Kicking Up Dirt

by Ashley Fiolek

  Thunder Valley is a picturesque, mountainous track with pine trees dotting it here and there and expansive views of the Denver skyline. Its altitude robs our engines of power and riders always have to adjust their jetting—the system that sends fuel to the engine—when racing there. The races there are run at night, giving the event a cool, mystical feel.

  Moto one, I sped out of the gate and scored the holeshot. This time Tarah Gieger was the one behind me, trying to edge me out of the way. It was all I could do to stay ahead of her. We traded first and second positions all the way to the last lap, until I passed Tarah and managed to hold on. I could get used to all this winning, I thought. In the second moto, I didn’t get such a good start, but I kept my head throughout and won Thunder Valley on points, again. I could not have been more thrilled with my season so far!

  Race number four took place right at the end of July, at Washougal MX Park up in Washington State. It’s a pretty track—the surroundings are woody and the track is mainly clay, which means it’s a little more hard packed and traction is limited. There aren’t many jumps, but it’s very, very fast, which is heaven for people like Jessica, Tarah, and me.

  I knew I had to ride a little cautiously at Washougal, having broken my wrist just ten days beforehand while training for the X Games at the Red Bull compound in California. My left wrist had been encased in a custom-made hot-pink brace, designed to keep my bones in place. And while it was still broken, some serious rehab involving a cold laser and bone stimulator ensured it wasn’t as painful as before.

  I won the first moto, with Jessica right there behind me, and I came in second in the second moto, with Jessica in first place. Second motos always count for more in motocross, so this time, Jessica got to win overall. But the championship was far from over.

  Carl Stone

  chapter 7

  HURRY UP AND HEAL

  It was July 30, 2008, the morning before the fourteenth annual X Games kicked off. For the first time in the games’ history, women motocrossers would be allowed to compete. Miki had been working toward this for years—there was simply no bigger event in the action sports calendar than the X Games. Now millions of sports fans around the planet would be watching women dirt bikers on network TV. If ever there was a chance to bring our sport to a wider audience, this was it.

  We knew the X Games was going to be a race unlike any other—for starters, it was taking place on one of the toughest, most gnarly supercross tracks in the world, in the Home Depot Center in Carson, California. In that sense, calling it a “moto-cross” event was something of a misnomer—this wasn’t going to be anything like the wide-open rural racing we were used to. The X Games is an indoor event, for starters. Walking onto the track at the Home Depot Center, I wondered if this was how gladiators felt before they were fed to the lions—it was the most daunting track I had ever seen. No women in the WMA had substantial experience riding a supercross track as hard packed and triple infested as this one. The finish-line jump alone—a suicidal metal ramp that propelled racers seventy-five feet in the air—was enough to make me question our sanity.

  “Not sure my bike will survive!” a fellow racer had texted me earlier that day, echoing a sentiment that many of the girls had already expressed. Most of us had scrambled to replace the suspension on our bikes, because we knew they were about to get majorly pummeled. Our suspension companies seemed overly casual about it all. They didn’t seem to grasp what we were about to put our bikes—and our bodies—through.

  “Supercross suspension? For the girls? OK…”

  Ten of us had been invited to participate, and the X Games, we learned, is heavily focused on entertainment. The tracks are built with maximum viewer satisfaction in mind. Although we were never expressly told as much, it was understood that our participation was very much a “trial” for us. Collectively, we had to prove to the X Games committee that women motocrossers were just as exciting to watch as the men. In that sense, we were in it as a team.

  Bruised Earth

  With less than twenty-four hours to go before my X Games debut, Mom, Dad, Kicker, and I found ourselves in the sleepy mountain ranges that surround Lake Piru in Southern California. We were headed for the Red Bull compound, a private thousand-acre off-roading paradise and elite motorsports training facility, where I had been preparing for the X Games all month. Less formal than an academy, more exclusive than a country club, it was a hotbed of motocross, supercross, and freestyle activity.

  The compound is in the middle of nowhere. “What’s the address?” my mom had asked Red Bull the first time we visited.

