The Hardest Part of the Ride

There’s a silence in a hospital room that’s unlike any other. A quiet that hums with the absence of roaring engines, the rush of wind, the excited chatter of the pits. It’s the kind of silence that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin.

It has been almost a week since the crash. Long days and longer nights of watching machines hooked to my child. Days of gripping onto the edges of a hospital bed, running a hand over busted bones, wondering about the injuries we cannot see, wiping away tears they try to hide. Days of asking him "how are you feeling now?" And honestly - we're the lucky ones.

This is the part of motocross they don’t put in the highlight reels.

Motocross is a sport for the fearless. For the ones who see a rutted-out, whooped-to-hell track and think, "Yeah, I can hit that faster." It’s for the kids who live in the space between speed and air, for the parents who live with the knowledge that every gate drop could change everything. And yet, we come back. Again and again.

Because it’s not just a sport. It’s a way of life.

The Push and the Pull

As a parent, your instinct is to protect. To keep them safe, to shield them from pain, from fear, from failure. But in motocross, protecting them doesn’t mean keeping them away from danger. It means preparing them to face it head-on.

Because fear is the real enemy. Not a broken femur, not a shattered collarbone, not a concussion that keeps them out of school for a month. It’s fear that will steal everything from them if you let it. And we won’t let it.

We teach them how to brace for impact. How to shake off the dirt and stand up before the corner marshals can reach them. How to look at a section that took them down and roll back up to it with determination instead of doubt.

We don’t tell them, "Maybe this sport isn’t for you." We tell them, "You’re stronger than this. You’re coming back."

And that’s the hardest part of being a motocross parent.

Watching your child broken, vulnerable, hurting. Watching them struggle to move a body that, just days ago, was flying over triples and scrubbing off faces. Watching them wrestle with the weight of a setback. And then, knowing that the right thing to do—the only thing to do—is to push them back towards the very thing that put them here.

The Weight of Time Off the Bike

For them, the fear isn’t about the next crash. It’s about the weeks or months lost. The strength fading in muscles that worked so hard to get there. The competitors who are still training, still improving, still shaving seconds off their lap times while they’re stuck in bed, staring at a ceiling.

It’s not the pain that makes them cry in the middle of the night. It’s the fear of falling behind.

In those moments, you realize just how different these kids are from the rest of the world.

Most kids get injured and think, "I never want to do that again." Ours think, "How soon can I get back?"

The doctors say three months. The physical therapist says four or five. These kids look you dead in the eyes and say, "I can't wait that long."

And as much as you want to tell them to take it slow, to heal fully, to be smart—you also admire the hell out of them.

Because they don’t just want to ride. They need to.

More Than a Sport, More Than a Choice

If you’ve never lived this life, you won’t understand.

You’ll think, "Why let them do this if it’s so dangerous?" You’ll ask, "Wouldn’t it be easier to pick a sport where injuries are less common?" You’ll assume that we push them because we want to live vicariously through their talent.

But that’s not it.

We don’t choose this life for them. They choose it for themselves. We're just the ones who make it possible.

We drive the late nights to tracks in the middle of nowhere. We spend weekends covered in sweat and dust, standing next to sweaty, dirt-covered kids who are smiling so big you wonder how their faces don’t split. We memorize the smell of race gas, the sound of chain slap, the feel of adrenaline even though we’re the ones standing still.

We also sit in ER waiting rooms. We hold hands through MRI results. We drive home with an empty bike in the trailer, wondering if this time is going to be the time that breaks them—not physically, but mentally.

And every time, they prove us wrong.

They get back on the bike.

They push through the recovery, through the frustration of not being able to ride at full strength, through the doubts and the setbacks.

They come back faster.

Because this sport doesn’t break them. It builds them.

The Next Gate Drop

Right now, we’re in the hard part. The waiting. The healing. The sitting still when all they want to do is move.

But we know how this ends.

The first tentative lap back. The first time they hit a jump and remember what it feels like to fly. The first holeshot after recovery, that instant when it’s just them, the machine, and the track ahead.

And us, standing on the sidelines, heart in our throat, knowing we’ll never stop worrying. Never stop feeling that split-second panic every time the gate drops.

But also knowing we’d never, EVER take this away from them.

Because this is who they are.

Because motocross isn’t just about riding.

It’s about getting back up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until the only thing left in their mind is the ride.

And we will always be there for that.

See you Sunday.

-MotoMom Court