In the second moto, Haruna, the Japanese racer, took the holeshot, while Jessica amped up the aggression, nudging me and trying to knock me down. I found myself in fourth place and had to battle to get into third, and then second place behind Jessica, but her lead was too strong. Jessica took the second moto and won Washougal—my first real defeat of the season.
Standing on the podium in second place, I didn’t allow myself to feel too disappointed—I knew I still had a comfortable points lead in the championship. So long as I kept my cool, the trophy was well within reach.
Walking the Red Rug
In June I found out I had been nominated for an ESPN ESPY award—kind of like the Grammys or Oscars of the sports world. I had been nominated in the Best Female Action Sports Athlete category, which American snowboarder Gretchen Bleiler had won the year before. The awards ceremony was held in the middle of July at the Nokia Theatre in downtown Los Angeles, with Samuel L. Jackson hosting. Other nominees included NBA star LeBron James and tennis champion Serena Williams—an A-list lineup. Racing on mud, covered in dirt and sweaty, I never once imagined that a red carpet would find its way into my life.
The night before, my mom, Kicker, Cody, and I checked into the Standard Hotel, where we had booked a room. “Is this for swingers?” my mom joked as we peered inside our ultra-modern room. The bed had no frame and the bathroom—and shower—had no doors, just glass walls. The four of us looked at one another giggling. We weren’t nudists, so this was going to take some delicate maneuvering.
The hotel was also hosting the ESPY gifting suites, where companies that wanted to give us free products would set up shop. It felt like Christmas…I loaded up with gifts in room upon room, smiling people handing us bags containing all kinds of stuff we never knew we needed—like a new showerhead, for example. And deodorants, duffle bags, clothes, necklaces, candles, incense, DVDs, coffee, pillowcases, and bottles of wine that I was too young to drink. In one room I got my hair and makeup done for the red carpet by Bobbi Brown stylists. They gave me the biggest ’do I had ever had, and I didn’t mind it at all—when you spend most of your life covered in dirt, it feels good to be pampered once in a while.
Prepping for the ESPYs.
My mom was my date for the ceremony (Cody stayed at the hotel and watched Kicker). I was wearing a purple dress and high heels—I couldn’t remember the last time I had worn heels—and smiling as hard as I could for the cameras. Every famous athlete you could think of was there—I spotted Michael Phelps and Shawn Johnson—talking to reporters on the red carpet before making their way inside the Nokia Theatre auditorium. What a night!
I had been nominated for the Best Female Action Sports Athlete award, alongside three other girls: snowboarder Torah Bright, skier Sarah Burke, and Maya Gabeira, a Brazilian big-wave surfer, who ended up winning. Only a handful of motocrossers have been nominated for an ESPY before—Travis Pastrana, Ricky Carmichael, Jessica Patterson, and James Stewart—so it was a huge honor.
The after-party was at a Lucky Strike bowling alley close by—my mom went back to the hotel room to watch Kicker, and Cody came out to join me for the festivities. The after party was packed with people, most of them older than us, drinking and partying. We stood in a corner, wondering what we were supposed to do. We felt so silly, we started giggling. “Let’s get out of here,” I signed, and Cody nodded. Back at our shiny hotel, my mom and Kicker were sound asleep in the room. Cody passed out immediately. I got into my pajamas, threw my purple dress on top of the bags of gifts in the corner, and lay back on the bed, thinking of mud.
X Marks the Spot
It was July and E-Bash and I were at the house in Canyon Lake, sitting in the backyard as the sun set. The X Games were right around the corner, and both of us had been invited to compete.
“I really hope I get to go,” I signed. E-Bash nodded. Now that I was a factory rider, there was a chance Honda might not even allow me to compete. The X Games is such an injury-fest, factories are often nervous about exposing their top riders to the risk—especially right in the middle of the championship series. My teammates Davi Millsaps and Ivan Tedesco had already been told they wouldn’t be allowed to enter by top Honda brass in Japan. “They probably won’t let you compete either,” one of my mechanics at the Red Bull facility told me. “They don’t want you to damage yourself and throw away the championship.”
