Kicking Up Dirt

by Ashley Fiolek

  Always a go-getter, Miki doesn’t have any kids of her own. She says she thinks of the girl riders as her kids. “No one’s going to make changes for us,” she said at that first meeting. “We have to make them ourselves.” Finally, someone inside the industry who felt as strongly as we did that women’s motocross had to evolve.

  The Road to Loretta’s

  I had grand dreams, but before I was going to bring about my women’s revolution, I had to become a better rider. What’s more, I had to win Loretta’s, or no one would take me seriously. And that meant practice—lots of practice, all over the country.

  When I was thirteen, my dad, my mom, and I were out at a track in Tennessee, practicing on my 85 cc bike, working each of the different sections. The track was punctuated with berms, piles of dirt that build up on the outside of a turn. You’ll find them on most motocross tracks, and they develop naturally as riders take the same turn over and over again, pushing and piling dirt up with their back wheels until it grows into a wall. I recall the dirt at that particular track was real loamy—meaning a darker-colored dirt with a sticky, viscous feel. I took a five-minute break, peeled off my gloves, and kneeled down, picking up a handful of dirt. I squeezed it, enjoying the way it stayed together in my hands. It wasn’t dry, rocky, or sandy—it felt rich and delicious, like chocolate pudding. “It’s like Play-Doh,” I signed to my dad, and he smiled.

  “Good traction,” he signed back, nodding.

  Most tracks have something called the whoops section, basically a long series of mini-jumps or moguls that you can’t really jump. You have to just kind of blast over the tops of them. (The craziest whoops are at the X Games—it is easy to lose control in them, and if you do, you’re toast.) The rhythm section, on the other hand, is a series of double or triple jumps. You have to find a good rhythm to get through them smoothly. (I generally prefer a rhythm section over whoops; whoops are gnarly.) That day, I breezed past the whoops section, because I was trying to focus on turns. Turns are where riders shine or lose time.

  I was experimenting with how much gas I needed for different kinds of turns, formulating a plan as I made laps around the track—I would take the next corner using a different technique, one that involved bringing the gas back a little later than usual. I was so preoccupied with strategy, I forgot how fast I was going, and before I realized what was happening, I headed straight into a berm. Rather than swerve along its inner contour I plowed straight up its steep side, over the lip, and took off into the air, hitting my brakes frantically as I traveled through the sky. A large murky pond lay on the other side of the berm.

  Splash!

  Suddenly my bike and I were fully immersed. Motocross gear is pretty heavy and not designed for pond swimming, and I felt its weight drag me down under the tepid, reddish water. In the corner of my eye I saw my parents running over the lip of the berm, waving their arms at me, followed by some family friends who were also at the track. Using all my energy, I slowly heaved myself over to the water’s edge, spluttering as I collapsed face-down in the dirt, soaking wet.

  Man…I hate water! I thought, panting.

  I was relieved to be back on land, and as my breathing slowed I became aware of the Georgia sun pounding my back and legs. It was hot—really hot. Burning up, in fact. Then I realized it wasn’t the sun that was burning me—hundreds of fire ants had crawled under my gear and were biting the living daylights out of me. I must have crawled out of the pond and lain down right on top of their nest. And they weren’t too happy about it—it felt like an entire army of fire ant drones was having a party on my back. (If you’ve never met a fire ant before, let’s just say they’re called fire ants for a reason—they burn.)

  “They’re eating me!” I signed. My mom, dad, and our friends had gotten to me by this point. My mom launched a rescue mission, ripping off all my gear and brushing the fire ants off of my poor body. Meanwhile our friends’ son, who was about my age, was there, watching me get stripped to my riding shorts and tank top as I hopped around in agony. To this day, I cringe when I think about it.

  Meanwhile, my dad and his friends were trying to save my bike. They waded in and managed to drag it out of the water. The poor thing looked even worse than I did, covered in red silt. My dad drove it back to the motor home, where he cleaned it lovingly, piece by piece. He even went over it with a hair dryer. Both the bike and I made a full recovery, I’m pleased to say.

