Kicking Up Dirt

by Ashley Fiolek

  If you’re a kid starting out in motocross, there are a few things you should do each time you ride. Check that there’s enough gas in the bike and the spokes are tight, and make sure that all your bolts are tightened so nothing’s loose or falling off when you’re riding. Try to learn how to carry out basic maintenance—whether it’s changing oil or changing air filters—and come up with a maintenance time sheet that you can execute yourself. There are lots of little things you can do that will make a world of difference—you just have to put in some effort. When you buy a motorcycle, contact the manufacturer and make sure you get a service manual, which will give you step-by-step advice on how to install, clean, and uninstall parts. Look in your manual to get torque specs—that allows you to set every bolt at its right torque limit so you are not overtightening or leaving things too loose.

  * * *

  A lot of mechanics woo the top amateur boys, because they think that’s the surest way into a pro factory team. Cody could have left and worked for some of the top male racers, but he didn’t. Instead, he became a part of our family. Now there were five of us in the little motor home, with Cody sleeping in the bunk above the cab. The team had been assembled, and I was ready to go pro.

  Carl Stone

  chapter 6

  GOING PRO

  Rookie Debut

  Miki Keller had been urging me to go pro for a while—under the rules of the WMA, a rider can apply for a professional license as early as her fifteenth birthday. But we waited until I was sixteen before we made the leap. Pro racing presents the motocross racer with a whole new set of challenges. It’s faster than amateur racing, it’s gnarlier, and the tracks are super rough. They’ve been getting rougher for some years, partially thanks to the popularity of supercross. As interest in supercross has exploded, moto-cross promoters have started building bigger, supercross-esque jumps outdoors. Bigger jumps equal bigger risk. Suddenly there were doubles and triples where there were none before—and if you come up short on a triple jump, there’s a good chance you’ll be leaving in an ambulance.

  Boys always race their first pro race directly after the last race of the amateur season, Loretta’s. We decided that I would race my final Loretta Lynn’s in 2007—and then go pro, as planned. Many in the industry were confused by my decision. “Why don’t you want to go back to Loretta’s?” asked one promoter. “All the other pro girls do.”

  “That’s the point,” I said. “It’s got to change.”

  In the end, I wasn’t even able to race Loretta’s that year, after breaking my ankle at a qualifier in Ohio. Not being able to say a proper good-bye to Loretta’s was heartbreaking, but my excitement at taking part in a real pro race soon perked me up.

  The first pro women’s race after Loretta’s was at Steel City in Pennsylvania, and it was the final race of the season. By the time it came around, the doctors had given me and my ankle the all-clear. Steel City’s a tough track—really hard packed, with some good-size jumps. It’s especially tough to ride in the rain, as hard-packed tracks tend to be very slippery when wet. Annoyingly, it had been raining for two weeks straight prior, and by the time we arrived for my pro debut, the track was a mud fest. I had won mud races before, but those wins always tended to involve some element of luck. Mud is, after all, the great equalizer.

  In my first pro race, I would be lining up against the best female racers in the world—like reigning WMA champion Jessica Patterson, also with Honda. She had dominated the pro series for years, winning the WMA championship in 2000, 2004, 2005, and 2006.

  Jessica’s known for being reserved, and she generally prefers to keep the competition at a distance. It’s not that she’s uncomfortable with people—Jessica has a lot of friends. I think she’s uncomfortable getting too close to other racers, since she has to compete against them. The guy racers tend to adopt the same attitude—top boys tend not to talk to one another, and they won’t be buddies. Jessica and I have talked about what the sport should be like and changes that women need to make. But we don’t discuss race strategy or get too friendly. My approach, on the other hand, has always been very people oriented, probably because I’m such a fanatic about communicating. I’ll be signing autographs seconds before the two-minute board goes up to start a race. Jessica—or JP, as we call her—needs space to gear up and relax. I tend to toss all my gear out to the fans after a moto—goggles and jerseys, mainly. JP doesn’t do that. She’s a great rider, but we never really built a friendship—on or off the track. Maybe it was for the best, as she would become my biggest rival.

