Racers Race

MOTOMOM
Apr 7
5 min read

Updated: Apr 22

"Everyone wants to be a bull rider until it’s time to be a bull rider." – JB Mauney

With the downpours doing their best to ruin any hope of a raceable surface, AMA Loretta Lynn Area Qualifier track crews from the Bible Belt through the East were left with a tough call.

A gate pick or a gamble.

Show up for your moto, fully geared and ready, then draw a straw—well, a computer-generated number—for your finishing position.

Or race.

That was the choice.

Let that hang for a second.

It’s a wild thought, isn’t it? All of this… to never roll into a gate.

We load our haulers on a Tuesday, drive halfway across God’s country, burn vacation time, eat gas station dinners, and hunker down for days in motel rooms that smell like wet gear. Then, finally, when the rain clears just enough and that call comes in… the offer is to not even start your bike.

Yes, when the moment finally comes—the one you’ve been waiting on all week—the question on the table isn’t “How did you ride?”

It’s “Do you even want to?”

Some folks didn’t. Some folks took the draw.

And honestly—I get it.

If you’ve been around long enough, you’ve seen it. Sometimes it’s the tiniest racers—the ones least equipped to handle the mud, the ones with legs too short to reach the ground—who line up first. No hesitation. No drama. Just kids with throttle hands and no sense of self-preservation.

It’s the adults who get cold feet.

We calculate the cleanup, the damage, the cost. We think about the hours it’ll take to strip every layer of clay off a subframe. We’re the ones doing the work, after all. So some moto parents shrug and say: why bother? Let’s take the gate pick, load up early, and go home with a clean bike and a dry trailer.

That’s one way to do it.

You take one look at that track and your brain starts running the numbers. Rebuilds. Wheel bearings. Radiators. Plastics you just installed last week. You picture your kid sliding down a jump, eating mud, crying halfway through lap two, and you think: “Why?”

Maybe your racer can’t even put their own bike on the stand yet. Maybe they’re still running training wheels on their personality. Maybe you’ve pressure-washed enough mud this month to fill a swimming pool. I see you. It makes sense.

And if you’re racing yourself? Your moto is probably stacked with guys who’ve got bad knees, real jobs, and kids back home. Maybe you’ve already paid your dues. Maybe you’re thinking, “We’re not at The Ranch yet. Why trash a bike over this?”

Fair.

But I’m gonna say it—what happens when you do get to Tennessee? You think you’re magically going to be ready for a condition you haven’t practiced in? You’re grinding motos in the heat all summer, but don’t forget—it rains nearly every year.

So then there’s that other voice.

That nagging, inconvenient, loud-as-hell voice that shows up when your boots are soaked and your hands are numb.

The voice that says: Racers race.

Not when it’s perfect.

When it’s real.

Racers race when it’s 72 and loamy and smells like sawdust dreams.

Racers race when the ruts are deep enough to swallow a swingarm and the corners look like soup bowls.

Racers race when the rain’s sideways, the gate drops through fog, and there’s more water in your knee brace socks than in your hydration pack.

That’s not just showing up.

That’s committing.

Mr. Moto and I didn’t have any little racers with us that weekend. Just us. No distractions. Just two overgrown track rats with wet shoes and a shared sense of stubborn. He’d already staged for one moto when the call came down: you can gate draw for a finish.

He came back quiet.

We sat there in the cold, mud-caked and stiff, like a couple of washed-up teenagers pretending we were still wild and fast.

When Mr. Moto’s second class came up, it was tense.

This was the class for him—the one he looks forward to. Full of fast guys. Former pros. Men with bills, back pain, and alarm clocks waiting for them Monday morning. The fastest riders he’ll face all season. Each one chasing a spot at the next level.

Well… sort of.

Maybe that’s why some of them didn’t want to race. They’ve already been there. Already done that. Maybe they figured they’d earned the right to skip the extra mess.

“I don’t want to be the guy that says we should race,” Mr. Moto said, waiting on the AMA call.

The line was quiet. Heavy.

Some mumbled, “I don’t care,” or “Whatever the group wants,” passing the buck.

Then, like the big-mouthed Big Momma moniker I’ve clearly earned, I piped up.

I was mid-bite of a concession stand funnel cake, powdered sugar all over my hoodie, when I said it:

“I thought we came here to race?”

Let’s be real—according to the AMA, I was Mr. Moto’s official mechanic for the weekend. So I had every right to give my (completely unqualified) mechanical advice:

You should race.

Five grown dudes turned around and glared like I’d just insulted their MawMaw. The kind of look that says, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Maybe I didn’t.

Or maybe I did.

Because right then, our AMA official Bruce called it over the buzz of clutches and tension:

“Start ‘em up, boys. We’re racing!”

And they did.

Because, as it turns out, I did know something all along—they’re racers.

That’s the whole point.

Everyone wants to be a racer—until it’s time to race.

It’s easy to talk like a racer. Easy to wear the gear. Post up Insta-bangers. Write a caption about training like you mean it.

But when it’s cold, and miserable, and the track is chewing up bikes and spitting them out?

That’s when you find out who the racers are.

Are you a racer… or are you just admiring the culture?

This isn’t about shaming anyone who protected their bike, their child, hell—even their sanity. This sport is expensive. Mud racing sucks. Sometimes, the smartest move is to call it and load up.

We respect that.

But if one guy at the end of the gate says, “I came to race my bike”—then we owe it to the soul of this sport to fire up and follow suit with a twinkle in your eye and a goddamn song in your heart.

That’s what we came for.

Even when it’s miserable.

Even when saying no saves you money.

Even when your boots are full of water and the finish line feels like it’s a mile further than it did yesterday.

Because—racers race.

See you Sunday,

MotoMom Courtney

Full photo gallery for the 4-State Moto Complex LLAQ is expected to be completed by Tuesday 4/8/25.

You may find images here: https://stagandbirdphoto.pixieset.com/4statemotollaq/