Kicking Up Dirt

by Ashley Fiolek

  As soon as we unpacked, I felt at home. We had a defined plan—my mom, Kicker, and Cody would stay in Canyon Lake from April until August, when the X Games ended. We would fly to all the races, except those in California, which we would drive to. My dad would fly in from Florida to meet us. There was something about the openness, the golden hills, and the dry heat that made me feel optimistic. California felt like the perfect place for us to be at that moment, and the more time I spent there (did I mention how great the sushi restaurants are in California?), the more seriously I started considering moving there permanently. My main reason for being in Florida had been to go to school—and I hadn’t been in school for years. California was winning me over.

  Don’t Leave Your Golf Carts Unattended

  The spring and summer of 2009 E-Bash and I got to hang out more than we ever had. Three or four times a week, we would drive to a track or hang at each others’ houses playing with our dogs. She has two chocolate Labs, Buster and Missy, and Kicker and I have two English bulldogs, Turbo and Rocco. We usually practiced together at Perris Raceway, Competitive Edge, and Glen Helen. Riding with her is always fun, because we have such different riding styles—she’s smooth and more cautious than I am. If someone is passing her she’ll let that person go, whereas I’m more aggressive. Like the time we raced Steel City together and I bumped E-bash getting out of the gate.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked me afterward. It would never be her style to bump into anyone.

  “Why? Because it’s a race!” I signed back, nonplussed.

  Golf carts and rental cars—two things you should never leave unattended when there are motocross racers around. You can pretty much guarantee they will come back wrecked. One of our favorite pastimes was to drive golf carts around and try to jump them. Aside from just goofing around it was comforting to me having a good friend like her around. I knew I had a lot to prove this season, and I was going to need all the support I could get.

  Gearing Up for the New Season

  Some important changes were in place for 2009. There were opportunities for women professional racers that just hadn’t been there before—this year we would get an eight-stop series alongside the men at the nationals, and equal money at the X Games. Finally we would be able to park in the same area as the guys. We were going to get timed qualifiers and more TV time. (Out-door motocross is very hard to get on live television because of the amount of work and structure that goes into laying the mile and a half of cable necessary to broadcast a race.)

  I was pleased with the two extra races on the schedule—two more races than last year, at Glen Helen Raceway in San Bernardino and High Point Raceway in Mount Morris, Pennsylvania. Then there were the other tracks we had raced last year—Hangtown, Freestone, Thunder Valley, Washougal, South-wick, and Steel City. Going into the 2009 season I was ranked number one, Jessica was number two, and Sarah was number three. Tarah was number four and my buddy E-Bash was ranked number seven. I had heard that Jessica had stepped up her training and lost weight. The way I see it, competition is always a good thing—it pushes us to be our very best. So when I heard how hard Jessica was working, it was the perfect motivator. Some of the motocross media were even starting to say there was an “epic championship battle” ahead.

  The 2009 season was going to be a nail-biter.

  On the podium at High Point. Carl Stone

  chapter 9

  SUMMER OF RECKONING

  Glen Helen

  It was another dry, perfectly cloudless morning in Southern California, and May was drawing to a close. My dad had flown in from Florida a couple days earlier, and Grandpa Motorcycle had driven across the country so he could join us for the first race of the season. At around six A.M. we packed up our truck and set off from the house in Canyon Lake, all together, heading north up the 15 freeway toward the San Bernardino National Forest. An hour later we arrived at the infamous Glen Helen Raceway, occasional site of heavy metal festivals like Ozzfest (in 2005 the heavy metal band Iron Maiden was famously pelted with eggs by fans at Glen Helen), where today, the 2009 motocross season was officially kicking off.

  We pulled into the parched, sprawling site, dust clouds billowing behind the trailer truck. We trundled toward the pit area and parked. The land was arid and almost entirely devoid of vegetation. We saw Travis Pastrana with his girlfriend, my fellow pro racer Sherri Cruse. And there was the Honda Red Bull Racing rig, with its cordoned-off warm-up area and shiny semi-trailer truck. Inside, each of the factory racers had their own bunk. There we could get dressed, pray, or simply relax in solitude. It felt incredibly deluxe compared to the motor home—like a hotel suite on the dirt.

