My First Rain Dance
My dad and I never fell into a stereotyped, Hollywood movie-like scenario of a father and son relationship. On the screen, they often play sports in the backyard while having some deep conversation. In real life, my dad used to take me to his office of the head of finance, where I spent my time coloring on an oak table in a huge cozy chair of the big boss.
I think that I felt the power of his decisions from a very early age. I feared it a little and, at the same time, respected it unconsciously. The evidence goes back to a video somewhere in the folders of my mom’s old laptop where she is interviewing a one-year-old me:
“What’s your mommy’s name?” she asks. “Ksusha!” I reply loudly with shining eyes, using a Russian pet name for Oksana. “What’s your daddy’s name?” she continues. “Andrusha,” I whisper after a tiny pause, but still using one of the cutest versions of his name — Andrey.
I remember that even my uncle used to greet him in a funny way, pointing out my dad’s seniority. “Ave Caesar! Those who are about to die salute you,” he would say with a big smile walking through the door. “Ave me!” was my dad’s answer.
In 2012, when I was 11 years old, my dad brought me to the world of motorcycle racing. There, he also became the one in charge: my coach, technician, and personal manager — 24 hours, seven days a week. Throughout the years, I got used to almost blindly trusting his decisions, and they never led me in the wrong direction.
2017 became my last year of competing in the Ukrainian Supermoto Championship. It was also the final year of high school, which meant that I would face an independent life quite soon. Maybe that is why that season had to start with a slip through my father’s guidance.
A rainy qualifying day opened the season on Friday, May 19, 2017. Surprisingly, on Saturday morning, we got a completely dry track and a buzzing pit lane with mechanics running around in a rush to switch the tires and bikes’ setups before racers arrive on track.
At some point, the dark grey clouds secured their positions above the track again, spreading the doubts about the set up for the race in every pilot’s box. Walking along the pit lane, I realized that most of my opponents’ motorcycles had rain tires. Inside the boxes, racers were switching helmets’ visors and knee sliders to the ones used during the rain.
My dad and I shared a quick conversation. “Everybody else is preparing for rain. This is our last chance to make the switch,” he said, raising the eyebrows and looking directly into my eyes. I reassured him that I would take a risk for a chance of an easy win in case of dry conditions.
Our box remained motionless. My dad took a stand in front of the entrance, looking at his phone and typing something from time to time. He seemed unbothered by all of the chaos happening around.
The first drops started falling on the track but were immediately drying out. Suddenly, I understood that it was less than 20 minutes before the race, and there was already no way to reverse the situation. Wearing all the equipment, I started dancing in front of the box.
The picture was spectacular: mechanics were making last checks on the bike, mixing and pouring the gas, taking the tire warmers off and me, moving in the weirdest possible ways while looking at the sky and muttering the anti-rain prayers inside the helmet.
Bikes were pulled out of the boxes one by one. Engines were roaring, joining each other in a symphony of reverbs from the concrete walls of the nearest buildings. My dad patted my shoulder. “Whatever happens, just be careful!” he shouted, leaning closer to the open visor.
I stopped my bike on the white line serving as a boundary of my starting spot. The judge was about to give a sign for a warmup lap when heavy rain fell on the track’s tarmac. I looked at my father, standing behind the fence of the starting grid, and said to myself, “I have no right to withdraw!”
I did not quit. But I fell twice during that race before eventually somehow crossing the finish line. Senior athletes came to our box to cheer me up, as most of them initially thought that I would back off and return to the box when the rain started. I was pleased by their attention but still waiting for my dad’s comment.
I felt suspicious about the absence of his judgment while packing as if his disapproval was about to be poured on me later. Unexpectedly, like the rain I just faced. But it did not come.
Our car exited the track’s territory and headed to the highway. Later my dad asked me to text my mom from his account, as he was busy driving. Unlocking his phone, I saw a page full of weather-radar apps, showing the most precise forecast possible. And I recalled an image of him standing near the box with a phone all the time.
A couple of days later, I got to know that my dad, who quit smoking when I was 7 years old, was borrowing cigarettes from one of the judges while the rain was taking racers down one by one. I realized that Saturday, May 20, 2017, was a challenge not only for me.
My dad knew it would most certainly rain at the time of the race. But he refused to be in charge of the decision this time. He let me do my rain dance. The first one out of many that I will have to do on my own in this life.
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Viktor Kharyton studies Journalism and Politics at the American University in Bulgaria. He thinks that personal narratives help people revisit their memories through a different angle.
