Status: Chapter 25 to come!
Reach for the Sky
D.O.A.
No matter how far I backtrack, three things in my life remain constant; my family’s support and love, my best friend Oakley and some sort of motorized vehicle. Racing became a constant when I turned fifteen, which was the first year I was able to convince my mother I was capable. The number one-hundred twenty two became a constant when I turned sixteen and raced in my first GNCC of the season - I placed first in the Women’s class and won my lifetime number, one of the youngest people to ever do so. Pro class became a constant when the women’s class “graduated me” (kicked me out for winning too often) at the Loretta Lynn GNCC race; and with the Pro class came certain humility from getting my ass whooped by people who were much better than I was.
The first time I ever sat on a quad runner was at the tender age of seven when dad brought home a pair of anonymous, yellow 90cc bikes for my little brother and I to begin learning how to ride. When I turned eleven, I moved up to a 125cc Yamaha Breeze, which seemed like a gift from God at the time, but soon I found that the bike had no suspension and no high end. So when I turned twelve, I upgraded bikes to a bright blue, two-stroke 200cc Yamaha Blaster; this bike became my baby, and had all of the “fixing’s” - the first bike I ever had which I modified. The Blaster was probably my fondest memory, it was the first bike I ever raced on, the first bike I rode in a winning race. But when I turned sixteen three years later, the poor thing had been pulverized, beaten beyond recognition. That was when Suzuki began to entice me with their line - and the Z400 became my new obsession.
At some point along the line, I made an attempt at Freestyle Motocross and broke my left arm in a horrifying accident - but found that I loved the feeling of flying through the air holding nothing but the tailbar of my ATV. This was what led me to the guys (and girl) of Nitro Circus; unknown to me the day of the wreck, the crew had been present at the Georgia track, and Travis had admired my fortitude (and high number of career wins). He had approached my parents before he approached me and asked if I would like to join him at the Pastrana Compound to become part of the Nitro Crew.
Of course, I accepted his offer, I hadn’t received enough knocks on the head to be dumb enough to refuse joining legends.
I had commissioned Oakley - my best friend since the cradle - to help transport myself, my dog, and most of my worldly possessions from Florida to Maryland. He had helped me load up two Z400 quads, a pit bike and all of my gear, and organize all of my spare parts into the white trailer that we towed behind my baby, a charcoal-gray F250 four-wheel drive. Horrible gas mileage, but the truck had never failed me. For the last stretch of the trip I occupied the passenger’s seat of my own truck while Oakley drove us into Annapolis, as per the instructions of our GPS. He had taken the wheel after I blew a tire on the trailer in Charlotte, North Carolina; under the influence of many Red Bulls, I had been driving excessively fast.
“Hey, what’s that?” The dark-haired boy sat up and peered into the noontime sun, and I followed his gaze as I whipped a mass of red locks out of my face into a ponytail.
“Sweet Jesus Oakley, slow down!”
We were greeted at the Pastrana compound by a decidedly strange sight, four grown men on bright pink Big Wheel bikes. Oakley slowed to a crawl and rolled the windows down - which prompted Achilles, the enormous black Newfoundland mix, to leap from the backseat to the pavement in hot pursuit of the moving objects. This, in turn, prompted me to stick my head and upper torso out of the passenger’s side and shout like a lunatic at the dog, but he was too far gone to hear a single word I said.
“Oh no, oh no no no, what a way to make a first impression,” I murmured to Oakley, who had pulled me back into the truck by the belt around my waist.
“Nah, I’m sure they’re used to this kind of thing, you’ll be fine.” Oh yeah, I was certain they normally were chased down hills toward their house by large black dogs. As soon as they were all back in sight - traveling downhill on Big Wheels at a brisk ten miles per hour, according to the truck - I began to shout at the dog once more.
“Achilles, heel! I swear to God, dog!” Angry shouts mixed with my screams and the dog’s loud barking as we all slowly (quickly for the guys on Big Wheels) made our way down the hill to the Pastrana Compound.
Once the Big Wheels and the truck were at a stop at the bottom of the hill, I reigned in the big black beast - who had seized one of the vacated bikes as soon as its rider had run off and carried it proudly by the front tire (if one could call it that - it was definitely made of plastic).
“You put that back, Achilles! Put it back right this instant!” He looked dejected, but turned and, like a child, placed the bike back on the ground on all three plastic wheels.
