The Big Crash—and the Great Depression
My first big crash happened during this early period of intense training and racing. I was around ten years old, and we had gone to an amateur race at Daniel Boone raceway in Kentucky, an advanced track for a kid, with jumps that’ll make your heart skip a beat. Today, I get a kick out of flying through the air on two wheels, but back then I thought jumps, especially doubles (let alone triples), were plain scary. My dad was trying to help me get over my fear. We both knew that if I was going to get anywhere in motocross, I’d have to get the hang of jumping, and soon.
The day began much like all race days—I signed up in the registration trailer and completed the usual paperwork with my dad. In motocross, race classifications range from A to D, where D equals “beginner,” C equals “novice,” B equals “intermediate,” and A equals “pro.” I signed up for C, novice, and dreamed of the day I could mark the letter A on my sign-up sheet. Before practice started, the riders and their parents were allowed to walk the track and get a feel for it.
“I think you’re good enough to try that jump,” my dad said, pointing at a giant double in the distance. “Don’t be afraid, Ashley.”
I looked at the jump and felt flattered that my dad had so much faith in my skills. Because from where I was standing, it looked gnarly. I knew that only two or three of the top boys were planning on trying it. Here’s the thing with jumps: you don’t gain extra points for attempting one, but they will almost always help you gain an advantage. Rolling through a jump is generally going to cost you more time than just flying over it. And there comes a point in motocross where it’s dangerous not to take jumps. If kids are jumping over your head, there’s always a danger that they might land on you. So it’s far safer to be flying in the air alongside them. (Interestingly enough, a lot of the pro girls I race with today don’t do the jumps. That’s primarily because the tracks we ride on and their jumps are designed for pro men. There’s one track in Pennsylvania called High Point with really huge jumps—most of the women just rolled over them this year.)
I gazed at the double. If my dad thought I was ready, then I figured, well, I must be ready. I wheeled my new 65 cc bike up to the start gate for the first moto; packed the dirt behind the gate, just like dad had taught me (“You don’t want your tires spinning in a trench at the gate,” he always told me); and squinted at the double jump one last time. Yep—still gigantic. Piece of cake! I thought, trying to convince myself.
Face Plant
The gate dropped and the race began. I rode a steady line, like I always did. Because I can’t hear anyone coming up behind me, I’m more restricted in my movements than other riders. The big jump was coming up after the next turn. I hit the gas hard, and soared into the air, jaws clenched. I was flying high—but not high enough, and my bike slammed against the back end of the jump’s second mound. POW! My helmet wasn’t on my head anymore and I was facedown in the dirt, coughing and spluttering, eating mud and blood all at the same time. I’d just experienced my very first “face plant”—motocross speak for when you crash headfirst. And it wasn’t pretty.
I rolled around in the dirt for a couple of minutes, wondering where in the heck my front teeth were. The impact of crashing had knocked me out and my nose was broken. I was having trouble keeping my eyes open and was throwing up all over the place. My body was aching in ways I never knew possible, and I could barely remember my own name.
“Where am I? What’s happening?”
The yellow flag went up and I saw my dad come rushing over onto the track. Parents aren’t usually supposed to do that—he must have been really freaked out.
“What were you thinking, Ashley! Why did you take that crazy jump?” he signed.
I didn’t know what he was talking about. Turns out, earlier on he’d been pointing at a much smaller double jump—not the behemoth that I’d just majorly wiped out on.
My dad kneeled over me, and all color drained from his face. He can’t stand the sight of blood—and for a second it looked like he might need the paramedics more than I did. “You better take care of your husband,” said the doctor to my poor mom, who was trying to look after me and stop my dad from being sick on his shoes.
After the paramedics bandaged me up, I made my parents take me back over to the bleachers. Even though I was hurting, I still wanted to watch the other races. But when I went to sit down, everything started spinning. I asked to go back to the motor home. I was in so much pain I couldn’t even focus anymore. My mouth was full of gauze and I was still bleeding from cuts and grazes all over my body. Then everything turned black.
I woke up in the backseat of Grandpa Motorcycle’s truck, my head on my mom’s lap. I was covered in blankets and Mom had this strange look on her face. I guess she was pretty shaken up. We were on the road, headed for the emergency room. When we got there, the doctors kept asking me all these questions, which my dad translated for me, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept falling asleep, sometimes in the middle of a sentence. My mom took a picture of me that day—my nose was broken and puffy, and my lips were bleeding. I still have a scar on my bottom lip where my teeth went through my lip. Not my best look.
The doctors took some X-rays, and I had to have a root canal because my front teeth had been smashed. I was only ten years old and it was all so bewildering, mainly because I didn’t understand what was happening. My parents were struggling to find the language to explain what was going on—they didn’t know how to sign “root canal,” and even if they had, I wouldn’t have understood. That was the first time I had to have oral surgery—and believe me, I’ll take a broken bone any day over oral surgery. When you break a bone the doctors put you in a sling or a cast and then you’re done. With this, the dental drama seemed never-ending.
