Motocross Mike

      The sound of engines reached a whining peak as each rider strained forward with his eye on the starting gate.  Forty motocross bikes lined up side by side, their riders twisting throttles, on and off to higher and higher rpm’s until it seemed that every engine on the start line would blow up in a thick cloud of blue smoke.  The gate dropped.

      Forty clutches were popped by forty fast left hands.  Forty rear wheels churned the dirt and grass of the start line into plumes behind powerful motocross bikes.

      Mike was a fraction of a second quicker.  He let out his clutch earlier than everyone else on the line.  His weight was positioned perfectly for just the right amount of traction and it put him in the lead.  He had the “hole-shot” and would be the first one

to the track entrance,  a tricky, ninety-degree turn onto a thirty foot wide course.

      Mike was pleased with himself.  “That start ought to impress the factory boys,” he thought, remembering the Honda factory representatives who were there to watch him race.  His life’s ambition was to get sponsorship and ride the national circuit the following season.  This was his big chance to impress the factory “reps”.

      He led the pack almost to the first turn.  Then, as he began to shift his weight forward for the turn onto the track, his front wheel hit a rock hidden in the grass.  The front forks bottomed out and he slid violently up the gas tank to the handlebars.  His mid-section hit the bars and he felt the rear wheel rise slowly into the air.  He was going to “endo” and he knew it..  In horrifying slow motion, he was down.

      He felt his sponsorship slipping away because of his stupidity.  He couldn’t believe this was happening.  He hung on to the handlebars with all his strength to control his fall. He needed all the leverage he could get to twist out from under the bike.  The bike began the first of three end-to-end tumbles.  His feet were in the air, a handstand on the handlebars of a motorcycle gone wild.

      His back hit the ground with a thud and Mike’s breath whooshed out of his chest.  For a moment stars whirled in his vision and he thought he would black out.

The bike was coming down on him.  In a split second he’d pushed it away and twisted to one side.  The back end crashed to the ground just inches from his left foot,  tearing loose the fender and bending the rear frame as if it was a soda straw.  The bike flipped again, jerking Mike up, his legs flailing to the side.  The force was more than he could cope with.  He lost his grip on the bars and again hit the ground.  Luckily, he landed to the side of the bike, rolled and lay still, frightened that he might be badly hurt.

      His accident hadn’t slowed anybody down. The race was still on.  Bill Maslak, had told him a long time ago that “nothing stops the start in motocross unless a lot of guys jump the gate.” Bill knew what he was talking about. He was an ex racer himself and the owner of the cycle shop where Mike worked.

      “Press,” he’d told Mike. “Keep pressing no matter what happens around you.”

And Mike always did.  It was one of the reasons he was so often a winner and was now in the “Expert” class.  He had seen riders down on that first turn just like he was now. Stalled, handlebars and footpegs locked together, straining and pulling at one another while other riders tried to avoid them.  Mike would ride around them too, pushing and pressing other riders out of his way.  Riders and motorcycles might be hurtling through the air, but he always kept his eye on the line.