BEST OF JODY’S BOX: FOR THE LOVE OF THE SPORT

BY JODY WEISEL

“Is this your first visit to our factory,” asked the man in the business suit and tie. 

“Yes,” I said, “but I’ve always wanted to come here. Ever since I started riding I dreamed that someday I’d be standing right on this spot. It’s hard to imagine what a goofy kid I was back then.” 

“How did you get started racing?” he asked as we walked into his expansive office.  

“I like to tell people that I started racing because the beach town I lived in went through a long flat spell when there weren’t any waves and I needed something to do when I couldn’t surf. That’s partially true, but I had a friend who let me ride his bike in the sand dunes one day and I was hooked. There is a sense of freedom found in careening around on a motocross bike that is hard to express. Do you race?” I asked. 

“No. I ride a little, on company outings and at press function, but mostly on street bikes,” he said. 

“You should try motocross. It’s the most incredible feeling.” I said. “You literally have the power of life and death in the palm of your hand. You can scare yourself silly, dial in an euphoric sense of giddiness or just enjoy the rush of the wind. It all depends on how hard you twist your wrist.

“YOU DON’T GET TO BE AN ASTRONAUT UNLESS THERE IS A CHANCE YOUR ROCKETSHIP WILL BLOW UP, OR A FIGHTER ACE UNLESS THE GUY IN THE MIG SHOOTS BACK, OR A MOTOCROSS RACER UNLESS YOU DANCE ON THE EDGE. TO HAVE TRUE MEANING AN ENDEAVOR HAS TO HAVE REAL CONSEQUENCES.”

“That sounds a little over the edge,” He said as he slumped in his office chair.  I could tell that I was losing him and decided to give him a second viewpoint.

“Perhaps the best thing about racing motocross is that it blanks everything else out of your mind. Got bills? They vanish in berms. Trouble with your truck? Roost blows the woes away. Motocross clears the cobwebs out of your brain, gives you perspective on life and, in a strange way, makes everything else seem insignificant.” 

“I’ve never ridden on a motocross track. What’s it like? Isn’t it dangerous?” asked the man in the suit. For the moment he had stopped shuffling the papers on his desk and leaned in to hear my answer.  

“Of course it is. What would the point be of doing it if it wasn’t,” I said. “In a world filled with video commandos, paintball generals and internet lifers, risk sports are the last bastion of the soldier of fortune. You don’t get to be an astronaut unless there’s a chance your rocketship will blow up, or a fighter ace unless the guy in the Mig shoots back or a motocross racer unless you dance on the edge. To have true meaning an endeavor has to have real consequences.” 

“I don’t think I could go fast enough to be a racer,” he said. 

“That’s the beauty of the sport,” I replied. “It doesn’t matter how fast you go. The sensations are the same regardless of the talent level. Lots of riders puff themselves up because they are faster than the next guy. They think they are getting more out of motocross than a slow guy. It’s not true. As fast as Jeremy McGrath goes, his awareness of speed is no more exhilarating than those of the slowest 125 Novice. What sets the hairs on the back of Jeremy’s neck on end might be 20 mph faster than what kicks in the endorphins of a 125 Novice — but the hairs stand up and salute for both riders.” 

“Maybe I’ll check a bike out of the warehouse and you could take me trail riding with you,” said the exec as he began to open the manila folder in front of him. 

“I don’t trail ride.” I replied. “I don’t play ride. I don’t do enduros. I only race. Racing is life. Everything else is waiting for the next race. It’s hard to explain the allure of motocross to someone who’s never done it. You’d have to be part of the energy on the starting line. You can feel the anxiety, see the fear and hear the hearts pounding. It’s so intense — yet everyone is so calm. Most racers yawn while waiting for the gate to drop. You might think they yawn because they are bored, but that’s the adrenaline trying to wake the rest of the body. Your mind is racing, but your muscles are stunned. However, once the race starts you focus like you’ve never focused before.

“What other sport is comparable to motocross, ” he asked

“Boxing!” I said. “You determine the pace you can sustain for 12 rounds. You take punishment if it will let you close in on your opponent. You dance around the ring when you are ahead. You attack when you are behind. And you are fighting more than one opponent. The track, the competition, gravity, fatigue and self doubt are trying to defeat you. At the end of a 30-minute moto you feel as though you’ve gone the distance with Evander Holyfield. You’re sore, you ache, maybe you are  even bloodied, but you’re on your feet. You don’t get beat in motocross — you beat it. It’s not a humbling sport in any way— even the losers can stand with their heads unbowed.” 

“I’m impressed by your passion. Let’s get down to business,” he said as he slid a typed piece of paper across the table at me. “Our company is prepared to offer you the amount I’ve penciled on this paper to come on board as our head of R&D and testing. If this figure is satisfactory, just sign on the bottom and we’ll be in business together?” 

“No!” I said. “That’s not even close to what I want. I want more,” I said as I pushed the paper away with disdain. “I’m not in this for the love of the sport.”