Kicking Up Dirt

by Ashley Fiolek

  My favorite times at the school were always those spent playing sports—Little League, city basketball league, soccer, volleyball, you name it. Whatever sport I played, I would figure out what my goals were, and I wouldn’t stop working until I achieved them. Sometimes, my friends didn’t understand my obsession with winning. Once, at an out-of-state track competition, one of my girlfriends kept bugging me as we were running ’round the track. “You won last week, you gotta let me win this time!” she signed. I didn’t get it. I sped off ahead of her and won the gold medal. She won silver. Afterward I found her crying in the bathroom. I told her I was sorry and explained I never meant to hurt anyone’s feelings. I just always had an instinctive drive to come in first.

  Representing the Florida School for the Deaf and Blind on the track.

  Hitting the Amateur Circuit

  The second I arrived in St. Augustine, I was racing and training with my dad, even as I was settling into school. A lot of the kids at school had trouble relating to my love for motocross, and there was a fair amount of eye-rolling whenever I would win a trophy or talk about traveling to different states, and later, countries, to race. But that didn’t bother me—motocross was in my blood, and I didn’t care what anyone else thought.

  In Florida the motocross scene is huge, so we were spoiled for choice with races and tracks. Each weekend I would race (this would taper off the older and more experienced I became—I would save my energy for the biggest and most prestigious amateur nationals and qualifier events). At first, the motocross kids were fascinated by me, wondering how I could ride without being able to hear anything. Oh, and then there were their parents: “Isn’t it dangerous allowing a deaf kid on the track?” they asked my dad. “Should she even be allowed to ride with the other kids?” They assumed that because I couldn’t hear what was going on I’d be a danger to myself and the kids around me. Thankfully at the time I had no idea that anyone wanted me off the track—my parents told me only later. One of the best things about being deaf is that you can’t hear anyone talking smack about you.

  My parents decided to fight fire with fire—by making me the safest and best girl on the track. Each weekend we would jump in our Coachmen motor home and drive to different tracks. Like Echeconnee Off-Road Park, a rough, loamy dirt track in Georgia. And Hillbilly Hills, also in Georgia. My dad and I spent time working on fundamentals—how to pick my line and keep my line, how to approach turns, how to look for shadows on the ground that indicated a racer was coming up behind me. My senses became heightened, and the bike started feeling more and more like an extension of my body. Every hour I wasn’t at school was spent getting me more confident on the bike. Soon enough, the motocross parents back in St. Augustine realized that I was the last thing they needed to worry about. In fact, I was probably one of the safest kids on the track.

  Our Motocross Clan

  Motocross may not be as huge as basketball or baseball, but once you’re involved in the sport, you feel like you’re part of a giant extended family, with hundreds of thousands of members. As many as fifty thousand people will attend a pro supercross stadium event, and a crowd of twenty-five to fifty thousand is common at an outdoor motocross national. Even amateur races have a healthy fan base—two hundred or so riders and their families each weekend. It’s at the big national amateur events, like the Mini Olympics, which draws six thousand riders from eleven different countries, or Loretta Lynn’s, for which twenty-three thousand kids try to qualify, that you get a sense of how big the motocross family really is.

  And it’s a tightly knit scene. Families will take in other families’ kids. Kids will become best friends on the track, and their parents will become best friends off it. Motocross is an expensive sport, so older riders might donate their bikes to younger amateurs. And if a rider is injured, the whole community will try to raise the money to cover medical costs. You’d be surprised how many riders don’t have health insurance, so the community sets up foundations—like the RiderDown Foundation—to help friends and family of injured riders deal with medical costs. When sixteen-year-old rider Ricky James was paralyzed from the chest down in 2005, for example, the community held a giant auction, raising $35,000 for him in just one day.

  The community exists because we really need each other, perhaps more so than in other sports. In motocross, kids get paralyzed and kids die—it’s a reality. It’s a dangerous, expensive, and dirty sport, populated by natural-born rule breakers and risk takers. But the passion that exists among motocross families is second to none. And that’s what binds us together.

