Motocross Me (Motocross Me 1)
I turn to leave again, but she interrupts me. “How was last night? Did you have fun with Ryan?”
“Actually,” I say, biting my bottom lip and deciding not to rush out the door anymore. “Do you have a minute to give me advice…on a boy problem?”
Molly pulls out the chair next to her. I take a seat and tell her my dilemma. I leave out the majority of the details over the past two months. Instead, she hears a condensed version involving me liking Ash and Ryan and them liking me back but hating each other. She listens without interrupting and I appreciate her patience.
“So who should I pick?” I ask, hoping her motherly instincts and adult wisdom will prevail, giving me the perfect advice. She answers immediately without taking a moment to think about it like I’d assumed she would.
“Honey, I’m not going to tell you who to pick because that is your choice.” Seeing my shoulders fall in disappointment, she pats my arm.
“They are both fine boys. But I will tell you this, in the ten years I’ve known them, Ryan has brought many girlfriends to the track.” I sigh. Somehow, I can believe that. She sips from her coffee. “Ash has never brought anyone.”
The track is almost unrecognizable this morning. The air fills with the hum of generators. I’m used to people camping out the night before a race in their motor homes, RVs or even tents. But today the only people camped out are multi-million-dollar motocross corporations and the professional riders. Large eighteen-wheeler rigs are set up with canopies protruding from the sides. Under the canopies are a dozen or more dirt bikes lined up and ready to be raced. There is a set up like this for every brand of dirt bike and every motocross team. The gates don’t open until six A.M. for regular people like amateur racers and spectators.
The concession area now boasts four stands that are each double the size of Frank’s food truck. People set up merchandise stands and unpack boxes. Several cargo trucks line up with one wall opened to reveal portable stores. T-shirts, hats, jackets and stickers hang from the walls. There is a section of merchandise for every professional racer. I can tell who the more popular racers are by how big their section is.
I try to picture Ash’s name and number on a T-shirt hanging from those trucks and feel a surge of energy run through me. It could happen for him – one day.
A special VIP section of the pits is located behind the scoring tower for the famous and exceptionally rich professional riders. I am dumbfounded as I walk past a real police officer standing guard at the entrance to their pits and figure even my status of being the owner’s daughter wouldn’t allow me access in there. I know Shelby will shriek with excitement when she meets the real pros, but I am new to the motocross world so I’m not all that star-struck.
Since today is the amateur races, the professionals will be signing autographs and doing interviews for news reporters until their races tomorrow. Although I have never seen the pros race, I am excited for tomorrow because apparently the pros are twice as fast as Ash or Ryan. I can’t even imagine watching a race like that.
When I have taken in all of the grandeur that is set in place for Nationals, I head to the scoring tower like I do for every other race. When I get to the stairs, I am surprised to find a man I don’t know walking up them. He definitely isn’t a member of the staff, or I would know him by now. He’s in his late twenties and must have snuck inside the gates to catch a glimpse of a famous rider.
“Hey,” I say, rushing to the stairs before he reaches the top. “This is for employees only. You aren’t even allowed to be here, dude.”
The stranger holds up his hands to surrender. “I apologize. I’m just looking for Jim Fisher. I used to ride here when I was younger.”
I rush past him on the stairs and put my hand on
the doorknob, blocking his entrance. “He’s probably too busy for you. And you really shouldn’t be here,” I say, opening the door an inch and peeking inside. “Dad, some guy here wants to talk to you.”
Dad comes to the door and I enter the tower to leave him to deal with the nuisance. As soon as the door close behind me, I am caught off guard by a mass of purple bombarding me and wrapping me in a hug.
Shelby wears the offensive shirt, shorts she borrowed from me, and a smile that is so big it makes her face look disproportioned. She is the epitome of a star-struck, over-caffeinated, hyperactive teenager and I don’t hear a word she shrieks to me because the only thing I can focus on was her shirt – a purple polo with Mixon Motocross Park emblazoned across the chest in the tackiest shade of burnt yellow. “Shelby” is stitched on the left sleeve. I look around the room and to my horror, every member of the staff wears one.
Shelby is still talking but I’m not listening until she grabs my arms and shakes them as she jumps up and down, causing me to break eye contact with her shirt. When my mind returns to our one-sided conversation, I catch only the end of what she’s saying.
“…and he said the winner of today’s race will be offered Pro sponsorship by FRZ Frame Energy! Can you believe it?”
“That’s cool,” I say, uninterested. The only thing on my mind right now is those ridiculous purple shirts.
Dad enters the room and bring the man I saw earlier. They wear smiles of nostalgia as the man compliments Dad on the new score tower, saying it’s a huge improvement from the old one. I frown; the guy did know my dad after all.
After refusing Dad’s offer of donuts or coffee, the man says he needs to get back to work. The moment the door closes behind him, Shelby grabs my arm. “Mr. Fisher, you know him?”
Dad smiles, “Yep, he grew up riding at this track.”
Shelby’s jaw hits the floor.
“What am I missing here?” I ask. They turn to me with the sympathizing look I often get when asking something about motocross.
“That’s Dylan Bakers,” Shelby informs me. With a dreamy glaze in her eyes, she tells me how he is the world champion motocross racer two years running and something about being on Team Yamaha. I roll my eyes and remember there are more important tasks at hand than getting star-struck over some semi-famous guy.
Dad is in the corner of the room eating a chocolate doughnut. He winces when he sees the glare I give him. Disregarding Shelby, I march over and throw my arms in the air.
“You didn’t tell me we had to wear shirts.” He finishes his pastry and takes a folded purple shirt from the table behind him.
“Well I have a good excuse,” he says, tossing the shirt to me. “I knew you’d hate it. So I didn’t tell you.”