  Blountville, Tennessee

  Another time I was at a track called Muddy Creek in Blountville, Tennessee, for a Loretta Lynn’s regional qualifier. I was competing in the boys’ 65 cc class. We headed out to the track to practice before the race, and my dad and I were overwhelmed by what we saw. A sea of helmets, bikes, and boys, so many, in fact, you could barely see the dirt. “I’m not sure about this, Ashley,” my dad signed. “There are too many boys out there…this is insane.” I felt apprehensive but shrugged my shoulders. “I have to. It’s a qualifier,” I signed.

  I rolled up to the gate and took off into the fray. Within seconds, the madness engulfed me—I saw a boy go down in front of me, his bike skidding in the dirt. To my left were riders, to my right were riders—there was nowhere for me to go except forward, and into the boy’s bike. My front wheel collided with his and the impact propelled my body over the handlebars. I flew into the air, landing square on my elbow. A dull pain overwhelmed my entire arm and I felt too weak to move, despite the rush-hour traffic zooming all about me. I knew I was screaming because my mouth was open and my lungs were working overtime. The blur of colors, the gas fumes, the dirt in my mouth overcame me. It felt like I was drowning.

  The yellow flag went up. I couldn’t feel my arm until I tried to move it—then shooting pain like shards of glass reminded me that it was still there. X-rays later showed I had broken my humerus. This was my very first broken bone, but I didn’t cry. I very rarely cry when I break bones.

  That said, the ride to the hospital was a nightmare—the road was uneven, and each bump seemed to rebreak the bone, over and over again. When we got to the hospital the doctors gave me something to numb the pain—morphine, I think. There was a documentary on the TV in my room about dinosaurs, and in my haze I remember laughing at the images so hard my chest hurt. This was my first experience of painkillers and their strange side effects. My parents watched me cry with laughter as the doctors put my arm in a sling. They thought I was losing my mind.

  “Are you OK, Ashley?” they signed. And that made me laugh even harder.

  I knew it was tough on my folks, watching me get bashed up all the time. My mom is always up in the stands watching, and whenever I crash she counts to ten slowly to see if I get up. If I do, and if my dad is with me, she keeps her cool. She knows that running down and acting hysterical won’t solve anything. But if I don’t get up off the ground, she always runs onto the track to make sure I’m not concussed or anything.

  After breaking my humerus in Blountville I was in a sling for a couple months. I couldn’t race, of course. I couldn’t even ride my 65 cc—it was impossible to hold on. Not being active was torture for me. I passed the dull hours the best I could, making videos and watching television. Sitting still for that long is unnatural for me. But there was no talk of quitting riding this time. I had already been through that before, after my crash at Daniel Boone. By now, I was 100 percent sure my future lay in motocross.

  Even when, later on, I broke my left collarbone and my right wrist—at the same time—I still didn’t doubt my chosen path in motocross. That crash took place at the 2003 Loretta Lynn’s regional qualifier at Paradise Valley MX in Georgia. The doctors had to put both my arms in a sling, and for six weeks life was really awkward, mainly because I couldn’t use my hands to sign. My hands are my voice—so not being able to use them was like someone had put duct tape over my mouth.

  Luckily, my mom and dad can understand me the way I talk, although it takes most people a little while to get used to it. My voice sounds different from most people�
�s because I had to learn how to use it without ever actually knowing what speech sounds like. Sometimes people seem embarrassed when I try talking to them, because they can’t understand what I’m saying. That’s OK, it just takes a little time to get used to it, I tell them. Sometimes I sing real loud, just to annoy my mom. Even though I can’t hear myself I’m pretty sure I won’t be winning American Idol any time soon.

  I had already raced a different regional qualifier for Loretta Lynn’s two weeks before the accident, so at least I made it through. In 2003, I was finally going to race Loretta Lynn’s, alongside the best kids in the country—albeit with my new set of injuries. I knew I wouldn’t be breaking any records at Loretta’s, not with a broken wrist and collarbone. Nonetheless, I insisted on competing. Loretta’s for me was about more than winning, it was about the feeling it gave me, being surrounded by so many motocross kids from all over the country. The feeling of belonging, and the electricity generated by so many hopes and dreams concentrated in one field in rural Tennessee. For that, there’s nothing quite like Loretta’s. I went ahead and raced with my barely healed broken collarbone and wrist, finishing in an abysmal twenty-second place, in a bunch of pain, with a smile on my face. There was always next year to prove myself.

