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The Uninitiated
No matter how misty I sometimes get about motocross, I never forget that, to the rest of the world, the sport of motocross ranks just beneath monster-truck rallies and just above street luge.
The reason I never forget is because a reminder is never far away. For instance, I broke my foot on Tuesday. I stubbed it on an embedded rock while shifting through some whoops. The thin bone that runs from behind my third toe busted. No big deal: I’ve been hurt before, and in four to six weeks, I’ll be ready to roll again.
The only thing I dreaded about the injury was having to explain my limp to all the non-motocross people in my life. You see, when you explain to the uninitiated that you hurt yourself on a dirt bike, they tend to roll their eyes. And although I can’t really claim to know what they’re thinking, I suspect a scene resembling this appears in their imagination:
They see me riding a dirt bike. Not a current CRF450, but something looking more like a Hodaka that’s been spray-painted black. I’m wearing a tank top, flip flops and an open-face helmet with no visor, which makes it easier to chug beer or hit a joint in between stunts. Some buddies of mine (also wasted) have propped a wooden board against a boulder and I’ve just volunteered to be the first to hit our new obstacle. Revving the ratty engine to its limits, I power toward the ramp with wild-eyed carelessness. Upon launch, I’m sent into a flying W, much to the amusement of my drunken compatriots. I land with a groin-crunching thud a few feet from the ramp and run over my left foot in the process. Presto: a broken foot.
You might be tempted to dismiss this portrait as unrealistic or even silly. But I’ve shown injuries to many a disparaging outsider, and their expressions indicate to me that their basic notion of “dirt biking” is something remarkably similar to this.
Occasionally, a kind soul will attempt to sympathize by telling me the story of how his cousin got a concussion while trying to wheelie a Banshee down a cul-de-sac. I listen politely, but I really want to say: No! I’m an athlete, not some yahoo riding a quad on pavement with no helmet. I race a sophisticated machine against other athletes who take riding seriously. I practice. I train. I wear appropriate safety gear. I’m a professional--not a hick looking for cheap thrills.
But after my initial attempts to put my sport into proper context meet with glassy-eyed indifference, I usually give up. Let them imagine the Hodaka scene if they must. I know the truth of what I do. And it doesn’t involve Hodakas, flip flops, joints or makeshift ramps leaned against boulders.
OK--maybe the makeshift ramp might be kind of fun. But still.
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