Other People's Kids


Lots of sports have those moms that always like to be the head hen. They’re usually the ones in charge of the PTA, the ones that bring the juices to T-Ball practice, and they are often found signing up as head room-parent in the classroom. They like to be seen doing for others.

But then there is the MotoMom. This weekend I watched two different moms silently help my racers. Be it handing off waters, “Did you drink yet? How much have you peed?” Or holding the umbrella just enough to provide enough shade for both her MotoKid and mine, I know the squad of MotoMoms have my back. I know these women fly under the radar, not looking for pats on the back or OMGYOURESOAMAZINGYOURETHEBESTMOMEVER.

I’d call it a village but we are more like a coven. These moms, some I’ve know for years, the length of my racer’s lives plus some. Others… others I don’t even know their names. I love those ones too. The women I can count on to tell my PW dude to lay off the throttle on the gravel in the pit to the ones that will scramble to the aid of my racer when he gets drug literally by the pants leg up a jump face. They will hurdle the fences with me. They will pick up a 220lb 250f from the side of the track and will put an 85 back on the stand before I can get to my pit.

I love the MotoMoms that know exactly what I mean when I say stop being a “Mothertruckin’ puss, you ain’t injured, it just hurt. Get back on the bike,” They hear what translates to ‘I am terrified you could have been maimed but you weren’t so you need to keep going and I love you.’ They nod in approval. I hear you, Momma, I see you. I’m with you.

These MotoMoms are the ones that welcome mine into their trailer, with a healthy dose of Take-off-your-boots-and-here-have-a-sandwich between motos. These Moms know that Other People’s Kids aren’t really other people’s kids, but an extension of their own family.

We live as sister wives in traveling communes. We look after one another and the babies that play in the dirt both with their fingers and motorcycles. We can count on one another to treat our kids just like they would theirs. Sometimes that is big hugs, hi-fives and lots of “Atta boys,” and sometimes that means another MotoMom asking my son “What in the HELL were you thinking? You know better.” Because I can count on talking to the other track rats the same as I speak with my own spawn. It might be littered with verbal lashings or I love yous, and both are meant to be taken with the same levity.

Motocross has given my family a great extension. It’s very likely if you’re reading this there is much less than seven degrees of separation between you and I. You can be a Moto Mom from the PNW, or a hare scramble mother in Georgia. You are an enduro mom in Southern Utah and a flat track momma in Chicago. We are all the same. We love our kids, we want the successes for them AND their friends. I see you, and I thank you for it.

For the family of moms and friends we’ve made along the way: Every grape you’ve handed to my kids, every popsicle, every word of encouragement, every bottle of water, every time you have held an umbrella, every time you picked up a bike or wiped a nose or bandaged a bump or scolded them - they needed it. I needed it, thank you.

I thank you, MotoMom, for treating my kids like they are yours, and I promise to keep treating yours like mine. We know that we are the soul of racing families, blood, breath and otherwise.

Other People’s Kids don’t exist in motocross. Those babies, they’re all mine. Those babies, they are all ours.

See You Sunday,

MotoMom