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Tracy Adams

Ashley David

English 1101.18

2 September 2014

The First Race

I have always grown up with the dream of racing dirtbikes. Not the type of dirtbike

racing that is on a wide-open track with insanely ginormous jumps and turns though. The type of

racing that I’ve always wanted to do happens in the forests and trails of private properties. For

some reason, this has always been what I have wanted. I got to go see a few of the professional

events when I was younger, and they were always exciting. All of the big professional racers and

their factory trailers set up in the pits awaiting little kids like me to beg for an autograph, even if

it was just on a shirt. Thousands upon thousands of parents and their kids would come to these

races, not only to bring their kids, but because the parents also found some kind of joy in

watching grown men try to go the fastest through thirty-two inch wide trails.

Well, on a weekend in the early spring in Maplesville Alabama, I was finally able to enter

a race for the first time. I didn’t know then that competing in this event would spur a lifetime of

enthusiasm, interest, and even an addictive lifestyle, as some say. The races were always on a

Sunday, which means that we would have to get to the venue the day before to be able to get

registration and bike checks out of the way. We brought our small, enclosed trailer to easily

transport our bikes and also to have a free place to sleep. The night before the race was terrible

and exciting at the same time. I had the hardest time falling asleep because, well for one thing, I

was sleeping on a cot in a trailer and it was very humid that night. The other reason was because

I was just overly nervous and excited. I was almost shaking with excitement, but at the same

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time I was scared about what was to come the next day. I had no idea what to expect; I just had

to do it.

I’ve been to a few of the races with my stepdad, Terry. He’s been racing for about four

years and is what I would consider a semi-professional rider. The type of rider that if he didn’t

own a business and was able to just ride and train every single day, he would easily become a

professional racer. I, on the other hand, have just been a casual dirtbike rider for about five years

and would considered myself to be a half-decent racer. Compared to my competition in my class

though, I felt like I had no chance at winning my first race. These guys just had that look of “I

am going to win and I already know it.” Their looks alone put a little bit of fear in me, but I

quickly got over it because I remembered that I was racing against them. They are trying to get

into my head to mess with how I perform.

It was the morning of the race, and it was very early. By early, I mean around five to six

o’clock in the morning early. The area that we were supposed to start in seemed to be like an

empty pasture, but little did I know that it was a dense pine forest with several miles of winding

trails between those giant trees. You could smell the freshly cut pasture and pine in the air. The

ground was just barely wet from the morning dew and the light sprinkle that happened the night

before. The riders’ meeting was in about ten minutes, which means that the race was going to be

starting in about fifty minutes. You could tell that everyone was getting ready. All of the racers

were “getting suited up for battle” as we call it. Strapping on their knee braces, sliding into their

racing gear, and getting their bikes warmed up. I was doing the same, except Terry was warming

my bike up for me. My bike was a brand new Kawasaki KX 100, and this was going to be my

first race on it. He wanted to make sure that it was running good for its first race.

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The pungent smell of exhaust fumes was in the air from over 200 racers, and it marked

the five minute mark before the race began. Everyone was getting lined up with their proper

classes, making sure that the line they picked to go into the woods wouldn’t hurt their speed.

There were a total of eighteen rows of racers, and I was on the seventeenth row, the “junior”

class because I was under the age of sixteen and my bike was smaller. Other kids my age, and

even younger, were in this same exact class. They looked fierce, but I just tried to stay relaxed as

we waited for it to be our turn to start.

Each row starts with a dead engine start, which means that your engine is shut off until

they wave the flag notifying the racers to crank their bikes up and to rush into a tiny opening in

the forest. Terry was on the eighth row, with the upper-level racers that were between the ages of

thirty-five and forty. Which meant that he started way earlier than I, but that just means that the

trail will already have a good beaten in path for me. Once it was time for my row to start, we

shut off our bikes, and got into the “fighting” position. Each of us little kids were standing on a

block of some type to get us up a bit higher to be able to kick start our bikes easier. The

announcer yelled “Thirty seconds!” and all of our heads simultaneously turned to the flagger. For

what felt like an eternity of waiting, I counted down from thirty. Once I reached ten, the flagger

raised his flag up in the air. At that moment my breathing stopped, but my heart was beating

faster and faster. For the next ten seconds, I was shaking in anticipation. I counted down in my

head “three, two, and one” and then the flagger waved the flag frantically. I kicked my bike once

and it started right up. I was off and into the woods in second place.

