In agony as my dad tries to help me get my gear off. Carl Stone
“I think I broke something,” I whimpered, gasping for breath.
Up on the podium a huge celebration was under way. I dragged my bruised body up there and tried to smile through the agony. Look at photos and videos from that afternoon and you’ll see my grin is a little strained. Someone handed me a number one jersey, which I was supposed to wear on the podium, but I couldn’t get it over my head. My right arm was immobilized, hanging down like a chimpanzee’s, and I couldn’t use it to sign or write autographs because it hurt so bad. It was only when I accepted the trophy with one arm that I allowed myself to break into a real smile. What a life, I thought, wishing I had another arm to wave with to the crowd cheering below.
After the race the medical staff gave me a shot and some Vicodin. I went back to watch the rest of the races and started feeling woozy—I knew it was the Vicodin. Most of the time I’ll just take the pain rather than the pills—strong in the heart, but weak in the stomach, my mom says. I was shuttled back to the motor home, where I lay down and finally closed my eyes. I was a second-time WMX champion, but there would be no celebratory food fights this year. Tonight, all I wanted was sleep.
Cinderella in a Sling
Post-race X-rays confirmed what we’d feared—it was indeed a broken collarbone. The doctors told me I needed major surgery, in which they would insert a plate and six screws into my body. The prankster in me was looking forward to setting off airport metal detectors for the rest of my days.
But before my surgery, scheduled to take place in Jacksonville, was the big MX Sports dinner celebration, and there was no way I was going to miss that, no matter how beat-up I was. Held at the plush Grand Concourse’s ballroom on the riverfront in downtown Pittsburgh, the dinner was for all the top riders, male and female, of the season. Getting dressed for the dinner, I felt like Cinderella…Cinderella in a sling, that is. I was too weak to even hold my trophy and was bandaged up. Poor Sherri Cruse was there too and looked even worse than me, what with her broken jaw. I ran into my old friend Ryan Dungey, who had just won the 250 men’s championship. He had broken a collarbone once during a race, too. And he seemed impressed that I had gotten back on my bike and finished the race—he hadn’t. “You just got back up and rode?” he said, shaking his head. “That’s cool.” That meant a lot, coming from the men’s champion.
X-rays of my broken collar-bone before and after surgery.
Reconciliation
When the season was over we moved out of the house in Canyon Lake and returned to our lives in St. Augustine, which was closer to where the last two rounds of the season were taking place. My collarbone was about to be operated on in Jacksonville, and my parents were by my bedside throughout.
“How are you doing, sweetie?” my mom said, stroking my hair.
“Fine,” I said. I had to get good at lip-reading and talking again, because my broken bones were making it painful to sign.
My dad walked into the room behind her holding a Tupper-ware container that looked like it contained some kind of cheese-cake. He put it down by the bed. “For after the surgery—your mom made it,” he signed, and kissed my mom on the forehead.
Maybe it’s not that easy to walk away from a twenty-year marriage, or maybe the last few months had given my parents a fresh perspective—but somewhere in between all the excitement and broken bones, my mom and dad had decided to give things another shot. They had been going to counseling and had talked through some of the mistakes they had made over the years. Not making time for one another had been a big part of the problem. After my surgery, they had a couple weekend trips planned—down to Epcot Center in Orlando for a food and wine festival, and a trip to Savannah for their twentieth wedding anniversary in November. I was happy for them, especially when my dad moved back into the house.
By October things were almost back to normal again in St. Augustine. Kicker was getting better and better at riding his minibike and we wondered if he too would decide he wanted to race like his big sister—he was getting to that age, after all. And Turbo, one of my bulldogs, seemed to know not to play too rough with me while I was recovering. Honda had been on the phone to talk about the following year, this book was almost finished, and after so many years focusing entirely on motocross, I was reconnecting with the deaf community again.
Hanging out at home with Turbo.
Deaf schools were inviting me to visit as a motivational speaker; I was nominated for a Trailblazer of the Year award by Purple Communications, the deaf community’s best-known provider of video relay and text relay services; and I was honored at the DEAFestival in Los Angeles, signing autographs and talking to deaf kids about my life in a way I hadn’t in a very long time. This time, everyone seemed excited to learn about my life in motocross—even though I hadn’t met any of these people before, it felt like I was coming home and catching up with old friends after a long journey.
As usual, though, my injury was preventing me from being as active as I would have liked, and I was having trouble sitting still for so long—injured or not, there’s nothing you can do to stop the motocross itch. And I was thinking about a new coach. We hadn’t really figured out whether it should be my dad or not. My dad seemed in no hurry to make a decision. “Let’s figure it out later, OK?” he signed, smiling, his gray-blue eyes twinkling the way they always did when he talked motocross. He and my mom had survived one of the biggest tests any family could put themselves through: a life in motocross. It was time for them to put their marriage first. I thanked God for blessing me with such remarkable parents as I hugged my dad.
