You make so many sacrifices to make this racing thing work. Sometimes it’s a Sunday evening and you’ve loaded the trailer after late awards. It’s a middle of the night cross-country drive home fueled only by bitter gas station coffee so you can be at a back breaking job by 7:30am Monday.
There’s days that you wake early to tune up my bike before loading the farm truck to head state racing. The Thursday, Friday, Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons you’d like to be working on the house, watching the game, or simply relaxing - you’re standing, arms stretched over the fence, smile on your face because you want to be there, cheering me on, a wrench in one hand, shop rag spinning in the other.
Some years you’re wearing the same pair of ratty track shoes day after to day to make sure I have on the latest Alpinestars. Maybe you don’t get to be with Mom or MotoSis or the rest of the family because, well, We’re Gone Racin’.
It’s you and me against the world. We will ride with bikes packed like sardines in the van. It might not have AC but the radio works just fine. We don’t have GPS, and your old Rand McNally is tattered, but every sand track from Michigan to the Mississippi has a perfect red circle.