Banged up.
At home my mom had to squirt food in my mouth through a tube. Food is one of my favorite things in the world, so you can imagine what a downer that was having shakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Over a monthlong period we kept having to go back to the hospital so the doctors could decide what steps to take next. That was one of the hardest things for me—I couldn’t just move on from the accident. I knew I never wanted to feel this way ever again. For the first time in my life, I was done with motocross.
* * *
Color Codes
Green: indicates the start of the race
White: one lap to go until the finish
Yellow: caution—when a yellow flag is displayed, competitors must ride cautiously until they have passed the accident or danger that caused the flag
Black with a one-inch white border: disqualification of a rider; that rider must report to the referee at once
Black and white checkered: the end of the race
Red: the race has been stopped due to an emergency situation
Red cross flag: Medical assistance is needed on the track—riders should slow down, and should not try to pass or jump.
* * *
Time Out
When I started talking about quitting motocross, my friends and family didn’t know what to think. For the first time, I was starting to think about what it must feel like for my parents, having a nutty daughter like me who wanted to jump twenty feet in the air every weekend on a bike that weighed twice as much as she did. I wasn’t about to start playing with Barbie dolls or wearing dresses (I think I’ve worn a dress maybe twice in my life), but I did start looking at other hobbies. My dad bought me a skateboard. I already had a surfboard, and I started using it, even though I’m not crazy about the ocean. I don’t really like to swim or go to a lake, or even a swimming pool. A hot tub is about as wet as I usually like to get. Being submerged in water has always felt unnatural to me. Maybe it was that fear of the unknown again…I like things you can see and touch, and you never really know what’s lurking underwater.
For nearly four months, I couldn’t even look at my bike without feeling sick. Then, one day, I realized something. I was bored. I started se
arching deep inside myself and my faith. I have always believed that God has a plan for all of us. Maybe all of this was part of it. Maybe God wanted me to experience injury, just like everyone else does in this sport. Maybe God wanted me to know what it felt like to be hurt, so that I could be physically and emotionally prepared for the future.
Faith is a big part of motocross. If you didn’t have faith, you probably wouldn’t be out there on a bike. It’s no coincidence that there are church services at all the big amateur nationals and pro nationals. Every day when I leave my home and go to practice, I ask God to keep me safe, to help me to learn, and to guide and protect me. And whenever I’m on the podium, the first person I thank is God.
Looking back, the period of time following my accident was among the most pivotal in my career—just in terms of figuring things out in my head and getting some perspective on what lay ahead of me. I feel so grateful to my friends and family for their patience and love, for letting me work things out on my own terms. Never did I feel pressure to do anything other than what felt right to me.
One morning, four months after my accident, I tugged on my dad’s shirtsleeve. “I want you to teach me how to jump,” I signed. We went to Pax Trax and riding my bike again, after such a long break, I realized there was no place for fear in my world. And today, I love the thrill of doubles. Triples—well, I’m not a huge fan; I’ll normally take ’em as a double plus a single, thank you very much.
I still have a gray tooth because of that day at Daniel Boone. And it doesn’t bother me at all. Every time I look in the mirror it just reminds me not to let fear get in the way of my dreams.
* * *
Faith in Moto X
There are always church services before pro races, usually run by Pastor Steve Hudson, who visits the tracks to preach to riders and industry folk. Chappy (as he’s known) holds a chapel service at every race after the riders’ meeting. He’ll go to the hospital when riders are hurt, he’ll officiate their weddings, and sometimes he’ll even conduct riders’ funerals.
It goes back to motocross being a dangerous sport. You hope that someone up there is keeping an eye on you, and lots of people—me included—count on God to keep them safe out there on the track.
My friend and former mechanic Rick Wernli gave me a Bible promise book when he was wrenching for me for a little while. I picked out some things that I read before every race, just seconds before I head to the starting line. Reading the verses makes me feel calm.
* * *
Racing Loretta Lynn’s, 2004.
chapter 4
RUDE PEA
Cheerleaders and Catering?
When I was just a few months old, my mom and dad started calling me Rude Pea—like “Sweet Pea,” but with major attitude. The nickname stuck. It was fitting, especially once I started getting into motocross. Off the track, I’m not a fighter—I’m a happy-go-lucky girl who likes shooting goofy YouTube videos with her friends, eating sushi (Philadelphia rolls are my kryptonite), and making banana cream pie. But on the track, it’s a different story. If I’m in a race and somebody is messing with me, don’t expect me to sit back and take it.
This attitude has served me well in motocross, one of the most macho sports in the world. It’s all gasoline, high speeds, and dirt—not what you’d call girly. That’s never bothered me, because I’ve never been very girly myself. But still, there are some people who believe if a girl’s on a motocross track, she should be wearing hot pants, posing next to a bike, or handing out energy drinks to the fans. Cheerleaders and catering, basically.