  * * *

  The Fans

  Motocross is particularly known for its loyal and hardy fan base. Oftentimes, they will trek around the country and venture into the near-wilderness just to see a race. Without them, the sport couldn’t survive.

  The Whoop Monster, for example, is a motocross mega fan. He dresses up in shredded fatigues and carries around a chain saw that he’s customized with a horn, attached to the saw’s exhaust. You can usually see him at men’s motocross races at Spring Creek Motocross Park in Millville, Minnesota. The Whoop Monster says he’s the mascot for privateer riders—“privateer” meaning riders with no corporate backing. He even has a customized cart called the Rockin’ Whoopmobile that cruises around the track grounds, and he sometimes builds a “Privateer Zone” in the privateer pits, where he hands out drinks, energy bars, and snacks. I only saw him once, at Millville in 2007, and I found him to be hilarious looking. I didn’t get the chance to talk to him, though.

  Some fans struggle with the notion of women racing dirt bikes—they believe that motocross is a man’s sport, all about the hard grind. In the motocross DVD The Great Outdoors, one of the mechanics says, “It takes a real man to go thirty-five minutes outdoors.” And yes—it does take a real man, or a real woman, for that matter. In motocross races you’re on the dirt for around thirty minutes, plus two laps, on the gnarliest, roughest tracks out there, often in 100 degree weather. Supercross, on the other hand, is indoors, air-conditioned, and after fifteen laps, you’re done. Supercross fans have a seat, a view, and a climate-controlled environment; motocross fans spend their weekends trudging up and down hillsides, sweating. As passionate as motocross fans are about the sport, it’s definitely not for everyone.

  * * *

  We built a close circle of motocross friends, most of them families with kids that were about the same age as me. There were the Smiths, the Stacys, the Nortons, the Woods, and the Revel brothers, Brian and Brandon. Two years apart in age, Brandon was a year older than me and Brian was a year younger. They were blond-haired, blue-eyed all-American boys and the three of us used to love playing and riding together. Cody Smith and Chad Stacy were my big rivals. I taught the boys some basic signs so we could all communicate with one another, even though there was rarely much need for conversation as we were always either riding or playing some kind of game like football. Yep—I was a classic tomboy.

  If there was one thing we would talk about, it would be Loretta Lynn’s, the biggest, most prestigious amateur race you can win. The race is held at country singer Loretta Lynn’s dude ranch in Hurricane Mills, Tennessee, about an hour away from Nashville. Getting to Loretta’s was always the dream, but there were other big national amateur races we wanted to conquer too—like the Spring Nationals at Lake Whitney, Texas; the GNC race in Decatur, Texas; the World Minis in Las Vegas; and the Winter Olympics in Gainesville, Florida. And there were the National Motorsport Association nationals—the Branson USA in Galena, Missouri; the Grand National in Ponca City, Oklahoma; and the World Mini Grand Prix in Las Vegas—which aren’t quite as prestigious as the others but which I still wanted to win.

  With my friend and competitor Chad Stacy.

  As you can gather, nearly all my friends and competitors back then were boys. I was too young to race the women’s class, so I ended up racing against boys in the 50 cc, 60 cc, and 80 cc categories, which are for both sexes. (“Cc” refers to the engine capacity
—the power of the bike.) I didn’t care whether I was racing boys or girls; I just wanted to win. Motocross is a pretty even playing field when you’re young. Then boys start getting bigger, and the balance changes—they can handle bigger bikes and have greater upper-body strength. But I had plenty of years of racing boys before I noticed the differences between us.

  * * *

  Motocross Slang

  Basket case: an old bike that’s trashed and doesn’t run anymore

  Brain bucket: a helmet

  Gravity check: a crash

  Knobby wheels: the tires on a motocross bike have rubber blocks, or knobs, protruding upward away from the tire to create traction on loose surfaces, so we call them “knobbys”

  Pinned: at full throttle, maximum RPMs

  Whip: going off a jump, kicking the back end of your bike out to the side, and bringing it back before you land

  T-bone: when one rider runs directly into the side of another

  Pegs: the footholds where you stand on the bike

  * * *

  Thanksgiving in a Field

  There are five big amateur national motocross competitions in America. The first big event is in November—the Mini Olympics (or “Mini O’s”) in Gainesville, Florida. It is made up of three days of supercross and three days of motocross, and each year the best amateur racers in the world (of all ages) gather at the site, Gatorback Cycle Park, in hopes of becoming the Olympiad Champion. Children as young as four can compete for national attention at this race.