After about four miles into the nine mile race course, my bike began to bog down a little.

It was getting really hard to keep my speed up because it would almost stall at certain points. The

bike finally shut off right after the six mile point, and I had almost no idea what could have

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caused it. “It’s a brand new bike!” I said to myself, thinking that nothing like this should happen.

Then it hit me; a brand new bike needed to be ridden for about five hours and then the sparkplug

needed to be changed. I knew about this because of the previous new bikes that we have owned.

Well, we hadn’t changed that out yet. The sparkplug on my bike was located right on the very

top of the motor at the middle of the bike. I finagled my tiny hands into the small spot where it

was seated into the motor and removed the cover for it. Then hit a snag, it was screwed in tight.

Luckily, a very nice racer named Frank stopped and asked if I was alright. I shook my head in a

yes-like motion, but told him that I think I fouled a spark plug. Only with my luck he had a spark

plug wrench in his tool pouch. Not only that, but to my amazement, his bike had the same exact

spark plug as mine, so he gave me that as well and told me to not worry about it. After handing

me these two items, he got back on his bike and sped off and within a minute or two was gone.

I was now sitting there alone again and had to quickly change the supposedly fouled plug

in my bike. I had been in that single spot for nearly five minutes now, and every minute that I

was there counted. I was passed by third and fourth place in my class, I guess there was a wreck

because fifth place and on never caught up to me, but other riders were whizzing by me. I

quickly went over to my bike and fit the tool onto the sparkplug and had to turn it as hard as I

could to break it free. Once it was loose, though, I could unscrew it with my hands. Sure enough,

it was a fouled plug. Covered in excess oil which meant that it was not able to provide a spark to

the motor to keep it running. I swiftly put the new plug into the bike and kicked it a few times.

“Oh no” I thought. The bike wasn’t cranking. I was at the top of the hill so I tried my

chances with roll-starting the bike. I put it in neutral, put my helmet back on and pushed it

quickly to begin rolling down the hill. I then jumped onto the bike and pulled the clutch in. Once

I was about three quarters of the way down the hill, I slammed the bike down into first gear and

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let go of the clutch. The bike fired right up and I revved it as high as I could to blow the built up

oil out of the engine and exhaust. It chugged a little at first, but then it cleaned itself out and was

screaming with a high pitch whine like it should. After being at a standstill for nearly ten

minutes, I rushed off as fast as I could.

At this point, I was about five to six minutes away from fourth place. I thought to myself

“I can catch you guys. I still have an hour or more.” About fifteen minutes later, I came through

the scoring tent and saw that I was only a minute and twenty-two seconds behind the leader of

my class. I didn’t even stop after that, I just rush off from the tent leaving a cloud of dust. The

next two laps were my fastest laps of the entire race, catching up and passing fourth, third, and

second. The fourth lap is what counted though. I could see the back of the helmet of the leader in

my class. On the bottom of his helmet was a sticker that we all had on our helmets stating

“juniors”, and I knew it was him. I pushed as hard as I could, and I even pushed my bike to its

limits trying to catch him. I was right on his back tire when he hit a root at the wrong angle and it

slammed him into the ground. I abruptly stopped to avoid running over him and his bike.

This is when the helpful person inside of me came out. I yelled out “Are you alright?”

and he let out a loud grunt and yelled “Yeah! Go on man!” but I couldn’t just leave him there. I

got off my bike and helped him get his bike up and cranked it. After that I got back onto my bike

and was off. I was now in first place, and it was starting to sink in that I was going to win. With

the leader now minutes behind me, I knew that it was going to happen. My first race ever and I

was going to walk away with a huge trophy. From then on I pushed as hard as I could to get the

last few miles over with.