“That thing is huge!” A tall, gangly looking boy with messy brown hair and bright green eyes approached, his arms open as if for a hug. His telltale looks and slightly gimpy gait told me immediately who he was - Travis Pastrana had just lost a big wheel race, apparently.
“Hi Travis,” I smiled broadly and raced to hug him - who in their right mind would turn down a hug from Travis fucking Pastrana?
“Sweet Cheeks Scott-tay!”
“Sorry about my dog,” I muttered, as Achilles returned to sulk at my heels.
“No, it’s awesome, he’s all huge!” The tall man bent down to muss Achi’s hair, playing with the sides of his face in a way that made the enormous mutt bat at him playfully with an enormous paw. “Okay, so guys, meet Scottie - Florida Trail Riders Hare Scramble Champ, Motocross Legend in the same series, won three races in her first GNCC Series ever, and she’s here to be the first woman to land a backflip to dirt.”
“But Travis, Jolene was -” A face I recognized but couldn’t put a name to began to speak, but Travis cut him off with the wave of a hand (encased in a black wrist guard, I noticed).
“On a quad.” I had turned a particular shade of crimson, I was certain - red enough to match the enormous hoodie I hadn’t had time to take off (Oakley was fond of blasting the A/C).
“God stop it, I’m not that fantastic. Really.” Crimson. Maroon. God, I should have switched to riding Hondas right then and there, I could have been their devilishly red poster child - like freaking Hellboy or something, red skin, red hair, the works.
A girl - taller than me, which wasn’t unusual - with long, blond hair and a fresh Monroe piercing bounced over to where I stood flabbergasted, and broke the awkward moment with an introduction.
“I’m Jolene, I’m so glad you’re here. This place needs more Estrogen.” I laughed - silence broken - and gave her a huge hug. “You have the most gorgeous hair,”
Self-consciously, I brushed the loosely curled red locks out of my face onto my shoulders with a smile I hoped was more winning than frightened. One by one, the people around me introduced themselves - all of Travis’s steady roommates were present. Andy Bell had been the familiar face, thicker and slightly shorter than Travis, he had bright blue eyes and a cutting sense of humor and made sure I knew he didn‘t live in the house - just close to it. A fat, short guy called himself Streetbike Tommy, and wouldn’t answer when I asked why; he lived with his mother in town. Blonde Gregg Godfrey had a camera in his hands, and informed me that this was not unusual and I should get used to it. Special Greg was Travis’s cousin, but it didn’t show - he was tall, sure, but had much darker hair and brown eyes. Cam was one of the mechanics, a bald redneck from Canada with a reddish beard and happy blue eyes. The other mechanic was Hubert, a strange looking, tall man who was hailed as “everyone’s favorite redneck.” Jeremy - Tenacious J - was the strangest-looking lawyer I had ever seen, with long brown hair and a bright smile. Erik Roner was a short blond man who seemed to always be happy - a common trait in Pastranaland - and informed me that he was the only person who knew how to pack a parachute (which I pushed to the back of my head, as it might eventually be handy knowledge). Jim DeChamp, a tall brown-haired man, made sure I knew he was practicing to throw the world’s first front flip - I suppressed a pained wince.
I had barely gotten names and faces matched and hadn’t even been able to get my stuff from the truck to my room (which I would share with Jolene as she was the only girl and there were no rooms left) before the guys had me suit up and start jumping into the foam pit and over the play jumps in the backyard. After they deemed I had been sufficiently beaten from landing on my head after my first backflip attempts ever, they gave me a pit bike and told me to ride the Hell Track.
“Is this like a hazing thing?” I asked, eyeing an impossible-looking teeter-totter apparatus built over a thick log between two dirt tracks.
“If we were hazing you, we wouldn’t be doing it with you, right?” Travis asked, as Jolene finally made it over the teeter totter amid loud cheers. It was that exact moment that I realized I had completely forgotten about Oakley - Achilles followed me, as always, but my dark-haired best friend was nowhere in sight. I inquired about this strange phenomena, and found myself being escorted up to the house to look for him by Godfrey - he turned the walk into an opportunity to quiz me about my life for the camera.
We found Oakley slowly unpacking the truck, carefully setting each duffel bag and piece of rolling luggage on the ground beside the truck - there were quite a few bags, as I had never been a very light packer and I was packing for two (Achilles required a good many things and had a bag of his own).
“Oaks, why aren’t you out having fun with us?”
“I didn’t want to infringe upon your new home.” My smile turned down, a few quick strides closed the space between my best friend and I and allowed me to toss my arms around his neck.
