slowing down, a rider passed me on the left, and before I could even blink, I feel someone smash into my right handlebar.
I immediately hit the ground.
I look up just in time to see this kid bounce…. I mean BOUNCE… into a tree.
Its gunna be a while before I forget that.
I move my bike out of the way as Allie runs for the kid.
He’s making noise. Good sign. He’s not getting up. Bad sign.
Goggles come off
Blood everywhere.
“I think my arm’s broken”
Jesus fuck.
Medic shows up. I go to grab someone to go find his dad. My race is over. This kid’s hurt.
I go grab a spectator and give him the kids info. He turns to me and says “cool, we got it. Go finish the race”
The what?
No race is worth that. Are you crazy? I look back at the tree.
A pickup truck, no less than 3 people, including the medic, is surrounding the kid. I look back at the guy.
YES. GO. WE GOT HIM.
I still don’t know why I got back on the bike.
Why I rode past that kid.
Lying there. All fucked up.
Unsafe pass. Riding recklessly. Not in control. I was clearly stopping. Head turned, brake light on. Foot out. Passed me on the right, without leaving enough room. Its the person passing’s responsibility to pass safely, right?
But I stopped abruptly in the middle of the course. Middle of a straightstretch. To talk to someone on the side of the course.
About a fucking GPS.
I’m not okay with this. I finished the race. I didn’t do so well. I don’t much care. I feel terrible.
He broke his wrist on one hand, his hand on the other hand, and needed stitches on his face.
I’m not done feeling bad. I won’t be. But I got back on my bike. I kept riding. I can’t unbreak his wrist. I can’t make him ride safer. I can’t fix this.
Its not fixable. It was a mess. We both lined up. We both dumped the clutch and hit the gas. It could be me next time. I could have gotten landed on. I could have run someone else over. If he had hit me any closer, I would have ridden in the same ambulance as he did.
He shows up at school wearing a cast or two and a story to tell his friends about some guy at the race that cut him off.
I have serious doubts about whether racing is worth it for me.
I feel awful. I feel responsible. But I’ve learned that part of being a man is the ability to see your feelings, recognize them, and then pack them up, put them carefully in a carrying case and then move on to the next job. The next thing. You don’t have time to dwell on every angle and aspect of trauma because it’s simply not worth the time spent on it.
Total closure is a luxury sometimes.
If you want a no-shit cause of this, here it is:
I lost this race. I caused this wreck. In my garage. I didn’t make sure that thing was mounted securely enough to survive the race. Or find a way to remove it and the associated liability for the race.
If you’re one of my closer friends, you’ve heard me work thru this guilt in the form of talking about buying a new bike. New bike= no mechanical issues= safer race.
Sound ridiculous? Because it is, but that doesn’t make it less true. So how do we move forward?
I have to go to work on Monday. I have to fix my bike to get it ready for the next race. I have to shake off the what ifs and get back on the bike and keep going.
The conclusion is already drawn. No new bike, new bike parts, conversation with the kid that hit me, or any amount of money or hugs can get me to just sack up and quit being a little bitch. Ya just gotta do the work. I had a bad race. It happens. Shake it off and move forward.
You bet your fucking ass I’m gunna make sure my bike is 1000% next race.
And I’m not pulling over for any reason if given a choice in the matter.
That gps?
That SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLAR PAPERWEIGHT?
Right where I left it after the race
Stand On It 