Kicking up mud at Southwick, 2009. Carl Stone
Spraying the fans with champagne at Southwick. Carl Stone
Andrew Campo
On my way to my second straight WMA Championship at Steel City on September 9, 2009. Carl Stone
Celebrating my win despite the agony of my broken collarbone. Carl Stone
On the podium in front of my fantastic Honda team. Carl Stone
Team Honda, 2009. Courtesy of American Honda
Hanging out at home with my little brother, Kicker, the next generation of Fiolek motocrosser.
We landed in Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria, and commenced our drive to the track, situated just outside the thousand-year-old town of Sevlievo, in the north. Sevlievo was a good 110 miles from the airport and we were following another driver to get there. That drive might have been the most stressful part of the whole entire trip. The roads were extremely narrow, crowded with work vehicles, transports, and people crossing with little warning. When the driver we were following passed a vehicle, my dad had to pass it too. As our car didn’t have great pickup, we had a few near misses—in fact, a couple of times I thought we were toast. But my dad always darted away from the oncoming traffic at the last second.
We arrived in Sevlievo three hours later, exhausted, and checked into our hotel. Our room overlooked the Gorna Rositsa racetrack and it was majestic—built in 1959, it had been reconstructed in 2000 and turned into a top motocross facility, one of the best in the world (it won the 2006 and 2007 Best Organizer Awards in the FIM Off Road Awards). It’s shaped like an amphitheater, so the spectators have a great view of what’s going on. And boy, do they love their motocross in Bulgaria—in fact, the Bulgarian Grand Prix is one of the most important events in the country’s sporting calendar. With that on my mind, and after more than twenty-four hours of travel, we hit the hay.
The next morning was the women racers’ first practice, and that’s when I noticed how differently the Europeans did things. We were allowed three full half hours to practice on the track—enough time to stop and talk to your mechanic, make adjustments to wheel pressure, and fine-tune the bike to the course. In the States, girls don’t get that kind of time. The track was challenging, not a lot of double or triple jumps but up-and-down hills with a variety of turns. I would be racing against some of the best girls in the world today—including Livia Lancelot from France, the number one racer in the world—and I was the only American girl racing. I finished fourth in the timed qualifier, the top five girls all within a half second of each other. I knew it was going to be a great race.
Eleven A.M. the following day was when the real fun began—our first moto. In a grand prix race, the motos are longer, twenty minutes plus two laps, whereas in America national races are fifteen minutes plus one lap. The crowd was smaller than at American races—maybe two thousand people or so, mostly Bulgarians—but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in passion. In Europe, the tracks aren’t groomed or fixed up in between practices and the race itself. In America, riders will yell for the tractors to hit the tracks whenever they can, saying they need tidier tracks because they are traveling at such high speeds. The time it takes to groom the track is normally shaved off women’s races.
Livia Lancelot and me.
Under FIM rules, only the rider is allowed at the gate, so I had to set up my own trench and starting blocks. My dad normally does that for me, and it’s heavy work—but I figured it out OK. I had a great gate pick and got a good start, running the pace of the leaders—then I stalled my motor. Luckily, I was on the downslope of a hill, so I was able to restart it and only lost a few seconds. Maria Franke, a German rider, was my closest competitor for that race—we passed each other four times. I ended up finishing third, thrilled to have competed in my very first European grand prix.
The second moto was a little more hair-raising. It had started raining and the track became super slick. Riders were sliding everywhere—it felt like surfing a mudslide. I got in a good jump, and just after the first turn I made a pass for the lead—but that didn’t last too long. The European girls were hauling in a major way, and I ended up falling behind a little. I was jumping toward the finish line when Larissa Papenmeier came in a little too close and we ended up hitting each other. Bam! That familiar dizzy feeling and the shock in my lungs as we went down hard. I prayed to God—Please help me get out of this.
Somehow, I pulled myself up with the bike still running and took off again but got stuck behind some lappers. I was all the way back in tenth place and it took all the strength I had left to make it across the finish line. Livia won, and I came in third place overall on points—can you believe that after all that, I made the podium?
And what a podium it was—in Bulgaria, and in FIM races generally, the women’s podium doesn’t feel like an afterthought. The top three girls were allowed to have their bikes up with them and we gave press conferences after each and every round, just like the men. Back home, promoters generally treat women, even pros, as though they’re not really part of the program. Girls often don’t get to park in the same area as boys, we get shorter motos, and until recently, we were rarely invited to press conferences. In Bulgaria, the respect people had for female racers was obvious. That experience flipped a switch inside me. I realized this was how it was supposed to be.
Sacred Turf
Spring rolled around and it was time for the 2008 WMA championship to start. This time, my eye was on the prize. I’d be racing on sacred turf, on some of the oldest and most challenging racetracks in America in a series of six races. (The men run twelve races per season, but that’s because they have greater financial support; most pro girls simply wouldn’t be able to afford to travel to twelve races each season.)
Each track has a personality, a history, and a set of challenges all its own—that’s part of what makes the pro championship so fun. Riders have to adapt to the different tracks and their little quirks. Most of them take only a few minutes to lap, but one might be clay, one might be sand, and one might be hard packed. The layouts vary from track to track, too—some have more jumps, and some are more wide open and fast.
