Motocross Brother (Touchdown Edition)

Chapter 1: No Escape

A few months ago, Big Joe and a couple of older kids bet me twenty dollars that I wouldn't ride my bicycle down Miner's Cliff. I got the price up to a hundred before I did it. I would have made it--if not for a jagged rock that popped my tire about halfway down. The back of my bike bucked me like a crazed bull and I bounced off my seat ten feet into the air. The guys watching from the top of the hill were sure I was a goner.

Predictably, the rocky ground below wrecked my bike. My head didn't fare much better. I ended up with ten stitches, along with a permanent funny-looking bald spot. Despite winning the hundred dollar bet, I ended up spending two hundred fixing my bike. If I had to do it all over again, I'd still take the bet. I'd just be sure to dodge the pointy rocks.

A few months later, I got the chance to try out my newly repaired mountain bike. It was a hot day in the middle of June. This day was special because it was the last day of school for the year. Eighth grade was finally over. I couldn't have been more excited. I was thirteen years old, staring at a full summer of lazy days ahead.

I sat on my bike, looking across my front yard at my mother's dented Toyota. I focused on a curved wooden take-off ramp I'd rested against the front bumper of Mom's car. I was sure I could make it over the car. I had definitely jumped my bike farther and higher than this before. There wasn't much distance to pick up speed, but the downhill slope leading to the driveway--plus the ramp--would help me get major air. There was no sign of my mother, which was definitely a good thing. I just finished being grounded for my last stunt, three days earlier. I walked my bike up to the take-off point, about seventy-five yards from the car. "You can do it, Jason! Show these suckers how you fly," yelled Big Joe, my best friend and stunt-promoter.

I never did stunts without an audience. A group of eight kids from around the neighborhood waited to see if I was going to crash. I wiped my brow as if I was sweating with fear. Then I let my arms hang down loose and shook them. Finally, I took a few deep breaths, as if I was gathering up my courage. I always gave my fans a show.

"Your butt is going to have an extra crack in it after this jump," somebody yelled.

I laughed under my breath and strapped on my helmet. Then I started down across the front lawn, pedaling hard and shifting up twice for more speed. Just as I got close to the car, I clamped on the brakes and came to a stop. The crowd went crazy, yelling with disappointment.

"Jason," Joe called out, "if you can't do it, just forget about it." This got the crowd screaming louder. Big Joe was always there to pump everyone up. He knew how much I loved putting on a good show, and he was a big part of the theatrics.

I pedaled back up to the top of the hill, and backed my bike into some weedy bushes to get a few more feet to pick up speed. Then I took off. I started pedaling across the lawn. Just as I was about to hit the ramp I saw my mother peaking her head out of the front window of my house. Her mouth dropped open when she saw me go airborne.

While flying through the air, I pulled the bike up underneath me and sailed over the car's roof. A second later, I landed with a thump. The crowd cheered. For the moment, I felt awesome. I circled around them, riding a wheelie and waving. I loved doing stunts like this. They made me feel like I was somebody special. Other times in my life, I felt angry and alone. My father left when I was a baby, so it had just been Mom and me ever since, and it sucked big time. She's so overprotective and is always on my back about something. When I did my stunts, though, and all eyes were on me, everything felt okay. It was as if my problems didn't exist for a moment. But then, just as suddenly, they would reappear...

As I circled through the crowd, slapping people five and bumping knuckles, the front door of my house flew open. All my admirers took off running. "Jason, get in this house right now!" My mother screamed in her loudest voice. "Are you trying to kill yourself? Are you crazy?"

"No. Gotta go, Mom!" Then I turned my back to her, pedaling hard and fast in the opposite direction. I knew it was the wrong thing to do. I knew it would mean another punishment, but I just couldn't deal with her right then. "Jason! Get back here!"

Mom kept yelling and I kept pedaling. With Mom still shouting behind us, Big Joe and I headed toward the Jensen Dairy Farm. Sweat covered our faces as we made our way up steep hills, over a small creek, and through the rough terrain that stretched as far as you could see in every direction.

We lived in Woodland, California, a town about thirty minutes from Sacramento. The town was about average size for a suburb. I'd lived there for most of my life, though I was born in Iowa. Every time I got to thinking that Woodland sucked, I remembered what it was like in Iowa. Well, at least I don't live in a giant cornfield anymore.

