Movies and Motocross
Sometimes the best family memories come from the most spontaneous decisions.
Like loading up the kids on a school night and heading to the movie theater.
Responsible?
Probably not.
Worth it?
Absolutely.
We practically had the entire theater to ourselves as we put on our 3D glasses and settled in to watch the X Games.
The girls lasted... fairly well.
The boys?
They could have watched another three hours.
Especially Mr. B.T.C.
As I watched athletes launch themselves through the air, I found myself sitting on the edge of my seat.
Not because of the movie...
But because it reminded me of another season in our lives.
A season filled with dirt bikes.
Motocross tracks.
Saturday races.
And more adrenaline than I ever cared for.
I realized years ago that I married a certain breed of man.
The kind who loves speed.
Who isn't afraid of taking risks.
Who actually enjoys the smell of race fuel.
The kind who believes flying thirty feet through the air on a motorcycle sounds like a great way to spend a Saturday.
Apparently, some of our boys inherited those same genes.
For them, dirt biking wasn't just a hobby.
It was freedom.
It was competition.
It was excitement.
It was something they couldn't get enough of.
I enjoyed watching from the sidelines.
I loved taking pictures.
I loved seeing how much they loved it.
But if I'm being honest...
Every race day left a knot in my stomach.
You've probably heard the saying:
"There are two kinds of riders—those who have crashed and those who will."
I prayed we would somehow be the exception.
We weren't.
One phone call changed everything.
I was told my husband was being airlifted to the hospital.
In an instant, the excitement of racing disappeared.
Standing beside his hospital bed, looking at a shattered collarbone, five broken ribs, and a punctured lung, something inside me changed.
The thrill was gone.
All I could think about was how close we had come to losing someone we loved.
At my request, the bike was sold.
Just like that, racing became part of our past.
I know my husband still misses it.
Every now and then he'll show me pictures of bikes for sale or tell me about friends who still ride.
Part of him will probably always miss the track.
And part of me will probably always be grateful we walked away.
I've never quite understood thrill seekers.
How someone can crash, get hurt, heal... and then climb right back on.
Whether it's a dirt bike...
A snowboard...
A skateboard...
Or anything else that gets the adrenaline pumping.
I suppose that's why opposites attract.
He's the adventurer.
I'm the one praying from the sidelines.
Thankfully, we balance each other.
And while the racing days may be behind us...
The memories certainly aren't.
Sometimes I look back through these photographs and smile.
They remind me of a season filled with excitement, friendships, and unforgettable Saturdays.
Bike #318.
Our anniversary date.
A number that will always mean more to us than just the one printed on the front of a motorcycle.
And judging by the smile on our son's face...
It looks like a little of his dad's adventurous spirit lives on after all.
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