And then there are the ads in motocross magazines—sometimes they make my eyes roll right into the back of my head. Companies don’t mind using an image of a professional male motocrosser to sell their product, but when it comes to selling women’s gear, they prefer to use some hot model in a string bikini. That’s great for the hot model—she’s getting paid—but what about the girls who are real pro athletes and could use the money? Even as a little girl, I was aware that things were different if you were female—and it didn’t sit well with me.
Amateur girls’ staging area at Glen Helen Raceway.
There are some people who don’t think women’s pro racing should exist at all. They don’t see the point in spending money on seeing girls race because “girls just aren’t as fast.” Well, they’re living in the Dark Ages. Bottom line—girls attract people to motocross who wouldn’t otherwise have been interested. The combination of feminine and masculine fascinates the outside observer—“Look at those young girls getting all muddy on these powerful bikes…how do they do it?” When a girl is shredding on a dirt bike, it’s a sight to behold and always the result of incredible hard work and determination. As has been the case in nearly every sport, women in motocross have had to fight extra hard to be taken seriously, so our stories interest the public at large, a public that might otherwise have ignored motocross.
Fast Friends
In the early days, most of my friends were boys. But in the summer of 2002, when I was around twelve years old, I met two women who would become among my closest friends and allies. Elizabeth Bash—we like to call her E-Bash—started racing when she was twelve years old, and she’s just as crazy about motocross as I am. She’s four years older than I am, tall (around five foot eight), and a tomboy, a stooge and funnyman all rolled into one, a stoic racer with a taste for pranks. Her relaxed SoCal energy perfectly complemented my hyperactive little self.
I remember when we met, up at the Lake Whitney track in Texas. “How’s the track?” she said, looking at her shoes. Actually, like most people, she didn’t really talk to me. She talked to my parents and had them explain what she was saying to me. I still wasn’t that great at lip-reading, and she had no idea how to sign, but I felt a good vibe from her. I’d never had a female friend before who could really relate to my life in motocross and my big dreams. E-Bash was the first member of my motocross sisterhood.
Around the same time, I met Miki Keller—the big mama of women’s motocross. She’s not actually big in size, but she’s real big in personality. I had always seen her around at the amateur races and wondered who she was, the lady wearing sneakers with a smudge of mud on her nose. Miki’s always running around with her hair up, getting sweaty and dirty, joking around and keeping a sharp eye on things. Miki used to race, so she knows and understands the thrill of riding.
Miki Keller.
* * *
Girl Racers
Women blazed a trail into motocross in the 1960s, competing in long-distance desert races on dirt bikes called Velocettes, B.S.A.’s and Matchless 500s. Until 1975, the women’s motocross national championship was known as the “Powder Puff” championship, which didn’t sit well with some of the racers, who had to fight long and hard to be recognized as true talents in their sport.
Some of the most memorable characters and pioneers include stuntwoman Tina Clary, who raced against the men in the 1970s and 1980s. Kerry Klied was the first woman to ever hold an AMA Professional Racing License—which was confiscated at a race because the AMA rules did not actually allow for women pro racers. Klied sued, and won, and continued to race professionally against the men. Doreen Payne was the first woman to race against men in a stadium race. She had started out riding BMX bikes and entering competitions as D. Payne so that no one would know she was a girl—she would have been disqualified had they found out her true gender.
In the 1990s, women’s professional motocross almost disappeared altogether, with the explosion of ATV racing and the death of a promoter named Mickey Thompson, who had always been an advocate of women’s rights in the sport. After he passed away, promoters started refusing to include a women’s class in their races, forcing women to compete alongside men or boys in amateur classes. Insulted, many female riders left the sport altogether. Miki Keller founding the WMA, and the recent inclusion of women’s motocross in the X Games, brought fresh hope to the survival of women’s professional motocross.
And today, if you’re a girl who loves motocross, it’s up to you to team up with other girls and fight for better rights. Shout loud enough and believe me, the promoters, sponsors, and dealers will listen. Find out how many people it takes to make a rider class, and if you can gather enough girls together, ask your local track promoter to put on a girls-only race. In motocross, if you don’t ask, you don’t get.
* * *
We were finally introduced to Miki at an amateur race at the Cycle Ranch in Texas. At the time, she was heavily involved in the now-defunct Women’s Motocross League and was working on starting up a new racing association for women—the WMA, or Women’s Motocross Association. Through the WMA, she would fight to keep pro women’s racing alive, as there had been talk of removing it from the pro-racing schedule altogether. She looked my dad straight in the eye.
“Ashley’s got something special,” she said. Then she turned, smiling at me as she held out her hand. “Good to meet you. You’re quite a lady.” I didn’t quite catch what she was saying, because I was too timid to look her in the eye. I was barely twelve years old and still a little shy around people I didn’t know, particularly those who couldn’t sign. My dad interpreted for me, and I couldn’t help but blush at what she had said. I felt something powerful and warm radiating from this lady and had a feeling we would know her for a long time.
Kicking Up Dirt Page 5