  Barf-a-rama

  My pre-race ritual is a somewhat bizarre process that has evolved over years of racing. I always warm up, which means getting on my stationary bike in the motor home, pedaling and working my muscles. Then I go say hello to my dirt bike and double-check my gas. Running out of fuel is the last thing you want to be worrying about on the track.

  Then it’s time to get dressed—I always put on my left side of gear and boots first. I’ll take my helmet and put it on my head—twice. Then I’ll check the gas again—three times from the left and three times from the right. For the most part, my ritual has remained the same over the years, right down to the way I put on my helmet, my gloves, and my hair band. It’s all about sequencing—I can’t start doing one thing until the last is completely finished.

  One classic motocross superstition is that if you buy a new helmet, you should toss it onto the ground and scratch it before wearing it. I like to pick up my helmet and kiss it before I put it on. Motocross is a dangerous, gnarly sport and people get hurt on dirt bikes all the time—rituals can help you shift your focus away from the risks.

  I always make sure to eat and drink something—although nothing too heavy. Maybe some fruit or toast, and then after practice, I can eat a little more. Again, something light. Directly before a race, some riders will drink a gel pack, a kind of energy supplement that you mix with water for an immediate energy boost. They come in different flavors, like chocolate or banana—and they invariably make me violently ill.

  I’ve been known to throw up on many a starting line, but the gel packs, especially, are a recipe for disaster. I figured this out in the spring of 2008 at a track called Oak Hill during the GNC championship. The GNC is primarily an amateur race but they had a pro class that I wanted to race as a warm-up for my pro debut.

  I was already in bad shape, recovering from an accident the week before in which a male racer on a practice track had landed his bike directly on top of me. I spent one night in the hospital and took it easy the whole week, hoping to recover in time for the GNC. Bruised and broken, I made it to the racetrack, and shortly before my first moto, I tried a gel pack for the first time. My stomach churned, and its contents projectiled onto the mud. I didn’t stop throwing up until seconds before the gate dropped. Somehow, I ended up winning the moto—but my victory was short-lived. JP protested me for passing her on a yellow flag, which is against the rules, and they took away the championship. I conceded defeat, and vowed never again to go near a gel pack. Yuck!

  The most important part of my ritual is prayer. Before each race, my family and I will sign a prayer each, usually with me starting and then my parents following. Prayer is such a big part of our lives, not just in motocross, but every day. Before a race, however, our prayers take on added poignancy.

  “Dear God, please help me do my best and keep me safe. And above all, help me to have fun. I know that You have a plan for me, God. I have done all the work I can do, and the rest I am leaving up to You.”

  With Grandpa Motorcycle.

  There’s something calming about leaving things up to God. On the starting line, just before the gate drops, I say another prayer (in my head), cross myself, and look up. Finally, I’m ready to go.

  Mud Bath

  As I was getting into position at Steel City, I spotted Grandpa Motorcycle standing by a fence lining the track. Earlier that day, he had let me bleach a number 67 in the hair on the back of his head
. All motocross riders are given a number when they start racing, and mine was 67. You’re supposed to keep it for the entirety of your career. I was also wearing a new neck brace with a sticker on the back that said PRO, given to me by our friend Geoff Patterson from the Leatt brace company. That sticker is still on our refrigerator today.

  Our first moto was early, at nine thirty A.M. Sarah Whitmore was lining up and I knew she was going to do well—she’s a confident mud rider. Meanwhile Jessica Patterson was points away from winning the women’s championship for a fifth time. I got a good start and found myself neck-and-neck with Sarah Whitmore for the holeshot. Sarah won it by a hair’s breadth—then ended up zooming ahead of me. Vanessa Florentino, a talented racer from New Mexico, overtook me next, and I hung on in third for as long as I could. But I kept falling in the deep mud. By the second lap, Sarah was way ahead of everyone and ended up winning the moto. I came in sixth.