  Cody was already there, working on my bike. Now that I was a factory racer, my bike traveled everywhere on the Honda rig. Miki was there too, as were most of the other pro racers, male and female, working on their bikes and setting up. Fans were already trickling in, and a line of SUVs, trucks, and RVs snaked back from the entrance gateway—twenty thousand or so people had bought tickets at $40 a pop to watch us race today.

  Both fans and racers were adjusting to some sweeping changes—the biggest being that Davey Coombs’s MX Sports had taken over promoting the pro championship from the AMA. Miki had sold the WMA National Championship to MX Sports, and the WMA would now be known as the WMX. We hoped this partnership meant that things were going to be different.

  This year men and women would be racing on the same day (before, women raced once on Saturday and once on Sunday). This was the first time the WMX races were to be included as part of the main program, meaning thousands more fans would be watching women’s racing this year. There was no denying that men’s racing was still, at the end of the day, the biggest draw. But this year, at least the fans would have the opportunity to check out what we women were doing. And hopefully they’d like what they saw.

  The track itself, a circuit of steep, rutted hills and treacherous hairpins, had been entirely refurbished, and hundreds of tons of sand were brought in to create a brand-new whoops section. The lineup included a handful of promising new women rookies who, like me the year before, had just graduated from the amateur ranks into pro racing.

  Now that I was a factory racer, I was constantly on display, both on and off the track. Some fans pay extra to have access to the pit area so they can watch their favorite riders get ready. I tried not to feel self-conscious as I warmed up my muscles on the stationary bikes in front of the rig, pedaling in front of dozens of onlookers. “This is part of your job now,” my dad reminded me. “People have paid all this money to be here, so they want to get as close to the athletes as they can.”

  The first women’s moto at Glen Helen was also the first race of the day, at around one P.M. I put on my neck brace and chest protector as the Honda mechanics, five of them, rapidly updated me on the state of the bike and how best to ride it under the day’s conditions. My dad was translating and I nodded as I took it all in. I was glad to have him there.

  I kissed my helmet, put it on, and climbed on my dirt bike, which was gleaming. Cody climbed on the back with me and we rode through the pits, crowds parting as we headed toward the starting line. Fans saw my number one plate and gave us the thumbs-up, smiling as we passed. We drove past sponsor kiosks with show bikes suspended in the air, girls in bikinis posing for photos, the smell of hot dogs and popcorn. People from all over the state, the country, the world had gathered to see us race. There was so much color, vibration, and movement—what I see at races certainly feels “loud” and intense. We neared the track—people were climbing all over the sidelines like ants, picking their spot in the dust, camping out with the family on chairs and under umbrellas to protect themselves from the relentless midday sun. I knew my mom and Kicker were out there, somewhere, waiting for the race to begin.

  Waiting at the line, my CRF250R bike felt huge, but I felt more than confident that I could control it. On top of an intense few months of training, I had been on a specialized nutrition and exercise r
egime with my trainer Robb, and my strength was way up. Jessica, my main competition for this season, had been training with an ex–motocross racer who had a reputation for pushing his protégées to the limit. Word was that her form was better than ever.

  I lined up among the twenty-five or so girl pros next to me. Cody held an umbrella over my head to shield me from the sun. Kids clung to wire fencing watching us—little boys with dirty faces and their motocross hats on backward—and I remembered once feeling like they did, like a fan in awe of the racers. Cody gave me a hug and left, and it was just us girls, looking straight ahead and waiting for the gate to drop.

  I saw the two-minute board and cleared my mind, waiting for the gate to drop. I rocketed out of the starting gate to claim the holeshot by a very comfortable lead—a great way to start the 2009 season. The circuit was rough, tough, and hard packed, and speeding around the first corner I reminded myself to keep calm and not make any dumb mistakes. Overconfidence, underconfidence—both are the enemy of a motocross racer.

