Motocross has entered our family life, much to my protest. It started with my 13-year-old son Nelson asking to race his four-wheeler. When I said no, he narrowed his mission: just one race? When I still said no, he went one smaller: one race and he would come in last.
It’s hard to deny someone who’s willing to throw away his hopes just for a taste of the dream.
That was in May. Since then, we’ve been to several races, and his father is currently building him a motocross track on our property, going for Father of the Year. Things, clearly, have escalated. I realized soon enough that I was going to have to get behind this sport after all.
Put to the test
Case in point: Nelson and I just spent 12 hours at a motocross event. Just us two. Nelson wanted to do the last race of the season, but Tim was going to be out of town. Despite my misgivings, I knew this was my moment. I could come out of this as the Mother of the Year.
Giving myself a pep talk, I decided I could do this. I could drive a truck. I could help unload a quad. I could hang with the guys, in the dirt and dust. No problem, I could even pass for one of the boys in my current state of makeup.
We arrived at noon and stayed until nearly midnight. The afternoon unfolded nicely. First, hours of practice and then, two races late at night.
But, I was on deadline for this issue. So, was I surprised to find there was no cell signal in the middle of a field off a dirt road miles from a tiny Michigan town? Of course I wasn’t.
However, I could get a signal if I sat by this one tree in a camping chair with an aluminum frame. Was I conducting radio waves? Electricity? I couldn’t be sure, but if I stood up or the tree branches blew east instead of west, I was off the grid. I knew I was an awful blight to the atmosphere, on my laptop, in country boy heaven.
But what could I do? I had an issue to pull together and it was the big year-end race. I swallowed my pride, sent Nelson out to practice, and exposed my laptop to adverse conditions. All for the love of my child, in my bid for Mother of the Year.
The race
His first race started at my bedtime: 9 p.m. There were huge lights overhead and mud flying below. The riders all looked the same: brown. I was nervous and scared and anxious, all alone in the stands while Nelson raced his heart out, loving every minute of it. He had nerves of steel. Meanwhile, it was the longest three laps of my mothering life.
But he rocked it out, and when he came off the track, I tried to offer some meaningful feedback, since his dad wasn’t there to do so. Everyone else was commenting on engines and tires, but I offered this tidbit: “It’s a good thing you had your headlights on!”
A small hesitation in the hubbub as Nelson gave me a too-long stare, a moment where he possibly pretended I wasn’t his.
Finally, this: “My lights were off.”
So.
I’m pleased to report that I got excellent footage of another rider.
The second race
By 11 p.m., Nelson still had one race left to do, and I was fried. I got in the truck and refused to get out. I was done.
I was on the 11th hour of sitting in an open field exposed to the elements like my laptop, my cell signal had blown away and the year-end motocross party had built into an all-out deafening roar. I was tired, dirty and couldn’t pick my own son out of the crowd. I was starting to think that this was beyond my mom powers.
Nelson popped up outside the truck window just then. Smashed his face on the glass. “COME ON, MOM!” He was still all-in, raring to go.
I didn’t open my window; I locked the doors. “I’M LEAVING WITHOUT YOU.”
He gave me a thumbs-up and left, into the night. And didn’t come back. And it was getting late. And I found myself in a very dark truck in the middle of a bunch of men, by myself, no flashlight and no will left to survive.
That’s when I realized he must be at the start line, and I was going to miss his race… AGAIN. Worse, I had missed the opportunity to give him my usual racing tips of “Live” and “Come in last.”
I ran over to the track and forced my 43-year-old eyes to perform like never before. It was time to be the ultimate mom, even as my heart raced with fear for him. But I found him on the start line just in time and I filmed him, every turn, every near miss, every jump. Yes, there he was! I was getting it all!
I couldn’t wait to show Nelson the footage, especially after he’d avoided dying without even being told to do so.
But when he looked at the video, he said the usual: “That’s not me, Mom.”
“Yes it is!” I screeched.
“No, that’s me.” He was right behind the guy I had filmed, also dressed in mud.
“Close enough,” I said. “GET IN THE TRUCK.”
After loading the quad, eating a giant food-truck pretzel and heading out for a two-hour drive home at midnight, I just had to ask, “Who’s the Mother of the Year now?”
His response?
“Still Dad.”