  We had to wait until the very end of the day to race our second moto. I was on the line and raring to go when we were informed that our second moto was going to be cut by five minutes, probably because it was so late in the day. My dad was furious. “No way,” he said. “They would never do that to a men’s moto, unless it was pouring with rain or there was a lightning storm.” He was angry that our racing was deemed less important than the men’s, despite all the hard work and dedication that we’d put into it. The race administrators reluctantly agreed to keep the race at its original length.

  The gate dropped and this time, I got the holeshot—not easy, as the opening stretch was up a hill and I was riding a 125, in contrast to the other girls’ 250s. Luckily, the weather conditions had improved and the track wasn’t as muddy as before. I was in first place for a few laps with Jessica Patterson hot on my heels. She passed me in the double-jumps section at the top of the track, and Sarah came up behind me too. Nerves must have gotten the better of me, because I crashed off a tabletop jump, riding in way too high a gear. I got on the bike again straightaway and finished the second moto in third place. It wasn’t my best performance.

  “You were hitting the rear brake too late into the corners,” my dad pointed out afterward. “And why were you sitting down so early?” I couldn’t argue—he wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t true. Nonetheless a holeshot award and a third-place moto finish wasn’t too shabby for my first day as a pro. Jessica Patterson won the championship a fifth time, with Tarah Gieger in second place, E-Bash in fourth, and Sarah sixth in the overall rankings. The race reports said I had put in a “solid rookie ride” I felt proud of myself.

  Trey sent me a text message after the race. “How are ya? Nice race!” I smiled. I knew he was around, on the track, but I had no idea where. Probably hanging with his buddies.

  In a year together, we had only been able to see each other ten times, mainly at races, and a couple times when he came to visit me in Florida, and I went to see him in Oklahoma. We had so much in common—our drive, our love for the sport—but motocross is a tough industry for relationships, we learned.

  The busier and more successful we became, the less available we were to one another. I know we were both pretty young, still teenagers, but we were both fully committed to our careers. Eventually the mud seeped into our relationship and with so little time spent together, we decided it would be better if we just remained friends. Detaching was hard at first, as I had grown close to him. He was my first boyfriend, after all. But now, it seemed like things were cool between us.

  “Thanks!” I texted back. “See you soon!”

  All Grown Up

  Once the dust had settled and the family returned to St. Augustine, I took a big step. I bought my very first truck, a Ford F150 in burgundy. I figured it was about time I had my own set of wheels, wheels that I could take to Wendy’s or to the mall, not just make jumps with. With the winnings I’d been making, I was able to pay cash.

  “Why don’t you let me buy you a truck too?” I signed to my dad in the showroom. “You spent all your money helping me race dirt bikes—it’s the least I could do.”

  He wouldn’t let me, insisting he was perfectly happy with his 1998 Nissan. That’s the thing—my parents have never been in it for the money. As strongly as they believe that I and all other women should be properly paid for the skill and risk level involved in racing a dirt bike, they’ve always been very hands-off when it comes to my winnings. My dad has been involved in training me for years, and my mom has been in charge of all travel arrangements and working on interviews—but it’s something they do for the love of it. They’ve never taken a dime. They don’t even charge me a management fee, unlike many parents in the sport.

  Tooling around St. Augustine in my new truck, I realized something—I actually don’t like to drive. In fact, I generally prefer it if someone else drives me. I spend so much time navigating dirt that roads and traffic feel somewhat alien.

  So aside from the truck, what was I going to treat myself with? Growing up racing a dirt bike, I’ve never really had much desire for anything too flashy. I don’t need a big TV or gadgets, and I’m not one for buying clothes—I get all mine for free—so when I do have a little money I generally spend it all on food. If I could go out to eat every day, three times a day, I would. Sushi is my absolute favorite. P. F. Chang’s for Chinese. Wendy’s is my favorite for fast food. Oh, and steak—I love Outback Steakhouse. Yum.

  E-Bashed

  I never worry too much about being injured; focusing on the worst-case scenario is a real distraction. Plus, I always just assume that God has a plan for me, so what happens is what’s meant to happen. But when my friends get hurt—that’s a different story. That’s when I start to understand how my parents must feel.

  In February 2008, E-Bash went down hard at Lake Whitney Motocross Park in Texas and was airlifted to JPS Hospital in Fort Worth with a torn-up spleen, a broken pelvis, and damage to her pancreas. She was bleeding internally and even though she’s a tough gal, it sounded like she was pretty beat-up. I was home in Florida when it happened. I knew deep down she would be OK, but still, it took nearly three weeks before she was well enough to leave the hospital. She was on an IV drip and a cyst had formed over the torn-up part of her pancreas. I’ve never really suffered internal injuries like that—just good, clean broken bones for me. So she was constantly in my prayers.

  A Woman in the World

  Now that I had gone pro, we’d been approached with a few offers of management and we ended up signing with Hardcard Holdings, a sports agency, for representation. Honda, Oakley, Alpinestars, and Red Bull were already my sponsors, and in April I signed with Vans, the shoe company, making me the first girl to join the Vans Motocross family. Vans boys included Ryan Villopoto, one of the top men. Today, my key sponsors are American Honda, Red Bull, Alpinestars, T-Mobile, Smith, Leatt, and Robb Beams, a personal trainer and nutritionist, whose company MotoEndurance creates tailor-made training and nutrition programs for many pro motocrossers.

  I was also gearing up for my first trip to Europe, where I’d be competing in a few rounds of the prestigious FIM World Moto-cross series. I couldn’t wait!

  My dad and I left Florida on Wednesday, May 7, 2008. Destination: Gorna Rositsa, Bulgaria, where the Grand Prix of Bulgaria (the first race of the FIM World Motocross series) was being held. Our first stop was Italy—it was already breakfast time there when we landed, but no time for morning gelato. We only had a few minutes to make our connecting flight to Bulgaria, so my dad and I raced from the plane to the baggage claim to get our bags.

  We usually travel light, but this time we had packed some parts that I specifically needed for this race. When we showed up at the baggage claim, our bags started coming out straightaway, before anyone else’s. The first one came out, then the next one, then the next—I looked at my dad and we were both surprised at how fast our luggage was showing up. Then we realized something was missing—my bike suspension. We continued to wait until the belt stopped. Nothing. Had my suspension fallen out of the pl
ane over the ocean? I was feeling pretty nervous by now.

  My dad went over to customer service and asked what was going on. I normally keep my suspension in a gun case, which I know is a little unusual, but that’s how I make sure it stays protected. The gun case had freaked out a few people, apparently, and the airport folks were inspecting it very carefully. After establishing that there were no weapons in my gun case, they said they would be happy to send it on to the Czech Republic for us. But the race was in Bulgaria, not the Czech Republic! Luckily, just before my dad blew his top, an airport worker came over and said they had found my suspension and were putting it on the right flight. It was a lucky escape, and I was hoping it wasn’t a bad omen. I was excited about this trip and didn’t want anything to ruin it.

  Photographic Insert

  Kicking off the 2009 season way out in front at Glen Helen. Carl Stone

  Celebrating my first win of the 2009 season with my family. Carl Stone

  High above the crowds at Hangtown. Carl Stone

  Grabbing the holeshot at Freestone, 2009. Carl Stone

  With my mechanic C-Wolf before the start of the 2009 race at High Point. Carl Stone

  Lined up at the High Point starting line. Carl Stone

  My dad translates my podium speech for me at High Point. Carl Stone

  Winning the night race at Thunder Valley in Colorado, 2009. Carl Stone

  John Parkinson

  Taking home the gold at the 2009 X Games. John Parkinson