Twist the Throttle, but Carry the Weight

This past weekend, my husband lined up at Spring Creek MX in Millville, MN. It didn’t go his way.

He’s been grinding for this for months — really, since before Christmas — training in the cold, riding when most would rest, pushing himself for one goal: to line up at one of the highest amateur levels in motocross. By the numbers, he shouldn’t have had a shot. He didn’t grow up racing. He didn’t come up through the ranks. He started racing six years ago — six years ago. Some of the guys he lined up with were still racing the best pros in the country back then, rounding out decades long careers.

But he made it anyway. Earned that gate pick. Belonged there.

Until it all came undone.

Friday, a brutal crash in practice. Saturday, he gritted through the pain, because that’s who he is. But by the final moto, a first-turn pileup and a hard hit to the abdomen sent him straight to the hospital as soon as we could pack up and be back in KC. The day was over. The weekend was over. And the dream — this particular dream — ended right there in the sand.

There won’t be another try.

To attempt it again now would be reckless. Not just to him, but to every other rider who expects the people next to them to have put in the work — on the bike and on themselves — to race clean, race hard, and race safe, and he has too much respect for this sport, and those in it, to take that lightly.

So this road ends here.

But standing at the ropes, watching grown men line up moto after moto, I couldn’t help but see the bigger picture. The vet classes are full of motocross men — still just boys at heart — who sacrifice so much to be there. It’s different when it’s your kid you’re hauling to the track. But when it’s your husband, your partner, your dad, your brother... it’s different.

Because they’re the ones counted on Monday morning. They’re the ones loading into work trucks and construction sites in fluorescent shirts and worn-out boots. The same hands twisting throttles on weekends are the ones turning wrenches, flipping timecards, and carrying the weight of everything that keeps the lights on.

These guys — these vet-class warriors — they don’t get enough credit.

It’s admirable. It’s moving. It’s real. To see someone chase something like that, with no promise of a podium, no guarantee of glory. Just a dream. A fire in the chest. A drive to get one more gate, one more lap, one more shot at flying.

These racers - they’re still kids in the sandbox. The bikes just got bigger. The stakes just got higher. But the smiles? Somehow, still just as wide.

So here’s to the ones still chasing it. The dads. The husbands. The grandpas. Here’s to the ones scraping knuckles in the garage and scrubbing speed on the track. Whether you're chasing a ticket to Tennessee or just a damn good weekend, your commitment is no less inspiring than the kids living full-time at training facilities.

Because we know there’s a hell of a lot more riding on that bike than just you.

Proud of you all, especially that number 91.

-MotoMom Court

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