Hangtown in Sacramento is a loamy, rocky track with steep jumps more in the style of supercross, the kind that shoot you up way high in the air. When jumps are that steep you have to be precise with your landing position—falling out of the sky, your hope is to land right on the down side of the next jump, which helps absorb the impact.
Catching big air off a double jump at Hangtown. Carl Stone
At Thunder Valley in Lakewood, Colorado, races run at night, and the altitude can make engines lose their power. Southwick in Massachusetts is a deep sand track and really rough—the going is often slowest at Southwick, and the sand can get in the engines and cause mechanical problems as the day goes on.
And Away She Goes
Hangtown, at the end of May 2008, was my first pro race of the season. I was determined to make an impression—this time, unlike at Steel City, I was actually competing to win a title. I had received a fair amount of press for joining the pro ranks, and I wanted to show everybody that I was indeed capable of winning; not just races—but championships.
Hangtown was also memorable because of the sheer chaos that led up to it. It took us twice as long to get to California as we had anticipated, thanks to a series of stalled flights, blunders, and missed connections. Not the best way to start my first series. We had booked a hotel room in Jacksonville the night before our six A.M. flight to Sacramento (via Atlanta), just so we could be sure to be on time. But just because we were on time, that didn’t mean our plane was. The plane left the tarmac at Jacksonville so late, we ended up missing our connecting flight in Atlanta. Instead of flying direct to Sacramento, we were rerouted into San Francisco via Salt Lake City. In San Francisco, we rented a car and sped to Sacramento as fast as we could. Kicker, who had never flown before, kept announcing that this was the first and last time he would travel by airplane. When we landed in Oakland, the airline
staff informed us they had lost my luggage, which contained my riding gear. By this point, I didn’t even have the energy to get mad. The next day Kicker woke up, turned to my dad, and said, “Papa, that was the worst day of my life.”
Then, adding insult to injury, we arrived to a completely inadequate setup for us girls at Hangtown. While the boys could park their bikes and set up base camp close to the track, the girls were told to set up way, way far from the track. I remember my poor mom having to push Kicker up and down the rock face in his stroller, like a mountain goat. Having just gotten back from Europe, where we had received the red-carpet treatment, I was distinctly unimpressed. It seemed ridiculous—and insulting—that the women pros weren’t allowed to park with the men professionals. (In 2009 the parking situation would be different; women would park in the paddock area. Maybe someone said something—I like to imagine it was my dad, with steam coming out of his ears.)
Our prayers before my first pro race of my first pro season race were the same as they always were. We weren’t looking for any kind of magic; I had already done my homework. Now the rest was up to God.
Jessica Patterson dashed straight out of the gate in the first moto, taking the holeshot as if to say “Look who’s boss.” I was right behind her, speeding round the first turn. Then at the second turn, bang—I accidentally slipped into neutral and crashed. I watched Sarah Whitmore and most of the other girls make their way around me.
Um, could this be any worse? I thought.
I was on the ground for just fifteen seconds or so before jumping back on the bike. By this point I was in second to last place—nearly the whole field had passed me by. Stay focused, I told myself, and got to work eating up the gap. I kept charging, kept passing, and suddenly there were only four girls ahead of me. Jessica fell, as did two other girls, and before I knew it, Sarah and I were battling for the lead. On the fifth lap, I pulled ahead of my friend—all’s fair in love and motocross—and prayed I could keep my hold on the lead. I kept thinking about what Sarah had said to me—“One day you’re going to beat me”—and I knew that she would want me to race my best. The crowd was going nuts—I could see people jumping up and down and waving; they couldn’t believe I had pulled forward from last to first place.
The remaining three laps of the eight-lap moto were among the longest in my life. And when I crossed the finish line I wasn’t even sure I had won…until I saw Rick Wernli, our dear friend and occasional mechanic, on the sidelines holding up a pit board that said YOU WON! I couldn’t believe it; I had taken the first moto of the season. Jessica, the reigning champion, had come in eighth. I had grown accustomed to keeping my emotions under control, especially when it came to big celebrations—but this time, I let myself really feel the excitement in my heart. What an auspicious start.
The next day, there was no way I wasn’t going to get the hole-shot. Starts are my specialty, and I’d let myself down the previous moto. Out the gate I took the holeshot, but Jessica was hot on my heels. On the second lap, I tried to make a jump and landed badly, getting a face full of dirt. Jessica sped away ahead of me, as did Tarah Gieger, then SoCal rider Tatum Sik. I pulled myself together, well aware I had a battle ahead of me. I managed to make it back up to finish in third. The final results were 1-3 (first in the first moto, third in the second moto) for me and 8-1 (eighth in the first moto, first in the second) for Jessica. Jessica had won the second moto—but I won Hangtown overall, on points, thanks to her poor eighth-place finish in the first moto. I had beaten the top women riders in the world in my first race of the 2008 pro season. Ladies and gentlemen, I was officially a contender.