  The Mini O’s take place over Thanksgiving week, so the first time my family went, in 1999, my mom cooked Thanksgiving dinner in our motor home oven. We cheated a little—she had made pumpkin pies at home ahead of time and packed them for the road, and we grilled a breast of turkey instead of trying to roast a whole Butterball—but still, it was one of those family dinners I’ll never forget. As we made more and more friends in the motocross community, our Thanksgivings came to include many hungry mouths, and before long, a whole group of us motocross families would meet annually to eat turkey in a field. It doesn’t get much better than that, as far as I’m concerned.

  After the Mini O’s, there’s a long break and then in early March comes the Lake Whitney Spring National, followed by the GNC—the Grand National Championship. For the last few years the GNC has been held at a track called Oak Hill, in Decatur, Texas. The World Mini Grand Prix takes place the following month in Las Vegas—another weeklong affair. Then in July there’s Ponca City in Oklahoma, a big warm-up race for the closing race of the amateur season: the Amateur National Championships at Loretta Lynn’s ranch. Ponca City and Loretta’s are pretty much back-to-back—riders finish up in Ponca City on Saturday and then drive fifteen hundred miles to Tennessee to start practice for Loretta’s on Monday morning. Which means living in a field for two weeks or so. In motocross, you literally have to feel at home in the mud. I went to Loretta’s for the first time when I was about ten as a spectator—my parents wanted me to see the races there first so that when it was my turn to compete I wouldn’t feel intimidated. Even though my folks told me we were there just to have fun, I knew I wanted to return, not as a spectator but as a racer.

  Loretta’s is the magical bridge between the realms of amateur and professional motocross. Traditionally, boys who are deemed good enough to go pro (normally around the age of sixteen) race Loretta’s as their final amateur race. The next race they compete in will be a pro race, an outdoor national. Once they go pro, they do not dip back into the amateur ranks again. Keeping pros and amateurs separate allows amateur boys the breathing room to grow alongside riders of similar ability and experience, rather than having to face off against bigger, more seasoned pro boys. And it makes the transition between amateur and pro much more meaningful. For women, things have always been far less defined. Oftentimes women would go pro and then continue to race amateur too. Part of the reason was that until 2004, the sanctioning body of motocross (the AMA—American Motocross Association) didn’t even recognize women professional racers. That’s the reason they could go back and forth—there were no rules.

  Riding in an amateur race in Texas.

  Often the reason pro women stepped back into amateur races was because they weren’t being offered the sponsorships, backing, or prize money they deserved in professional races. So they used amateur races as a source of income. For a long time, that’s been the reality in women’s motocross. From day one, I felt this wasn’t right. First of all, racing against amateurs prevented pro women from being taken seriously. Second, it wasn’t fair to the younger amateur girls, having to compete against pro girls. What chance did they stand of winning? More worryingly, this practice fueled the vicious circle of underachievement for women in motocross. To me, it felt like we women were selling ourselves up the river. We should have been pushing for equal prize purses and sponsorship opportunities as professional racers, rather than fighting for scraps at the amateur table. This was an issue of self-respect. Early on, my mom, my dad, and I decided that if I was ever to conquer Loretta’s, if I was ever going to make a real career out of this, I would go about it in the same way that the boys did—race Loretta’s for the last time and then go pro, never returning to amateur racing again. It was time for a new path.