But my agent told me to stop worrying. “Ashley, we had it written in your contract specifically that you should be allowed to enter the X Games. You’ll be there.”
I felt like Cinderella opening her invitation to the ball.
Upon hearing the news, my mechanics at Honda set to work on my suspension, making sure it could withstand the unforgiving X Games supercross track that awaited me. I was so ready!
Soon enough it was the last weekend in July, the weekend of the X Games, and I was more than ready to make up for my no-show the year before. This year the stakes were high—the prize money for women had been quadrupled to $40,000, the same as the boys.
Once again, the track had been built in the Home Depot Center in Carson, an open-air sports complex that’s home to the Los Angeles Galaxy soccer team. As usual, it featured steep triple jumps, a big finish-line jump, and earth so hard it had become what we call “blue grooved”—when earth is so compacted it turns blue from the black of the tires. My family and I had already decided ahead of time that I wasn’t going to take any unnecessary risks at the X Games. I didn’t want to destroy myself either. We talked it over as a family and decided I should race smart, race cautious. I practiced a few days ahead of the race on Saturday, getting a chance to fully experience the track’s viciousness. I crashed badly on the huge finish-line jump, smacking my head so hard on the earth I was seeing stars and landing on my hand so badly I thought I had broken all my fingers. It was a sobering practice session.
The X Games take place over three days, which allowed us plenty of time to ooh and aah at the amazing extreme athletes who were competing. My mom, Miki, and I went down to the bleachers to watch my friend Lyn-Z Hawkins, a pro skate-boarder, compete. We sat down just in time to see Lyn-Z’s final competition. There was no shade whatsoever on what felt like the hottest L.A. day ever. Our clothes were drenched in sweat as we watched Lyn-Z do her run of skate tricks. “Wow—she’s really shredding!” I signed, marveling. The judges added up the scores and sure enough, Lyn-Z had won gold at the X Games, for the third time in her career.
She was awarded her medal on a podium set up in the middle of the ramp. Afterward she saw us and came running over, smiling wide. She pressed her medal into my hand. “Feel it, girl,” she said. My mom and I looked at one another. Seeing the look on Lyn-Z’s face and feeling the medal in my palm—well, I had to go for it now. I started signing. “OK, Mom—I’m going to go for gold!” So much for playing it safe.
Going for Gold
That was Thursday—on Saturday, it was my turn in the stadium. Our race was due to take place late, at six fifteen or so, after the boys had finished up. I was in the pit area hidden from the crowd, where all the competitors’ trailers were parked, stretching and gearing up slowly for what I knew was going to be one of the biggest riding challenges of my life. Then Miki came running in, waving everyone toward the track. The X Games officials had to switch the girls’ and boys’ events due to one of the boys getting injured—which meant we had minutes to get ourselves on the track. I wasn’t even in my gear yet! Miki ran through the pits trying to round up all the girls, none of whom were ready. My mom, my dad, and Kicker were hugging and kissing me, trying to say a prayer. I got on my bike and sped toward the gateway that led to the stadium, riding through a dark tunnel into the afternoon sunshine.
I wheeled down a big dirt ramp onto the track, nine other girls alongside me. The stadium was packed—it seemed like more people were watching compared to last year. We had already raced a qualifier to determine our gate picks and the race would unfold like in regular supercross—six laps of sheer, un
adulterated gnarliness. My mom told me later that she was so tense, she could barely watch the race. “Tell me when it’s done,” she said to her friend.
The gate dropped. The ground was exceptionally hard packed and slippery, and because I am so light my tires tend to spin—which is exactly what happened. So I got a horrible start and entered the race eighth out of ten girls. I started pushing forward, slowly but surely, until I made it into second place. The only person in front of me was Jessica.