* * *
The Motocross Points System
In pro motocross, championships are won based on the total number of points a rider accumulates over the season. You win championship points for each race according to your official finishing position, with points being awarded all the way up to twentieth place per moto. Come in first, and you win 25 points. Second place gets you 22 points, third place 20 points and so on. Twentieth position bags you just one point. If there’s ever a tie for the championship, the winner is determined based on the number of races won during the series.
Now what if there’s a points tie in an individual race? Well, races are made up of two motos, and the second moto is always given more weight, the reasoning being that fatigue and track deterioration will make the second moto tougher than the first. For example—let’s say you win the first moto of a race (25 points), but come second in the second moto (22 points), and you’re tied on points with another rider who came second in the first moto (22 points), but won the second moto (25 points). Even though you both scored the same number of points, the race will go to the other rider, because the second moto win is worth more. It’s a little confusing at first, but the system works, and it’s easy to understand once you get the hang of it.
* * *
Of course, I was happy to have won my first pro overall, but my dad had some stern words for me. We had a rule—if I got first place but wasn’t riding to the best of my ability, he would tell me. And if I came in last and had done everything I was supposed to do, then he would congratulate me. In this race, he felt that I could have easily avoided coming off the bike in the second moto. Plus I had been reluctant to take a double jump, even though it was small. He noticed I wasn’t jumping it because my corner speed was too slow. Jessica did jump it, and then when I tried too, I did so halfheartedly, and that was why I crashed. My eagle-eyed dad never missed a beat—he saw how my hesitation had cost me the moto. Even though I knew he was just trying to do his job as my coach, it was definitely one of those days when I just wished he could have been happier for me, as a dad.
Then we got some news that everyone could be excited about—Miki had worked her magic, and women’s motocross had finally been accepted into the X Games. Women BMXers and skaters had already been competing in the X Games for some time, so this was way overdue. The ten top women in motocross would compete for gold at the games, which were taking place in Los Angeles that July. Best of all, I was among the honored few who had been asked to participate. We didn’t have too much time to celebrate though; I had to get myself into fighting form for the next race of the women’s championship—at Freestone County Raceway in Texas.
Bat out of Hell
It was the first week of June in Wortham, Texas, and the heat was overwhelming. Even the boys were dropping like flies—some riders had fallen off their bikes and passed out from heat exhaustion in the middle of their motos. Luckily, I was used to extreme temperatures. Enduring the icy winters of Michigan and then Florida’s humid summers had made me immune to any kind of weather. Even so, that day I could have used an ice pop.
I was still feeling confident after my win the previous week. So for the first moto, I busted out of the gates and took the holeshot. Again, Jessica Patterson was nudging my tail. For the whole race we battled it out like two gladiators in chariots, neck and neck. She just wouldn’t let up. The adrenaline was pumping through my veins, and combined with the insane heat I thought I might melt under my gear and helmet. But keeping cool—psychologically, at least—was the name of the game. Any mistake, just one error of judgment, would cost me the race.
I could see the finish line in the distance and kept my mind steely, my thoughts focused. As we neared, I could feel the energy of her bike next to me. I had to work really hard to pull away from Jessica. I started to edge away…inch by inch I could feel myself stretching farther away from her and I crossed the finish line half a bike length ahead of her. I threw up on the track afterward, frazzled and unaware that the media was describing our race as “one of the greatest battles of women’s motocross history.”
The second Texas moto rolled around the following day. Tensions and temperatures continued to ride high. There were way more people crowding the sidelines to watch us women race this time. Which is what I’m all about—bringing more people to women’s racing, entertaining and thrilling them as
much as the boys!
I grabbed another holeshot with Jessica right behind me and resumed battle, kicking up a cloud of Texas dust. I was enjoying the rivalry that was evolving between us. It was testing all the things I had worked on with my dad—not just technique, but mental resolve and determination. I felt calm and confident. As we came into a corner together, Jessica lost her grip and stalled her bike. I cruised across the finish line about ten minutes later, forty-five seconds ahead of the rest of the field.
On the podium, race officials handed me a bottle of champagne. I had no idea what I was supposed to do with it. I looked to Sarah as if to say “Now what?” She was laughing, as were the other girls. Sarah motioned to me to shake the bottle. Oh…I get it! I’m supposed to spray this all over everyone! I made sure I got Sarah good. Then she started pouring champagne on me too. It was a refreshing way to cool down after a race.
With some members of my growing fan base. Carl Stone
I was supposed to go back to Europe to race in Germany, but because I’d won the last two WMA races, the American promoters asked me to stay. They wanted to make sure I wouldn’t miss the third race of the WMA season at Thunder Valley, in Lakewood, Colorado. The fans, apparently, were excited to see how this rivalry between me and Jessica would unfold.
Thundering On
Before we committed to staying though, we had a couple of requests. The women were being offered a terrible slot in the Thunder Valley schedule, with no TV time. So we told the promoter that I was not going to cancel my trip to Europe unless we were offered the coverage we deserved. Now that I was doing so well, I had a little bit of leverage and I intended to use it. I’m not sure if it had anything to do with what we said, but the race was moved around to a time slot that made sense, and we decided to stay.
Kicking Up Dirt Page 10