About an hour later, completely exhausted, Joe and I began to hear familiar buzzing noises in the distance. The sound was music to our ears and awoke our tired legs right away. We both started pedaling faster as we made a right turn down a muddy road, leading to Jensen's Dairy. This 150-acre farm used to be known throughout the area for the fresh milk their cows produced. Nowadays, Old Man Jensen is better known for the awesome motocross track he built on the edge of his property. Races were held there weekly. I showed up every chance I could. "They're racing today," I said to Joe as we bumped along toward the track. "You think so, genius?" he spoke sarcastically.

We passed cows chewing on grass, and Big Joe tried to run over a chicken. When it flew up and touched his face, Joe freaked out. He lost control and fell off his bike, landing head first in a pile of cow crap. It was awesome. I never laughed so hard in my life. Honestly.

Five minutes later, we were among the trailers, trucks, and motorcycles at the track--my favorite place in the world. The track was a giant oval with bumps, hills, jumps, and nasty turns for riders to navigate. In this particular race, the riders were all over eighteen and some of the best in the area. I couldn't believe how awesome these guys were! The bikes they rode were amazing, too.

Joe and I headed toward the finish line--the best place to view the action. A chain link fence held back the people watching, so that nobody got too close. In front of the finish line was a huge tabletop jump. The take-off ramp was a curved wall of dirt as high as a garage. At the top of the ramp, the dirt leveled out for about sixty feet. We held onto the fence and stared as the riders sailed high and far over the jump. As I watched them soar through the air, I realized what a joke my teeny jump over Mom's car was. Bike jumps are nothing compared to motocross jumps.

Once they landed, they'd head down the straightaway to the finish line with dirt spitting from their back tires. My skin tingled with excitement as I watched. I imagined myself racing at the front of the pack of riders. I imagined kicking dirt back at the competition. Someday, I thought.

When I was younger, I would always try to convince Mom to buy me a motorcycle. Her answer included three no's: no money, no time, no way. Eventually, I just stopped asking. Still, every night, I would dream about riding around that track on the fastest motocross bike in the world. Something about the sport of motocross just spoke to me. I believed it was my destiny to be a pro some day. Yeah, I'd have to get on a motorcycle and practice first. I was sure it would all happen eventually--somehow.

I looked over at Big Joe. "You know, if I ever got the chance to ride--"

He cut me off. "I've heard this a hundred times, Jas. You'd be the fastest guy out there." He laughed at me. "Riding a motorcycle and riding your bike ain't the same thing."

"I know that. You don't think I know that?"

Joe and I spent the next few hours watching the races in silence. Finally, as the sun began to dip in the sky, we hopped on our bikes and headed home. The screen door squeaked as I opened the back door and stepped into our tiny kitchen. It was just after seven o'clock, and from the look of things, Mom had already eaten dinner. Great, I thought, as I walked over to the fridge in search of some food.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed an airplane ticket sitting face up on the table. I picked it up. It was one-way--from Sacramento to Des Moines. My heart started to beat quicker inside of my chest. My father lived outside of Des Moines, Iowa, and thoughts of him made my blood boil. Who's going to Iowa? I wondered.

Just then, Mom walked in the room.

"Is there any food in this house?" I asked in a nasty voice.

"I left you a plate of lasagna in the fridge. Just pop it in the microwave for a minute." Mom crossed her arms, obviously still upset with me from earlier. "Thanks." I walked toward the fridge, then I blurted out, "Why are you going to Iowa?"

"I'm not." She paused before looking into my eyes. "You are. You're going to spend the summer with your father."

"Wrong!" I said, mimicking a buzzing sound, as if she had given the wrong answer. "Try again, please, the bonus round is worth double." My comments were dripping with sarcasm. I popped the lasagna in the microwave. "I'm not going anywhere. Sorry you wasted your money on the ticket." I tossed it back onto the table.

"Yes, you are." The look on her face was determined.

I stared at her angrily. I wasn't going to Iowa. Joe and I had plans to expand our stunt show into the next town. Plus, there was no way I was going to live with my father, his wife, and their jerky son for three months.

I tried to soften my tone and get on Mom's good side. "I don't want to be around him, Mom. Can't you understand that? I'll pay you back for the ticket."

Mom looked into my eyes as if she were really thinking about it. She knew how I felt about my father. She remembered the last time I'd seen him. Mom and I traveled to Iowa five years earlier, when I was eight. The trip was awful. Iowa was awful, nothing but corn fields, hot dusty roads, and flies. Mom tried to make me hang out with my half-brother, John, because Dad didn't seem at all interested in me. John was only two years younger than me, but he barely spoke.