She had taken a completely different line than the rest of the girls, and it seemed to be working for her—lap after lap, she took the same line, followed the same path, and held on to her lead.
Her consistency, I realized, was where I could attack. I noticed she was jumping the finish-line jump each and every time she hit it, even though it was actually losing her a sliver of time, as the jump was sending her so high in the air. I decided not to take the jump, hoping that staying on the ground would help me gain on her. Slowly, I inched closer and closer to her, until I was right behind her. Then the white flag was waved, indicating the final lap, and I knew I had just seconds to pass Jessica. There was no big maneuver that was going to get me in front of Jessica, just dogged determination—I had to outwit her with my strategy. My determination paid off—she jumped the finish-line jump again and I shaved enough time off to pass her in the whoops in the closing seconds of the sixth lap.
The stadium erupted. The Jumbotron screens started flashing with my name and all around fans were standing up, jumping up and down and clapping. I sped across the finish line in first place, skidded to a halt, and threw my bike down on the dirt. I ran over to the nearest set of bleachers, throwing my goggles and gloves into the crowd. Cameramen and journalists raced over to talk to me, while my mom and dad tried their best to get past the crowds to me. When they did we held one another in the biggest family hug I think we’ve ever had.
Amid the chaos, the camera flashes, and the swarm of happy faces around me was the perpetual silence in my head, the silence that has allowed me to think clearly in otherwise overwhelming situations. And my thoughts were on all the millions of X Games and action sports who had just seen that nail-biting race on television and who might start asking questions about this funny sport called motocross.
E-Bash came running over; she had won bronze, behind Jessica’s silver. Behind her was Lyn-Z, who hugged me in congratulations. I couldn’t wait to show her my gold medal too.
Celebrating with E-Bash at the X Games.
Back at Loretta’s…
In between races, I visited Loretta’s, invited to return as the reigning X Games champion. Loretta’s had been such a huge part of my life, and even though I wasn’t there to race, it felt like a homecoming of sorts. As always, the atmosphere was carnivalesque. Thousands of racers and their families milled around, eating junk food, playing in the creek, and watching race after race after race. It’s always inspiring to me, watching the little kids and seeing how determined they are.
There’s a huge billboard at Loretta’s that has been there forever, since my dad started racing in 1983, at least. On the billboard are the faces of the top riders, guys like Ricky Carmichael and James Stewart. And this year I saw my face and Jessica’s face, up there on the billboard. It was a shock and a huge honor. I hoped all the little girl racers would look up and realize there was a path for them toward the factory teams too, if they wanted it.
Carl Stone
chapter 10
CHECKERED FLAG
Riding with Restraint
At Southwick, Massachusetts, it was pouring rain with temperatures in the low fifties—another mud bath loomed. In theory, I could have locked up the championship by winning at Southwick, but I decided not to race too aggressively, just to be safe. I didn’t want to risk my safety in the mud, and Jessica took the race. Nonetheless I still held a forty-one-point lead over her as we headed into the final race of the season. The stage was set for a second championship win for me—provided nothing went wrong at Steel City.
Friday night, before the race on Saturday, I was invited to throw the first pitch out for the Pittsburgh Pirates, which was way cool for a motocrosser. Motocross is the redheaded stepchild of sports, so it was a real honor to be invited to the game. Holding the ball in my hand on the mound, I felt almost as nervous as I did for a race. My mom translated as the announcer told the crowd a little about me, how I am a member of the Honda Red Bull team and was leading the women in points this season. Then an official gave me the signal, and I threw the ball out as fast and as hard as I could. It traveled eighty feet or so—I’ve never thought of myself as a pitcher, but apparently they were pretty impressed with my throw.