In front of the poster that American Honda made of me.
Next year—on and off the dirt—was going to be a big one.
EPILOGUE: WE’VE ONLY JUST BEGUN
By the end of November of 2009, our postseason relaxation period had drawn to a close and it was time to start gearing up for another year of competition. I had recently turned nineteen and was starting to feel almost like a grown-up, shopping around for houses to buy in St. Augustine, where I would build a track of my own. My mom and dad, it seemed, were continuing to work things out, and Kicker was as sweet and boisterous as ever. I had finally pulled off a backflip on a dirt bike, with Travis Pastrana’s help, and the fans were MySpacing and Twittering about it like crazy. Life in the Fiolek household was back to normal—with one exception. Cody had moved back to Wisconsin, leaving so that he could be with his girlfriend. We were still all adjusting to him being gone. He would be hard to replace; not everyone can fit into a family the way Cody had with ours. But we respected his decision. Now we had to start looking around for someone to step into his shoes. It wasn’t going to be easy—but then nothing in motocross ever is.
One evening our landline rang, and my dad picked up. He cradled the phone receiver into his shoulder and signed, “It’s Keith,” meaning Keith Dowdle from Honda. Keith had been a friend and supporter of mine since my amateur years, and we always valued what he had to say. I wondered if Keith was calling to recommend a mechanic as my dad started signing, translating what Keith was saying.
“It’s time…to think about…the future,” my dad signed. His face had an intense expression.
My heart dropped and I signed back, “What does he mean, ‘the future’?”
“Ashley wants to know what you mean,” said my dad, looking as puzzled as I felt. Cody had just left a few weeks ago and we weren’t ready for any more big surprises just yet.
“He means…another girl,” my dad signed. “Honda wants you to help them find the next Honda star. A young amateur girl, like you once were.”
My shoulders relaxed and I heaved a sigh of relief. My dad carried on signing: Honda wanted my help in selecting a promising young female racer who would blaze a trail into the pro ranks and follow the example I had set. What an enormous honor, not least because 2010 would surely be a crucial year in women’s racing. The economy had really taken its toll on motocr
oss, and many pro racers—boys and girls—were facing the prospect of riding the 2010 season with little or no financial backing. If things were bleak in the pro ranks, I can only imagine how the economic downturn would impact amateur racing in 2010.
It felt like only yesterday that I had been making my own transition from amateur to pro—now here I was, aged nineteen, being asked to help usher in the next generation. I thought back to the little girls I had seen hurtling around the track at Loretta’s that year, hope and determination in their hearts. I felt excited for them—opportunities lay ahead of them that I had barely dreamed of at their age.
“Tell Keith there are plenty more girls where I came from,” I signed to my dad, grinning. “Tell him we’ve only just begun.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the following:
God, for always guiding me and keeping me safe.
My parents, Roni and Jim Fiolek, and my brother, Kicker Fiolek.
American Honda, for having the vision and open-mindedness to support a woman rider in the same way that it supports male riders.
Miki Keller for establishing a women’s race series, the Women’s Motocross Association, and for always trying to help female riders achieve more.
Caroline Ryder, for making this book happen and for diving headfirst into the crazy world of motocross.
Kirby Kim, my literary agent at William Morris Endeavor.
My editor, Kate Hamill, my production editor, Andrea Molitor, and the whole team at It Books.
All of my sponsors, for believing in me: Red Bull, T-Mobile, Alpinestars, Leatt, Smith Optics, MotoEndurance, Hardcard Motorsport Management, TransWorld Motocross magazine, Rockwell watches, and Able Planet.
And my friends and family that have helped me along the way: James Fiolek (“Grandpa Motorcycle”), the Hills, Donn Maeda, Kim Cabe, Rick Wernli, Andrew Campo, and Carl Stone.
About the Authors
ASHLEY FIOLEK won gold in women’s motocross at the 2009 X Games and the American Women’s Motocross Championship in 2008 and 2009. Author of the monthly column “Silence” in TransWorld magazine, Fiolek has also been featured in the New York Times, USA Today, Sports Illustrated, Rolling Stone, ESPN: The Magazine, Cosmo Girl, and Paper magazine, and appeared on Last Call with Carson Daly. Born just outside of Detroit, Fiolek now lives in St. Augustine, Florida, and travels the world to compete.
CAROLINE RYDER has written for the Los Angeles Times, Paper, and Dazed and Confused, and lives in Los Angeles. Visit her website www.carolineryder.com.
www.AshleyFiolek.com
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Credits
Jacket design by Amanda Kain
Jacket photograph © by Carl Stone
Copyright
Unless otherwise noted, photographs are courtesy of the author.
KICKING UP DIRT. Copyright © 2010 by Ashley Fiolek. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
EPub Edition © April 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-199359-6
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