  The sun was high up in the sky and shadows were visible but short. It was hard to tell who, if anyone, was coming up behind me but nobody ever did. I nailed the moto and punched the air as I flew across the finish line, the checkered flag waving behind me. The second moto of the day went almost exactly the same way—holeshot, followed by a lead, although Jessica was close behind me at the finish. A solid victory on one of the toughest tracks in America!

  Cruising to victory at Glen Helen. Carl Stone

  I was glad to have gotten Glen Helen out of the way. I knew there were people watching who wondered if last season’s win was a fluke. Maybe this would put their doubts to rest.

  Hanging on at Hangtown

  The Friday after Glen Helen, my mom, my dad, Kicker, and I drove in our truck out of Canyon Lake again, winding our way north, up the Golden State Freeway into Northern California. Hangtown, the track near Sacramento, was our destination.

  My dad had flown in from Florida so we could drive up together and spend some time as a family; at times like these, it felt like nothing much had changed. It was easy to pretend that my parents weren’t really separating—until the end of the weekend, when my dad would fly back to his job in Florida, alone. I made the most of having him around and noticed that he and my mom seemed more relaxed around each other than they had been in a long while. The separation, and having my dad step down as my coach, seemed to have eased the pressure-cooker atmosphere that had followed us around the last twelve years.

  The track at Hangtown was looking great to me—neither dusty nor muddy. Normally the weather is a little cooler up there than it is in SoCal—but not on race day. Once again I thanked the Lord for making me immune to the extremes of heat and cold, because everyone around me was complaining about global warming and how uncomfortable they were.

  I set the pace once again in the first moto and claimed the holeshot, but only by a narrow margin. Right up behind me was Vicki Golden, one of that year’s rookie sensations. But I finished the moto unchallenged with a 4.39-second lead. The main battle was going on behind me, between Vicki and Jessica Patterson.

  For a while, it seemed like the second moto would play out in much the same way as the first—the holeshot was mine, and this time I had Jessica right behind me instead of Vicki. Then Jessica made her way in front of me—and she wasn’t giving me any opportunity to reclaim my lead. We battled all the way to the finish, my bike not handling the jumps as well as I had hoped. I knew this time I wouldn’t be able to catch up. I won Hangtown overall on points, but my mechanics weren’t happy.

  “Your suspension needs some work,” said my technician, grim faced. In the short week between Hangtown and the next race—at Freestone in Texas—they took my bike back to the Honda shop and tore it apart, completely reworking the suspension. After repeated testing on my part, it was race-ready and back on the road—destination, Texas. I waved good-bye to my bike as it set off on the next leg of its journey on the Honda rig.

  Freestone—No Margin for Error

  Freestone County Raceway lies in the tiny town of Wortham, Texas (population one thousand), an hour and a half south of Dallas and the highest point between Dallas and Houston. Freestone was among the newer tracks in the series, founded ten years prior and with just three years of pro racing to its name. The environment couldn’t have been more different from Hangtown’s—Wortham is flat as a pancake compared with the steep rolling hills that surround Hangtown. My mom, Cody, Kicker, and I flew to Dallas and checked into a hotel that Honda had booked for us. I thought back to the days in the motor home, rushing to get to the next race with the bike behind us, and smiled. We’d certainly come a long way.

  This would be the second time we women had raced at Free-stone, and it wasn’t going to be an easy ride. The track made up for its flatness with some intense turns. This was going to require a very clear head. There was no margin for error. Keep it together, Ashley, I thought as we lined up at the starting gate. I took my fifth holeshot in a row and before long, Jessica and I had pushed ahead and resumed our ongoing battle, with the other riders at a safe distance behind us. Jessica was trying to get past me at each treacherous turn, but I kept her at bay. I knew so long as I kept my cool, things would be fine. I saw the white flag, indicating we were on the final lap—victory was within my grasp. I relaxed a little—and of course as soon as I did, Jessica seized her chance: I felt a whoosh as she squeezed ahead of me, taking me by surprise.

  A set of sand whoops lay ahead of us—the only way I could possibly reclaim my lead would be to throw caution to the wind and take a different line into them, a line no one else had used. I pulled on the throttle and hurtled into the whoops, clinging on for dear life. Before long, Jessica was behind me again. I’d stolen back the moto!