  Born into Motocross

  Just as 2003 was drawing to a close, God sent us a very special gift—Kicker, my baby brother. People ask if that’s his real name—it is. A kicker is an unexpected bump in the track that can send you and your bike flying. And he kicked up a storm in my mom’s belly for nine months before he came out, blond, blue eyed, and vocal. Unlike me, he could hear just fine. The day before he was born, we were at a track, practicing, and within five days, my mom and my new baby brother were back in the motor home and on the road, headed for a race. As a family, we were on a mission—a motocross mission—and now Kicker was part of it too.

  After my brother arrived, my dad decided it was time to retire the old Catalina and invest in a new motor home—a Four Winds Chateau. It felt giant compared to the old RV, and deluxe. It had a generator, so it always had power. I’d get up in the morning when we were on the road and take a hot shower and my mom would cook breakfast—it was just like being at our real home. There was a refrigerator and a couch and a TV—even a separate bedroom at the back. For once, we wouldn’t all have to sleep in the same room. We’d long ago forgotten the meaning of the word “privacy,” but I felt like it might do my parents some good to get some alone time, even with little tiny Kicker crying up a storm in the bedroom at night.

  My mom, Roni—what a trouper. Out of all of us, she’s probably sacrificed the most. My dad and I would be out in the field having fun, and she’d be taking care of Kicker and hanging out in the motor home. Motocross races tend to involve lots of walking and climbing—it’s a real rugged sport, whether you’re a racer or a spectator; now imagine doing that with a newborn baby. There’s no glory being a mom at a motocross national, and the spotlight was always on me—but my mom just took it all on. She was so unselfish about everything, looking after us all while we chased my motocross dream.

  One day she handed me a spoon and told me to talk into it. “It’s your microphone and I’m going to interview you,” she signed. I looked at her like she was crazy. “So, Ashley Fiolek, how does it feel to be the Loretta Lynn’s champion this year?” she continued, looking at me intently. I couldn’t stop laughing, but my mom was dead serious. “Sweetie, you better be prepared, because one day that spoon is going to be a real microphone, and you better know what you’re going to say!”

  Sarah Whitmore—My Partner in Grime

  Pro racer Sarah Whitmore had always been a hero of mine, from the time I was really little. Today, I’m lucky enough to call her my best friend and confidante. Around five foot eight and seven years my senior, Sarah is the older sister I never had. She has long golden hair and warm brown eyes and is real pretty, like a fairy godmother almost—she’s one of those beautiful-inside-and-out kind of girls.

  We didn’t get to meet until 2004 at Glen Helen, a famous track in California. I was there for amateur day and I guess she had seen me race a couple of times. She approached my dad in her easy, friendly way, and I couldn’t believe it—was Sarah Whitmore talking to my father? She was one of the best girl pros around, a top girl in the WMA, and a seasoned Loretta Lynn’s champion. Sarah was in the holy trinity of female riders, the ones who always seemed to be talked about in the press—Sarah Whitmore, Tarah Gieger, and a girl called Jessica Patterson. All three would come to play an important role in my motocross life, in very different ways.

  Sarah asked my dad all the usual questions that everybody asks about me—like, how do I know when to shift, how do I stay aware of what’s happening around me on the track? I was so shy and starstruck, I just shuffled my feet in the earth and could barely say a word. My dad and I exchanged e-mail addresses with her and promised to stay in touch.

  Later that year, Sarah and I ended up at the same Loretta Lynn’s qualifier in Ohio. She was racing the women’s class, and I was racing the nine-through-thirteen girls’ class. The night before the qualifier, we hung out for the first time without my parents and got to know each other a little better. We talked in my parents’ trailer—or communicated the best we could, bearing in mind she had no prior experience of conversing with deaf people. She seemed to take a genuine interest in my opinions and what I had to say, so I tried teaching her some sign language. We had a pen and paper, and I showed her the whole alphabet and explained how to construct simple phrases.

  “What do you wanna learn to say?” I asked her, watching her lips so I could understand her answer.

