Status: Chapter 25 to come!
Reach for the Sky
Takeoffs.
"I don’t understand why they wouldn’t let me ride a quad in this,” I commented, as I painstakingly packed my riding gear into an enormous black bag specifically for the purpose, splitting my things between the black riding backpack that I would wear during the race, which had an enormous hydration unit in it. I added a second and third set of ride pants, jerseys and gloves (Red and Green) into the two bags in addition to the blue set of Thor gear I had already packed, along with backup goggles - a hot commodity when mud was involved.
I would definitely have to sort the thing out upon arrival, because I would leave the excess with Hubert and another mechanic named Cam, Erik Roner and Jim Dechamp who would man the service car during the actual race. They would only meet us at our nightly stops, or at a checkpoint if we broke down in the middle of the race.
“Well, I mean, you could have, but then you’d have gone at it alone. And that‘s definitely no fun at roManiacs,” Travis said from beside me, as he packed his gear, wrapping his helmet in a towel before he let it commingle with his boots, blue Thor gear. He too had a backpack, and took full advantage of it, packing
Thor had decided to sponsor the lot of us - Travis and I were officially a “Team” and were enrolled in the “Team Expert” class, a decision which I dreaded. Godfrey and Andy Bell were on their own in the Single Expert class, and Streetbike Tommy and Tenacious J were together in the “Hobbyist” class, which was supposedly easier.
Travis had been extremely kind to loan me one of his bikes for the race (a yellow Suzuki DR-Z250, the biggest enduro bike I could lift up on my own), and Achilles was staying with his parents for our week and a half absence; the boy continually stunned me with his kindness.
I woke up fifteen minutes before my alarm on the day we were scheduled to leave with Achilles hugged close to my chest (well, his enormous head was), I had taken to sleeping with him as I had when he was a puppy. He plodded along behind me as I brushed my teeth and hair, and gathered my bags before I got dressed in a real bra for the last time for a few weeks and headed downstairs to face the boys.
Travis and his father sat at the table, along with a hungover-looking Streetbike Tommy.
“Hey Mr. P,” I called, as I fed Achilles his breakfast of “wet” food before I poured a cup of coffee.
“This is Sweet Cheeks Scottie, huh? She’s going to lift that big ole bike outta all of that mud?” Pastrana’s dad asked, with a raised eyebrow.
“Well you can’t expect him to do it himself, right?” I shot back, and perched on the countertop with a mug in hand.
“Feisty.”
“Geeze dad. She’s a lot tougher than you think,” Travis downed his entire glass of orange juice in one long chug.
“Why wouldn’t you just take Jolene? At least she’s something more to look at,” I could have spit fire at the man, but knew the game he played. It was really familiar, as most of the men in Motocross talked down to me like he was.
“Everyone knows redheads are hotter.”
“But a woman needs curves.”
“Curves won’t lift a two-hundred pound bike out of a mud hole,” I said with a gin as I finally found a touch of good-natured sarcasm in his dry voice, and flashed a flex of my bicep with a laugh. Travis clapped me on the back.
“’Atta girl, don’t let him beat you down.”
“So you’re taking Achilles for me?” I asked Mr. Pastrana as I helped Travis make scrambled eggs (I had noticed he hadn’t added enough milk nor had he whisked the mixture enough and had to step in).
“Yes ma’am. Any special instructions?”
“Run him. Run him until his tongue sticks, like, this far out of his mouth.” I demonstrated the length with my hands. “He’ll sleep the entire rest of the day. He’ll run on a treadmill and step off when he’s done, too, so… Oh, and he’ll obey any command.”
“Any command?”
“Any command.”
“So… Achilles, get me a beer!”
“No sir, you have to break it down a little more than that.” Spatula in hand, I directed the giant of a dog. “Achilles, go to the fridge.” I pointed, and the dog trotted from the corner of the room to the giant stainless steel fridge where a rag had been tied a handle for the express purpose of exploiting the trick. “Open.” He gingerly pried the fridge open, and waited for the next command. “Beer.” Achilles could distinguish between the size and shape of the beer bottles from, say, a carton of milk. “Close, come. Good boy, baby.”
“Oh man, you weren’t kidding.”