  Afterward I headed back to the trailer and splashed my face with water. I thanked God for being on my side, and keeping me safe. Did I really win again? I guess so.

  With Dean Gibson, my main Honda mechanic, at Freestone. Carl Stone

  In the next moto Jessica suffered some bad luck—after crashing in the first turn she lost valuable minutes trying to restart her bike and never really made it back into the race. Meanwhile, I found myself with another battle on my hands—Sara Price, a rookie rider, was head-to-head with me for the first few laps until she lost momentum and I pushed ahead. I was looking forward to racing her again—she had given me a run for my money! But the second moto and the race were mine.

  High Hopes at High Point

  The next race, at High Point Raceway in Mount Morris, Pennsylvania, marked the midway point of the season. The track, close to the West Virginia state line, has been raced since 1976. But this year its owner, the formidable Davey Coombs, had hired one of the top track builders in the world to create some new jump combinations designed to thrill both the riders and the fans.

  The track has an uphill start and Sherri Cruse, one of the top five WMX pros, broke my run of holeshot wins, speeding away ahead of everyone else as the gate dropped. Jessica and I were right behind her. Then Jessica pushed past Sherri aggressively, forcing her off the track and stealing the lead. I soon drew up close behind her and by the time we went around the second lap, I was in the lead. Behind me, Jessica suffered more bad luck and dropped way back after she lost control and fell. She was only able to make it back to fourth position.

  We returned to the track that evening for the second moto, with the sun low in the sky. It was cooler, in the mid-seventies, but the atmosphere was just as heated as it had been earlier in the day. This time around I took the holeshot and, after another battle with Jessica, won the race comfortably. I already had a thirty-four-point lead over Jessica in the series. Could I possibly dream of winning the WMX Championship twice in a row?

  Celebrating with Sherri Cruse at High Point. Carl Stone

  Storming Thunder Valley

  We went back to Thunder Valley, Colorado, in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, just west of Denver. With the 6,10
0-foot elevation, racing there feels like racing in the clouds. My Honda mechanics were busily adjusting the jetting on my bike so it would run well in this heavenly race environment.

  We arrived a few days early to thunder storms in Thunder Valley, typical for late June. Thankfully by the time race day rolled around, the skies had cleared and conditions were pretty much perfect. I was starting to wonder if we had guardian angels in the clouds, taking care of the weather for us.

  Thunder Valley is the only track where racing takes place at night, with giant floodlights that illuminate the soft mountainside dirt. Night riding is always a little surreal—particularly with fireworks and flamethrowers going off all around the track. I won the two motos at Thunder Valley but both were hard fought, this time with the Brazilian racer Mariana Balbi banging my handlebars all the way to the checkers in moto two. As fireworks shot up into the night sky and tumbled like shooting stars, marking the end of the race, I reveled in the knowledge that I was on a winning streak—what could go wrong?

  Taking on Horsepower Hill

  At the foot of the Cascade Mountains in the Pacific Northwest, about an hour from Portland, Oregon, is Washougal. Green, woodsy, and magical, with pine trees and fir trees all around, this is where the Twilight movies were filmed. And the track there is among my favorites in the country, with massive changes in elevation, fast riding conditions, and spectacular vistas. The Japanese national women’s champion Haruna Masu had flown out to Washougal especially to race against us, and I was ready to tear up the hillsides with a fresh challenger on the track.

  The Pacific Northwest is usually cool and temperate—we just happened to arrive in the middle of one of the biggest heat waves to ever hit the region. It was nearly 100 degrees in the shade on race day, with hardly any breeze. Again, I didn’t let the heat affect me and tapped into my inner ice box, remembering the freezing-cold Michigan winters. In the first moto, I sped out the gate and took the holeshot. Ahead of me was Horsepower Hill, one of the toughest obstacles in American motocross, a huge uphill. But riders can’t allow fearful thoughts to creep in during a race; that’s suicide! I cleared the hill, my mind only on keeping Jessica from taking the lead. Luckily my hard work paid off—the moto was mine.