  “Oh, there isn’t an actual address,” said the voice on the other end of the line. The road the training facility sits on didn’t even have a name, apparently. “Just drive through the little town and pass by the cattle farms and the shooting range and you’ll come to a cow crossing. Go over it, head down the sandy road until you pass another cattle ranch and then some stables, and then go around the bend. You’ll see it.”

  There was no cell phone reception where we were headed—just some of the most beautiful, rugged California scenery imaginable: glimmering yellow hillsides crisscrossed with weaving dirt roads, and mountain vistas that seemed to go on forever. Below us lay the compound—we saw its supercross track, moto-cross track, and ramps for freestyle riders.

  I got to work, practicing jumps on the supercross track. In the back of my head, as I’m sure was the case with a few other girls, was a nagging thought: Is it really worth risking my safety for one shot at winning the X Games when I’ve still got the rest of the WMA championship to finish? I tried to push that concern from my mind. This was the first year girls had been allowed to race motocross at the X Games—I should have felt honored, not apprehensive.

  Glen Helen motocross raceway in California. Courtesy of Glen Helen Raceway

  Unlike a motocross track, which allows for a certain sense of freedom, supercross tracks can feel like a minefield. Each turn brings some new hazard—back-to-back jumps, whoops, and other obstacles—all of which make for a thrilling show and certainly a few broken bones. I wanted to make sure I was ready for an especially gnarly triple jump in the X Games course and accelerated into a similar-looking triple on the practice track. The results were catastrophic—I soared into the air with such speed that I flipped, came off the bike, and plummeted back to the earth, landing on my head.

  Blood stained the earth, turning it a muddy burgundy. I was crying and screaming, which wasn’t like me. My mom and dad raced over to where I was lying. “Don’t move, Ashley, just don’t move,” my mom signed, and my dad had to gently hold me down to prevent me from squirming. We were all too aware of the angle at which I had landed—if I had damaged my neck or spine, one false move could result in paralysis. My parents carefully removed my neck brace. It was broken in two places—had I not been wearing it I probably would have broken my neck. They carried me inside to the medical area and slowly peeled off my gear. My back was covered in contusions and was so badly scraped, my mom later commented that it looked “like chopped liver.” (Which happens to be one of my least favorite foods.)

  My left side was especially torn up, and I could barely move my left arm—as we feared, my wrist was in bad shape again. A sports doctor put my left arm in a sling. “You’re going to be OK,” my mom signed to me, a look of relief on her face. I was grateful that my injuries were relatively superficial, but I couldn’t conceal my disappointment. The X Games were tomorrow, and there was no way I was going to be able to race in this condition.

  Later we found out that many of the girls’ suspension companies had assumed we would be racing on a pared-down supercross track, rather than the same extreme track that the supercross boys usually raced on. The track claimed its victims the following day—one of my fellow girl racers, Alisa Nix, broke both wrists coming down off the seventy-five-foot metal finish ramp and she never fully recovered. The following year, our suspension companies vowed they would step up their game—but for
me it was too late.

  Part of me just wanted to crawl under a rock and hide. But I knew I’d kick myself if I missed this historic event entirely. We drove to the stadium, and my mom helped me to the bleachers. Limping through the hordes of extreme-sports fans, I was heartened by how excited the young crowd seemed to watch my sport. Sitting in the sidelines, chewing weakly on a pretzel, I watched as my friend Tarah Gieger rode up a storm, taking home gold in the first X Games women’s motocross competition. On the Jumbotron screens she waved in excitement, and I realized this was a victory for all of us.

  Tactical Riding

  I had three weeks to heal in between the X Games and the fifth WMA series race, at the MX338 racetrack in Southwick, Massachusetts. Nestled in the Pioneer Valley with the Congamond Lakes on the south side and Sodom Mountain in the west, the track lies in an outstandingly beautiful part of the country. Its beauty is deceptive, however—Southwick is one of the most beastly races, thanks to the blistering heat and sandy track.