Before throwing out the first pitch at the Pirates game. Carl Stone
The next morning, I pulled back the curtains of our hotel room window, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu—this would be the third time I raced Steel City as a pro, and just like last year, predictions of rain had failed to come true. I looked at the beautiful, cloudless September sky. My mom, Kicker, Cody, and I prepared to leave the hotel room and head to the track, and we all knew I was almost certain to take home the champion’s trophy, provided I didn’t DNF or have some kind of disaster. We had done the math—I only needed to finish in the top eleven in order to be sure of victory. I knew a lot of the top girls would be battling it out for the podium spots, so I kept reminding myself, Eleventh or better, eleventh or better. That was all I needed.
On our way to the track my mind kept flashing back to last year—to our post-win celebration food fight at Smokey Bones, people running toward me with bouquets, Jessica giving me her number one plate. Last year the track had worked in my favor; this year, I could only pray for the same kind of luck.
“Hey, snap out of it!” my dad signed a few hours later as he handed me my helmet. We were under the Honda Red Bull Racing rig and I had already warmed up and geared up. My bike looked ready for action. “You ready to win Steel City again?” my dad added, and I smiled.
“OK! Let’s do this,” I signed, and I motored out of the pit area and over to the starting line for the final race of the 2009 season.
It was pleasantly warm, especially in contrast to the furnace-like conditions we’d endured elsewhere that summer. The unexpectedly clement weather, the almost certain likelihood that I’d win the championship today—was it really going to be this easy? I immediately pushed the thought from my mind. The motocross gods are capricious, and experience had taught me never to take anything for granted in a race. The two-minute board came up and I reminded myself to ride strong and steady and not take any risks. For a rider like me who is used to giving 100 percent, holding back and riding safe took a different kind of skill. Calculated restraint just isn’t my MO.
The gate dropped, and it soon became clear that I was the only one riding cautious. The rest of the field was unusually aggressive, and girls were bumping and jostling one another, fighting for points and podium spots.
I saw my friend Sherri Cruse crash hard over a particularly rutted spot in the track—her handlebar ripped a hole through her cheek. Later I would learn she had also fractured her jaw. I tried to stay cool and carried on working my way up through the girls, making it up to second place behind Jessica. Second isn’t at all bad, I thought as we navigated the track, entering the rutted section once again. Maybe my timing was off because I wasn’t riding as fast or aggressively as I normally do, but at almost exactly the same spot where Sherri crashed, I lost control, hitting the dirt with a terrible thud. Something cracked and I felt the dull, sickening sensation that all motocross riders know—something was broken. Later on I would find out my collarbone had broken clean in two—snap.
The bone didn’t break through my skin, but it split in two neatly. I had been thrown from the bike but lifted myself out of the dirt and ran back to it, adrenaline surging through my veins. I needed to make a decision—drop out of the race and take care of my broken bone, or carry on and try to save the cham
pionship. If I didn’t finish in the top eleven, the trophy would go to Jessica. But if I got back on the bike, who knows what kind of a mess my body would be at the end. I looked at my bike—the handlebars and internal cables were completely mangled, but miraculously, the engine was still running. The engine should have cut with that kind of impact. And had it done so, I wouldn’t have been able to restart it, because my ignition cables had been so badly damaged. For some reason, the bike had kept running. I took that as a sign from God—I should keep running too. I hauled myself on the bike again and got back in the race.
Although they had no idea I had just broken my collarbone, my parents could tell something was wrong from the way I was riding. I was wobbling along in seventh place and jumping awkwardly, only stepping things up when a rookie tried to make her way past me. Good luck, sister, I thought, flying into a double jump, making sure I could at least stay ahead of her. The pain by this point was still intense, but by the time I dragged myself across the finish line I was running on pure adrenaline. I had come in seventh in the first moto. I had enough points to win the championship. Ecstatic as I was, the pain around my shoulders and a new limpness in my arm prevented me from celebrating too hard as I rolled into the pit.
My dad ran over to me. “What’s going on?” he signed. I couldn’t sign back; it was too painful. He lifted my helmet off my head gently, aware that I was in bad shape.
Kicking Up Dirt Page 14