An hour later, Achilles and Mr. P had gone, and the rest of us were loading into a truck and trailer. I ended up falling asleep in the truck, and on as much of the plane ride as I could get in - as did the rest of the guys, for once we landed in Romania, all hell would break loose.
I would definitely have to sort the thing out upon arrival, because I would leave the excess with Hubert and another mechanic named Cam, Erik Roner and Jim Dechamp who would man the service car during the actual race. They would only meet us at our nightly stops, or at a checkpoint if we broke down in the middle of the race.
“Well, I mean, you could have, but then you’d have gone at it alone. And that‘s definitely no fun at roManiacs,” Travis said from beside me, as he packed his gear, wrapping his helmet in a towel before he let it commingle with his boots, blue Thor gear. He too had a backpack, and took full advantage of it, packing
Thor had decided to sponsor the lot of us - Travis and I were officially a “Team” and were enrolled in the “Team Expert” class, a decision which I dreaded. Godfrey and Andy Bell were on their own in the Single Expert class, and Streetbike Tommy and Tenacious J were together in the “Hobbyist” class, which was supposedly easier.
Travis had been extremely kind to loan me one of his bikes for the race (a yellow Suzuki DR-Z250, the biggest enduro bike I could lift up on my own), and Achilles was staying with his parents for our week and a half absence; the boy continually stunned me with his kindness.
I woke up fifteen minutes before my alarm on the day we were scheduled to leave with Achilles hugged close to my chest (well, his enormous head was), I had taken to sleeping with him as I had when he was a puppy. He plodded along behind me as I brushed my teeth and hair, and gathered my bags before I got dressed in a real bra for the last time for a few weeks and headed downstairs to face the boys.
Travis and his father sat at the table, along with a hungover-looking Streetbike Tommy.
“Hey Mr. P,” I called, as I fed Achilles his breakfast of “wet” food before I poured a cup of coffee.
“This is Sweet Cheeks Scottie, huh? She’s going to lift that big ole bike outta all of that mud?” Pastrana’s dad asked, with a raised eyebrow.
“Well you can’t expect him to do it himself, right?” I shot back, and perched on the countertop with a mug in hand.
“Feisty.”
“Geeze dad. She’s a lot tougher than you think,” Travis downed his entire glass of orange juice in one long chug.
“Why wouldn’t you just take Jolene? At least she’s something more to look at,” I could have spit fire at the man, but knew the game he played. It was really familiar, as most of the men in Motocross talked down to me like he was.
“Everyone knows redheads are hotter.”
“But a woman needs curves.”
“Curves won’t lift a two-hundred pound bike out of a mud hole,” I said with a gin as I finally found a touch of good-natured sarcasm in his dry voice, and flashed a flex of my bicep with a laugh. Travis clapped me on the back.
“’Atta girl, don’t let him beat you down.”
“So you’re taking Achilles for me?” I asked Mr. Pastrana as I helped Travis make scrambled eggs (I had noticed he hadn’t added enough milk nor had he whisked the mixture enough and had to step in).
“Yes ma’am. Any special instructions?”
“Run him. Run him until his tongue sticks, like, this far out of his mouth.” I demonstrated the length with my hands. “He’ll sleep the entire rest of the day. He’ll run on a treadmill and step off when he’s done, too, so… Oh, and he’ll obey any command.”
“Any command?”
“Any command.”
“So… Achilles, get me a beer!”
“No sir, you have to break it down a little more than that.” Spatula in hand, I directed the giant of a dog. “Achilles, go to the fridge.” I pointed, and the dog trotted from the corner of the room to the giant stainless steel fridge where a rag had been tied a handle for the express purpose of exploiting the trick. “Open.” He gingerly pried the fridge open, and waited for the next command. “Beer.” Achilles could distinguish between the size and shape of the beer bottles from, say, a carton of milk. “Close, come. Good boy, baby.”
“Oh man, you weren’t kidding.”
An hour later, Achilles and Mr. P had gone, and the rest of us were loading into a truck and trailer. I ended up falling asleep in the truck, and on as much of the plane ride as I could get in - as did the rest of the guys, for once we landed in Romania, all hell would break loose.