  My mom and dad did their best to patch me up when we got home to Florida and insisted I take it easy—no fooling around on golf carts or daredevil stunts on the pit bikes. I maintained my fitness level with gentle cardio and kept weight training to a minimum. Injury is the one thing in life that actually slows me down—if I’m sitting down long enough to watch a television show (I like Degrassi), play a video game, or pick up a book, chances are it’s because I’m physically incapacitated. I must have sent thousands of texts during those three weeks—my thumbs, at least, seemed to be working fine.

  By the time Southwick rolled around, my back was still covered in bruises and contusions, but the broken skin had scabbed over and I was able to maneuver my left side. My wrist, having been put through the wringer this season, was still extremely fragile, and X-rays confirmed the broken bone had yet to heal fully. I knew I’d have to be extra careful not to break it again.

  On race day, we lined up in the Southwick sand, sun beating down on us from an azure sky. I swatted the relentless flies from my eyes. The two-minute board went up, and I put on my helmet, glad to shield my scalp from the intense sunshine. My father’s pre-race advice rang in my ears.

  “Ride a safe race, Ashley. Ride smart. You’ve got too much to lose.”

  I was ahead in points for the year, and there were just two races before the end of the season, but in motocross it ain’t over ’til it’s over. Another injury could seriously damage my championship chances. So we had a plan—today, I wasn’t riding to win. I was riding to survive.

  The gate dropped and I took the holeshot, remaining in the lead for much of the opening lap—until Jessica made her way around me and took the lead. I finished the race right behind her. In the second moto I took the holeshot again, and once again it wasn’t long before Jessica had caught up with me. I came in second again. Jessica had won Southwick. But with 231 points, and Jessica at 203 points, I was still ahead in the championship race. Steel City, the season finale, would be where Jessica and I faced off for the last time this season. So long as I rode sensibly and maintained the form I’d shown, the championship seemed well within reach.

  Live to Laugh

  There was no time to drive back to Florida in between South-wick and Steel City. (My dad, on the other hand, flew back so he could put in some time at his job. I’ve always been amazed that he managed to juggle a full-time job with being my coach.) So my mom, my four-year-old brother, Grandpa Motorcycle, Cody, and I cruised southwest through Connecticut toward Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Sarah Whitmore and her dad were following us in their motor home, as was another girl racer, Danielle Sawicki, and we had already crossed over into the Keystone State when we decided to stop at a track for some late-evening practice. We were the only people there.

  The final was only four days away and I was trying hard not to worry. It had been such an intense season of expectation, pressure, and responsibility that I just wanted to feel like a teenager again. I spotted Kicker’s little ten-inch X Games–branded bicycle lying on the ground beside the track, and decided to have some fun with it. Ahead of me was a shale hill, maybe fifty feet high, lit up by floodlights. I ran up the side of the hill, laughing to myself, pushing the bike in front of me along the bumpy incline. Standing at the top of the hill, the cool night breeze making me shiver just a touch, I felt more peaceful than I had in weeks. I climbed on the bike, pointed myself down the slope, and let gravity take its course. Only later did it occur to me that it probably wasn’t the smartest idea, riding a five-year-old’s bike down a slippery hill the night before the biggest race of my life. But I guess I can’t help goofing around; I just don’t like life to be boring.

  Kicker’s bicycle certainly wasn’t built to withstand extreme outdoor mountain biking, so as I hurtled down the hill, its front end started shaking, and eventually it flipped, flinging me down to the bottom of the hill. The shale tore up my jersey sleeves, leaving some bright red road rash on my arms. My shoulder was covered in blood, and my poor wrist, which I had been taking such good care of since the X Games, was painful and swollen again. Luckily I hadn’t rebroken it, but it was really tender, and I couldn’t bend it.

  Sarah, Cody, and Kicker couldn’t believe what they had just seen. They thought it was the funniest thing ever. My mom, on the other hand, was not amused. We were just four days from (hopefully) wrapping up the championship, and I pulled a stunt like this? “Please don’t tell dad!” I begged her. I knew he’d be disappointed in me for taking that kind of a risk before my last shot at winning the championship we had worked so hard for.