“Aw come on Oaks, don’t start that with me. I‘ve got a career to work on, you know that.” Reluctantly, Oakley patted my back lightly as if prompting me to let go. I did so, taking a step back as Gregg cleared his throat behind me.
“Let’s get you moved in, yeah?”
The first time I ever sat on a quad runner was at the tender age of seven when dad brought home a pair of anonymous, yellow 90cc bikes for my little brother and I to begin learning how to ride. When I turned eleven, I moved up to a 125cc Yamaha Breeze, which seemed like a gift from God at the time, but soon I found that the bike had no suspension and no high end. So when I turned twelve, I upgraded bikes to a bright blue, two-stroke 200cc Yamaha Blaster; this bike became my baby, and had all of the “fixing’s” - the first bike I ever had which I modified. The Blaster was probably my fondest memory, it was the first bike I ever raced on, the first bike I rode in a winning race. But when I turned sixteen three years later, the poor thing had been pulverized, beaten beyond recognition. That was when Suzuki began to entice me with their line - and the Z400 became my new obsession.
At some point along the line, I made an attempt at Freestyle Motocross and broke my left arm in a horrifying accident - but found that I loved the feeling of flying through the air holding nothing but the tailbar of my ATV. This was what led me to the guys (and girl) of Nitro Circus; unknown to me the day of the wreck, the crew had been present at the Georgia track, and Travis had admired my fortitude (and high number of career wins). He had approached my parents before he approached me and asked if I would like to join him at the Pastrana Compound to become part of the Nitro Crew.
Of course, I accepted his offer, I hadn’t received enough knocks on the head to be dumb enough to refuse joining legends.
I had commissioned Oakley - my best friend since the cradle - to help transport myself, my dog, and most of my worldly possessions from Florida to Maryland. He had helped me load up two Z400 quads, a pit bike and all of my gear, and organize all of my spare parts into the white trailer that we towed behind my baby, a charcoal-gray F250 four-wheel drive. Horrible gas mileage, but the truck had never failed me. For the last stretch of the trip I occupied the passenger’s seat of my own truck while Oakley drove us into Annapolis, as per the instructions of our GPS. He had taken the wheel after I blew a tire on the trailer in Charlotte, North Carolina; under the influence of many Red Bulls, I had been driving excessively fast.
“Hey, what’s that?” The dark-haired boy sat up and peered into the noontime sun, and I followed his gaze as I whipped a mass of red locks out of my face into a ponytail.
“Sweet Jesus Oakley, slow down!”
We were greeted at the Pastrana compound by a decidedly strange sight, four grown men on bright pink Big Wheel bikes. Oakley slowed to a crawl and rolled the windows down - which prompted Achilles, the enormous black Newfoundland mix, to leap from the backseat to the pavement in hot pursuit of the moving objects. This, in turn, prompted me to stick my head and upper torso out of the passenger’s side and shout like a lunatic at the dog, but he was too far gone to hear a single word I said.
“Oh no, oh no no no, what a way to make a first impression,” I murmured to Oakley, who had pulled me back into the truck by the belt around my waist.
“Nah, I’m sure they’re used to this kind of thing, you’ll be fine.” Oh yeah, I was certain they normally were chased down hills toward their house by large black dogs. As soon as they were all back in sight - traveling downhill on Big Wheels at a brisk ten miles per hour, according to the truck - I began to shout at the dog once more.
“Achilles, heel! I swear to God, dog!” Angry shouts mixed with my screams and the dog’s loud barking as we all slowly (quickly for the guys on Big Wheels) made our way down the hill to the Pastrana Compound.
Once the Big Wheels and the truck were at a stop at the bottom of the hill, I reigned in the big black beast - who had seized one of the vacated bikes as soon as its rider had run off and carried it proudly by the front tire (if one could call it that - it was definitely made of plastic).
“You put that back, Achilles! Put it back right this instant!” He looked dejected, but turned and, like a child, placed the bike back on the ground on all three plastic wheels.
“That thing is huge!” A tall, gangly looking boy with messy brown hair and bright green eyes approached, his arms open as if for a hug. His telltale looks and slightly gimpy gait told me immediately who he was - Travis Pastrana had just lost a big wheel race, apparently.
“Hi Travis,” I smiled broadly and raced to hug him - who in their right mind would turn down a hug from Travis fucking Pastrana?
“Sweet Cheeks Scott-tay!”