  Loretta’s—

  The Super Bowl of Amateur Motocross

  Loretta Lynn’s has been held at country singer Loretta Lynn’s dude ranch in Hurricane Mills, Tennessee, since 1982, when Davey Coombs Sr. decided to create the ultimate championship for American amateurs (his son Davey Coombs is now one of the biggest promoters in motocross). Loretta herself didn’t have any ties to motocross before then—now her name will be forever associated with the sport. The track is rebuilt every year and no one is allowed to ride it before the big event, which attracts more than a thousand top amateur contenders from across the country. Hundreds of motocross families plan their entire summer vacation around it.

  Loretta’s features thirty-three riding classes based on age, sex, and bike size, with forty-two riders in each class. Almost fourteen hundred amateur riders will compete each year, so it takes a whole week to run the races at Loretta’s. When you’re not racing, there’s plenty to do—dozens of barbecues, games, auctions, and dances, infusing a carnival atmosphere into the whole affair. And if you need to unwind, you can go horseback riding or swim in the creek that runs through the property.

  Getting to compete at Loretta’s is far from easy. First of all, you have to finish in the top seven or eight at a local qualifier. Then you can move on to the next stage—the regionals. I would usually compete in the southeast regionals, for example, alongside kids from Florida, Alabama, Georgia, and Tennessee. The top riders from each regional get to go to Loretta’s—only forty-two per class. So when you line up at the gate, you’re lining up alongside the best forty-one riders in the nation for your age group or bike size. That’s why Loretta’s is such a big deal—you’ve already gone through a long, arduous filtering process to get to that lineup. After the gate drops, it only takes two and a half minutes to lap the track, but each second is crucial—you’ll be racing in front of sponsors, manufacturers, and cameras from cable channels like the Speed Channel and Fuel TV. Loretta’s is America’s ultimate amateur motocross showcase, just as Davey Coombs Sr. intended, and its winners are expected to become the champions of tomorrow.

  Training Day

  After my first visit to Loretta’s, visions of me winning it immediately began forming in my mind. So my dad started working with me to make my dreams a reality. We started training harder than ever—three days a week at our local track, Pax Trax, and on the weekends we’d head out to Georgia, to our favorite tracks, so I could experience as many different types of dirt as possible. We tried to avoid going to the same place two days in a row.

  By this point, my dad and I were already starting to view motocross as something more serious than a hobby. Of course, that affected our relationship. We were no longer just father and daughter
hanging out together—we were athlete and coach, with our eyes on a prize. Almost immediately, we started butting heads. To ever have a chance of winning Loretta’s requires massive discipline on the part of a racer. You’ve got to practice fundamentals until you can’t even feel your legs anymore. In a typical practice session you’re working on left turns and right turns, over and over, figure eights and ovals for hours and hours. Doing that all day long grows unbelievably boring.

  One time we were working on technique up in Georgia, while I was still riding a small 65 cc. My dad could tell I was bored.

  “Can’t we stop?” I signed.

  I was tired, hungry, and getting madder every minute. And he knew it. But he said no—we weren’t leaving until I’d shown some improvement. I grimaced and revved my engine in frustration. Out of the blue, my clutch popped out, sending me and my bike lunging toward my dad. I mowed him down, and although it doesn’t sound very funny, I couldn’t stop laughing at the sight of him, wild-eyed, muddy, and furious in the dirt. Even after that, there was no getting out of practicing: my dad refused to let us leave the track until we were done. He was about as grumpy as I had ever seen him and to this day, he jokes that I rammed him on purpose. Of course that’s not true, but the point is, there’s a lot of blood, sweat, and tears that goes into getting good at motocross.

  My dad’s an intense trainer and father, and I’m an intense rider and daughter. And my mom, she’s all heart too. Life with the Fioleks can be pretty interesting sometimes, and there have definitely been days when everybody has been crying because it’s all too much. As things heated up in my career, emotions would really start boiling over. When I was young I deferred to my father on every decision—how to ride, where to ride—but with time I started to have ideas and opinions of my own. I got fed up with having to listen to everything my dad had to say. I was starting to grow up. And very slowly, much in the same way as I had with my deaf friends in Florida, I started to pull away, although it would be years before I would be able to truly detach, and stand alone as a motocross racer.