Unshared Elation
by Robert Beaupre
Photo courtesy of Mike Torres at www.tagnmx.com

To borrow a term from the realms of frequent-flyer miles and season ski passes, motocross glory is nontransferable.

That means that no matter how exciting it was when you “totally nailed the start” or “nearly cleaned out that #20 guy,” the people to whom you tell your race stories will not feel much about the incident. As compelled as we sometimes feel to share our racetrack elation through story, there can be no sharing--short of an onsite adrenaline transfusion, which I find most casual listeners apt to decline.

I know all this well, but that doesn’t keep me from often forgetting it. On the evening following a race, I can’t help reliving all the most vivid moments of the day over and over again. Occasionally, I forget the futility of trying to make someone else care about my experiences. It usually happens subtly in the midst of an unrelated conversation. An example:

Wife: I was at the store today and this woman talked to the cashier for a full five minutes after her business was done. There were six of us waiting behind her in line. Wasn’t that inconsiderate?

Me: Oh yeah. Speaking of inconsiderate, today in the second moto I was trying to pass for second on the last lap, and some kid who was a lap down suddenly decided he wanted to block me. I lost my chance at the spot because of him, but then in the last turn I cut under him and pushed him wide and totally nailed him with some roost. It was pretty sweet.

Wife: Uh...OK.

(It is not usually until this point that I realize I’ve broken my own rule of not carrying on about my riding. I try to save it:)

Me: I mean, inconsiderate people are everywhere, you know? I bet that guy from the race also talks to cashiers way longer than he needs to. Maybe he and the lady from the store are related, even?

Wife: Nice save.

Me: Thanks. Oh! On the topic of saves, did I tell you about my swap in the whoops in practice?

(Do'h. Here we go again:)

Wife: (feigning interest) No. You didn’t tell me about your swap in the whoops.

Me: (realizing my error again, I reach for the short version of what could be a 20-minute monologue) Uh, yeah. I swapped in the whoops. I thought I was going to crash. But then I didn’t. It was scary.

Wife: Is that all?

Me: Uh-huh.

(I decide I'm going to have to stop talking altogether, lest I keep unwittingly dragging the conversation into the realm of roost and whoops.)

These troubles aside, I’ve come to accept that I don’t need to share my riding stories. By letting them stay safely in my mind, I can relive every great pass, close finish and big jump without the burden of trying to convince anyone else of how cool it was. I know how cool it was. That’s enough.

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