  “Hmm…I think you should teach me how to say ‘cute boy’ in sign language,” she giggled. “I think that’s very important.” We both collapsed with laughter. My shyness had disappeared. Knowing that someone like her was paying attention to me—even though I was deaf—made me walk a little taller from that moment on.

  With Sarah Whitmore at Loretta Lynn’s in 2004.

  She introduced me to a bevy of sponsors and went around singing my praises to whoever would listen. “Watch out for Ashley, she’s going to win! Just you wait and see!”

  Sarah invited me and my folks to drive up to her place in Michigan. She lives in a small rural town, where Wal-Mart is pretty much the only place to hang out if you’re under twenty-one. We went in there one time and I started messing around, pointing at the biggest stereo in the electronics section. “I have that,” I signed to Sarah.

  “Really? That’s cool,” she responded, doing her best to form the words with her fingers.

  I started cracking up. “Not really…I’m deaf—duh!” I love to make fun of my deafness, and sometimes that takes people by surprise. One of my favorite pranks is to grab a friend’s iPod, put in the earphones, and dance around like a maniac, pretending like I can hear the music. Sometimes a sense of humor is all it takes to forget life’s problems.

  “I’m Gonna Kick Your Butt, Travis Pastrana!”

  Through motocross I have met a lot of interesting and unique personalities, and made a lot of good friends: Sarah and E-Bash of course, but also Ronnie Renner, a freestyle motocross rider; Daniel Dhers, a BMX rider (whom I dated very briefly); Lyn-Z Adams Hawkins, a skateboarder; and Travis Pastrana, an extreme sports hero who won the World Freestyle Motocross Championship when he was fourteen, was one of the first guys to figure out how to do backflips on a motorcycle, and hosts an X Games–meets–Jackass show on MTV called Nitro Circus.

  Travis and I became friends in the spring of 2004 at a track called Hangtown near Sacramento. I was with Sarah and we were all playing around on the go-karts. Sarah was dating Travis at the time. I guess I was in a feisty mood because the first thing that came out of my mouth when I met him was:

  “I’m gonna kick your butt, Travis Pastrana!”

  Not everyone understands me when I speak, but he did. I think he thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, this little deaf girl givi
ng him beef on the go-karts. Of course, I said it with a smile on my face. It’s funny how much attitude I had, especially compared with how shy I used to be. Motocross had transformed my entire personality. The more I pushed myself on the bike, the less fearful I became of the world in general. Where I used to be quiet around people I didn’t know, now I love nothing more than goofing around in front of hearing kids, giving autographs, and pulling pranks.

  Travis and me before we went skydiving in Florida in January 2010.

  Travis comes down to Florida every winter to ride, so after we met, we started hanging out for a couple of days each time he was around. One time we went to Pax Trax, and it was the first time he and I had ridden together on a regular track. He was riding an older trail bike and he was having trouble keeping up with me—I had just graduated to a 125 cc. He told me later he was really embarrassed that I had outpaced him. Which I loved, of course.

  Travis and I are natural pranksters—and sometimes it gets extreme. One time he came at me with his clutch and throttle wide open. He’d forgotten that I’m deaf and figured I’d hear him coming and get out of his way. By the time I saw him hurtling toward me, it was too late—we crashed and both went flying over a berm. Afterward everyone was looking at him like he was crazy for taking out a fourteen-year-old girl. I shrugged and gave him a big high five. “It’s OK,” I signed, laughing. “I would have done the same.”

  Rolling with the Regals

  Before Loretta Lynn’s in 2004, my family took me on the road for five weeks to train with our friends the Regals in Michigan. Like us, the Regals are 100 percent committed to the sport. Two of their kids, Kyle and Casaundra, wanted to be pro racers, so their parents did everything in their power to make that happen. Kyle turned pro in August 2009.

  The Regals’ track was groomed so that it mimicked Loretta’s, right down to the real deep ruts. Mark Pelligrino, Kyle and Casaundra’s stepdad, was training us, and he didn’t put up with any nonsense from us kids—it was his program, or you were out! The fact that he put so much work into training someone else’s kid tells you a little bit about how the motocross community works.