  Steel City

  Our little caravan pulled into Delmont, Pennsylvania, the day before the big race. The weather forecasts had predicted rain, so we were mentally preparing ourselves for a mud-fest, like the year before. My mom tried to reassure me: “You know you ride good in the rain, you’ll be fine.” In St. Augustine we get plenty of rain, so I was accustomed to showers and the steamy goggles they caused, but I couldn’t help worrying. There was still a chance that Jessica could win back enough points to retain her title, and taller girls like her always have an advantage over me in the mud. They can use their legs to control themselves, whereas I’m so small, my feet don’t actually reach the ground when I’m on my bike.

  We checked into a somewhat dingy hotel in town, close to the track. It was jam-packed with fans and racers. As we walked through the lobby, a few amateurs stopped to ask for autographs. “You’re going to win,” said one girl, and I just smiled. I sure hoped she was right.

  On Saturday morning, the day of the first moto, I pulled back the hotel room drapes and saw the most wonderful, perfectly blue skies I had ever seen. The showers hadn’t come! It couldn’t have been a more beautiful day. I thanked God for keeping the rains at bay.

  At Steel City, the dirt is pretty hard packed and a little rocky. The track has a series of jumps, a triple followed by two doubles. I always hold my breath when I jump, and my heart beats really fast, so at the end of the race sometimes it feels like I’ve had three cardiac arrests in a row. It’s only after a race that I can finally breathe normally again.

  I was on my CRF250R Honda. The moments before the race are always the most tense for me, so tense I feel sick sometimes, but as soon as the gate dropped all my nerves disappeared. I took a nice clean holeshot, but Jessica wasn’t going down without a fight. She knew she had to take the moto if she wanted any chance of scoring a sixth championship. She kept charging me, and it took all my strength and skill to keep her at bay. At one point she got ahead—but I didn’t let her enjoy being in front for too long.

  Even when I recaptured the lead, Jessica just wouldn’t let up; throughout the race, I could feel her behind me, nuzzling up against my back wheel like a hungry shark chasing its prey. Then about a half a lap from the finish, the track took care of things for me. Jessica wobbled in the dirt, her front wheel slid sideways, and her bike wiped out, leaving me to cruise home with the moto. With my twenty-five points for the moto win, it was no
w impossible for Jessica to take the championship. I had won the series! It was over! The crowd erupted. I couldn’t hear the cheers, but I could feel the excitement.

  As soon as I dismounted I was besieged—by people giving me flowers, taking pictures, and hugging me. I saw Jessica and she gave me a thumbs-up. “Good job!” she said, and walked away. My mom and dad ran over—they both had tears in their eyes. We went back to the paddock area to decompress and by sheer coincidence, Jessica was parked next to us in the back. She was with her boyfriend, who is also her mechanic. He handed me Jessica’s number one plate. “I think this belongs to you,” he said.

  The fact that I had won the WMA championship only started to sink in once I stood on the podium. A crowd of hundreds had gathered in front of me and they were clapping their hands, waving, and cheering. Little goose bumps broke out on my arms and I sensed they were shouting especially loud today. It all felt a little overwhelming. My experience of the world is very visual, and in front of me was an explosion of faces, camera flashes, and commotion more intense than I had ever experienced. A guy holding a microphone handed me a giant plaque with the number 1 on it. I took it from him and held it up high for everyone to see. His mouth was moving and I read his lips: “Ashley Fiolek, WMA champion!” I was the first deaf motocross champion in history.

  My first WMA Championship.

  I had never expected to win the WMA series, not on my first try. Before that day, I had nothing to lose and nothing to prove. Now I was the national pro champion, and everything would be different. I’d have my title to lose and nothing left to prove. I was only seventeen, but in some way it felt like the end of my childhood—in less than a year I’d gone from being the deaf girl with a dream to the fastest woman on dirt.