“Sorry about my dog,” I muttered, as Achilles returned to sulk at my heels.
“No, it’s awesome, he’s all huge!” The tall man bent down to muss Achi’s hair, playing with the sides of his face in a way that made the enormous mutt bat at him playfully with an enormous paw. “Okay, so guys, meet Scottie - Florida Trail Riders Hare Scramble Champ, Motocross Legend in the same series, won three races in her first GNCC Series ever, and she’s here to be the first woman to land a backflip to dirt.”
“But Travis, Jolene was -” A face I recognized but couldn’t put a name to began to speak, but Travis cut him off with the wave of a hand (encased in a black wrist guard, I noticed).
“On a quad.” I had turned a particular shade of crimson, I was certain - red enough to match the enormous hoodie I hadn’t had time to take off (Oakley was fond of blasting the A/C).
“God stop it, I’m not that fantastic. Really.” Crimson. Maroon. God, I should have switched to riding Hondas right then and there, I could have been their devilishly red poster child - like freaking Hellboy or something, red skin, red hair, the works.
A girl - taller than me, which wasn’t unusual - with long, blond hair and a fresh Monroe piercing bounced over to where I stood flabbergasted, and broke the awkward moment with an introduction.
“I’m Jolene, I’m so glad you’re here. This place needs more Estrogen.” I laughed - silence broken - and gave her a huge hug. “You have the most gorgeous hair,”
Self-consciously, I brushed the loosely curled red locks out of my face onto my shoulders with a smile I hoped was more winning than frightened. One by one, the people around me introduced themselves - all of Travis’s steady roommates were present. Andy Bell had been the familiar face, thicker and slightly shorter than Travis, he had bright blue eyes and a cutting sense of humor and made sure I knew he didn‘t live in the house - just close to it. A fat, short guy called himself Streetbike Tommy, and wouldn’t answer when I asked why; he lived with his mother in town. Blonde Gregg Godfrey had a camera in his hands, and informed me that this was not unusual and I should get used to it. Special Greg was Travis’s cousin, but it didn’t show - he was tall, sure, but had much darker hair and brown eyes. Cam was one of the mechanics, a bald redneck from Canada with a reddish beard and happy blue eyes. The other mechanic was Hubert, a strange looking, tall man who was hailed as “everyone’s favorite redneck.” Jeremy - Tenacious J - was the strangest-looking lawyer I had ever seen, with long brown hair and a bright smile. Erik Roner was a short blond man who seemed to always be happy - a common trait in Pastranaland - and informed me that he was the only person who knew how to pack a parachute (which I pushed to the back of my head, as it might eventually be handy knowledge). Jim DeChamp, a tall brown-haired man, made sure I knew he was practicing to throw the world’s first front flip - I suppressed a pained wince.
I had barely gotten names and faces matched and hadn’t even been able to get my stuff from the truck to my room (which I would share with Jolene as she was the only girl and there were no rooms left) before the guys had me suit up and start jumping into the foam pit and over the play jumps in the backyard. After they deemed I had been sufficiently beaten from landing on my head after my first backflip attempts ever, they gave me a pit bike and told me to ride the Hell Track.
“Is this like a hazing thing?” I asked, eyeing an impossible-looking teeter-totter apparatus built over a thick log between two dirt tracks.
“If we were hazing you, we wouldn’t be doing it with you, right?” Travis asked, as Jolene finally made it over the teeter totter amid loud cheers. It was that exact moment that I realized I had completely forgotten about Oakley - Achilles followed me, as always, but my dark-haired best friend was nowhere in sight. I inquired about this strange phenomena, and found myself being escorted up to the house to look for him by Godfrey - he turned the walk into an opportunity to quiz me about my life for the camera.
We found Oakley slowly unpacking the truck, carefully setting each duffel bag and piece of rolling luggage on the ground beside the truck - there were quite a few bags, as I had never been a very light packer and I was packing for two (Achilles required a good many things and had a bag of his own).
“Oaks, why aren’t you out having fun with us?”
“I didn’t want to infringe upon your new home.” My smile turned down, a few quick strides closed the space between my best friend and I and allowed me to toss my arms around his neck.
“Aw come on Oaks, don’t start that with me. I‘ve got a career to work on, you know that.” Reluctantly, Oakley patted my back lightly as if prompting me to let go. I did so, taking a step back as Gregg cleared his throat behind me.
“Let’s get you moved in, yeah?”