He wouldn't move six inches from his mother's side the entire time. How can I respect a total wimp like that? How can Mom expect me to spend my summer with him?

The worst part was that John wasn't half as bad as my father. I was in Iowa for three days. He barely even looked at me. He seemed more interested in drinking beer. I left his house crying and have never seen him since. Some father.

Mom used to try and make me talk to him on the telephone every week. I was mean to him when he called, though. Eventually, he stopped calling as much. Now he pretty much just calls on my birthday. I answer his stupid questions with one-word answers, thank him for the stupid gifts he sends, and get off the phone as quickly as I can.

Mom held the plane ticket in her hand and passed it back over to me. "Your brother is excited about you coming out. Your Dad's a different person now, Jas. You need him in your life. Whatever I'm doing for you isn't working. You're out of control. I can't do this alone anymore." I saw the tears in her eyes and it made me feel pretty bad.

Then she went on and on about how much my father had changed. For the thousandth time, I heard about how he quit drinking and how he desperately wanted me back in his life. As I listened, I had mixed feelings. Part of me hated the guy. It was easy to do. He wasn't there to show me that he was any different than I imagined him to be. I blamed everything bad in my life on him. If we couldn't afford something I wanted, it was his fault because he left us. If I saw my friends doing something fun with their fathers and I couldn't, it was his fault because he wasn't there.

Another part wanted to like him--to love him like a son should love a father. But I couldn't. I didn't care if he wanted me back in his life. In my mind, my father was a no-good drunk, and I wasn't going to spend my summer with him or a half-brother who was a total dork.

The microwave oven beeped, but I was no longer hungry. In a final effort to guilt my mother into letting me stay, I asked her, "Why are you sending me there? Don't you love me?"

"Of course I love you," she answered. "That's why I'm sending you. I'm tired of you getting into trouble. I'm tired of you being disrespectful. I'm tired of your lying. I called your father and told him I didn't know what to do with you anymore. He said he would take care of you for the summer. He said he owed it to you."

"He doesn't owe me a thing!" I screamed and slammed my bedroom door behind me. Mom scolded me from the other side of the door. "What did I say about slamming doors in this house?" I didn't answer. "You're too big for me to drag to the airport, but you're not too big for George." At that moment, Lieutenant George O'Leary barged into my room. George is the lame cop that has been dating Mom for about five years. He's always trying to fill in as my dad. I've been working for years to keep Mom and George apart.

As he stood staring at me in the doorway, I smirked. I couldn't help myself. Last week, Joe and I snuck up to his police car while it was parked outside of my house. We emptied two cans of shaving cream into the front seat through an open window. Then we watched from behind a parked car. When George came out and saw it, his face was priceless. Our sides hurt from laughing so hard.

Mom came into my room and stood behind George, who was massive, well over six feet tall. "I have to work tomorrow, so George will take you to the airport and make sure you get on the plane." Mom always had to work. "I'm sorry, Jason." "I'll see you in the morning," George said.

Finally, George and Mom left me alone in my room. My packed duffle bag was sitting on the bed. I looked through it and pulled out four pairs of pants that didn't fit anymore. I had grown almost three inches in the last year. At five foot six, when I stood face-to-face with my mother, she no longer looked me in the eye.

After a quick shower, I toweled off in front of the mirror. In the dim light of the small bathroom, I saw that the shadow below my nose was getting darker. Maybe it's time to get a razor and start shaving, I thought. Four new zits were pushing up on my forehead and my light brown hair was changing to its usual summer blond color. The old fat around my middle had faded away during my last growth spurt. I could see shadowy shapes of muscles on my arms, shoulders, and chest.

As I looked at myself, I kind of understood why Mom was sending me away. I was starting to look more like a man, but I wasn't acting like one. This thought was quickly replaced with a different one. I'm a kid, so who cares? I'm not going to Iowa.

I knew that all I had to do was duck out of the house and miss the flight. Big Joe and I would go camping and all would be back to normal. I grabbed my cell phone and quickly sent Joe a text message: "meet me campgrounds 3:30." At three o'clock in the morning I slowly opened my bedroom door. All was silent and dark--no birds, no TV, no noise. My door made one little creak. I tiptoed down the hallway to the front door. Very slowly, I turned the knob. As I planted my right foot outside, a deep voice spoke from behind my head. "Going somewhere, Jason?"

I almost jumped out of my pants. George's voice scared the breath out of me. Only my toes touched the floor as I tried to run. George grabbed me and lifted me up by my belt. I wasn't going to meet Big Joe. I was going to Iowa.