An Un-cool Girl at Heart
I may have never realized my potential as a go-kart racing champion, but I did get to squeeze in a few hours of cool girl time every weekend during my awkward teen years. My mom and dad are somewhat legendary for their pre-children dune buggy-riding, scuba-diving and other forms of extreme sports-ing years. When my brother and I had gotten “old enough,” my dad was ready to jump back in the Xtreme saddle. Enter dirt bikes.
If you read my last story, Second to One: An Asymmetrical Sibling Rivalry, it won’t surprise you to learn that the day we brought home three Honda dirt bikes, my brother was already getting calls from Red Bull offering him a lucrative endorsement deal for his expert and stylish riding skills. While he was popping wheelies and doing handlebar handstands, I was pulling back the throttle with my feet planted firmly on the ground as my bike went flying out from under me. I landed on my ass before I realized what had happened, and my bike crashed into the sand 15 feet ahead. That was day one.
On day two (and three, and four), I wanted to quit. With each failed attempt of riding my new bike, I was scared and mortified beyond comprehension. I hated the idea of subjecting myself to repeated embarrassment, not to mention the actual danger of injury through my inept riding ability. But, I desperately wanted to be cool. And I also felt guilty for wanting to quit the hobby my dad had spent a lot of money on. If I had told him I didn’t like it, he would have let me quit. But, I persisted, partly out of guilt, partly because I didn’t want to admit that I was afraid, but mostly because riding a dirt bike at 15 was badass. To teach me to ride, my dad enlisted an old neighbor who had been a lifetime motorcyclist. He brought his 11-year old daughter to our “group training session” (read: everyone watching as I fell off my bike repeatedly). She was already an expert at this dirt bike thing. Internal shrieks were the sole inner monologue that afternoon.
However, it turns out that deeply suppressing your fears and swallowing what little dignity you’ve attained as a teenaged girl can be beneficial in select situations. Despite the difficulties of staying upright in Florida’s signature sugar sand, I learned to ride in first gear without falling down after steady practice. That tricky shifting gears business was another story. Not only did I have no desire to go faster than what’s possible within the safe space of first gear, let’s just say ya girl is not the most coordinated in the bunch. Figuring out how to hold down the clutch while simultaneously nudging the shifter with my toe while also trying not to crash into objects and/or people was not in my wheelhouse. The stick shift learning curve caused lots of angst, tears, and engine stalls. Helmets were thrown, tires kicked, dirt punched. Cool girl, I was not.
But, if there was anything that would redeem my sullen attitude about riding dirt bikes, it was fashion. And being decked out in dirt bike riding gear is something to behold. Boots with lots of latches and hooks, fancy gloves, special riding pants and matching long sleeve shirts, a helmet that says “If I wasn’t wearing this and I fell off, I would 100% sustain brain damage,” and a chest protector! It was like playing dress up. There may have been no hope had it not been for the gear.
Once I could ride without falling off and at least up through third gear, my dad took us to ride at the Croom Motorcycle Area in Withlacoochee State Forest, Florida. This was the big leagues. My mantra for these first few trips to Croom was mentally repeating “Just don’t fall off” to myself. Up until this point, fun was not the goal of these outings, it was survival. If I didn’t fall down, crash or cause damage to property or humans, I considered it a success.
Then something changed. After a few weekends at Croom, I became fearless. Cycling through gears like a madwoman, speeding around tight curves and accelerating through hills became second nature. We found a strip of wide, straight-shot trail one afternoon, and I opened up fourth gear for the first time. It felt like I was traveling a hundred miles an hour, and I forgot all about falling off and hand-eye-foot coordination and being scared. It was magical.
And then I crashed full-speed into a tree. Not on the wide open trail, but some time later, in the woods, after I’d gotten cocky and comfortable with my skills. A large oak tree sat at the fork of a trail splitting in two, each side of the trail snaking around the trunk. Always the middle rider so that I didn’t get left behind, but also because I couldn’t be trusted yet as the leader, I’d had ample time to see the tree and watch my brother turn to the right to continue on the trail. I’m not sure what happened, but something did not compute, because I did not turn, nor did I slow down. Unlike that first day, suddenly I went flying forward instead of the bike, sailing through the air and landing head first in the dirt.
Later, my dad would tell me that he almost had a heart attack at that moment, certain that I had broken my neck or sustained a brain injury. Not only was he worried about me, but also what was he going to say to my mother about this dangerous hobby he had enlisted her children in. There was only one possible outcome: we would never ride dirt bikes (or leave the house) again.
After recovering from the mild disorientation of becoming a human projectile, I stood up and brushed my shoulders off (literally). I was fine.
After assuring my dad that I really was fine, I picked up my bike, kick-started it, and said, “Well… let’s go!”
Cool girl achievement unlocked. A milestone made possible by a dad who made me do scary cool things.
This is part of an ongoing series from the publication Recall: True stories of parents doing it right. Read more about it in my intro piece. Or check out another story:
