Tricky Tracks
Cole
Raymond James Stadium | Tampa, Florida
I lined up at the starting gate. Eager. I could already feel the adrenaline pulsing through my system.
Even in a heat race, it was my favorite thing to do in the whole world.
Ride. Compete. I wanted to be the best, and this year had started out great.
I was third in points, but the gap between Tate and Chad and I was small.
Six races remained after Tampa. It was anyone’s championship to win, and I wanted it.
I could taste it, and it tasted like dirt.
I gripped the throttle and brake. I leaned forward, anticipating. Two fingers on the clutch. Both feet touched the ground in front of the footpegs. Balanced. Perfect. The gate right in front of my tire. I waited. Concentrating.
The gate dropped.
I leaned forward and took off.
Holeshot. I knew it. I was in front. I didn’t bother looking back to see who was behind, who was challenging. It didn’t matter. I stayed on the throttle.
I liked this track. It was technical and challenging. My practice and qualifying had gone well. As long as I could keep it together through the sand, I’d be fine. The shifting sand kept it interesting through that section, but I was confident. More than confident.
Three laps in and my mechanic, Andy, held up a sign. #1 Keep Going 2.9
That meant the next guy behind me was nearly three seconds back. I was fine. No way I was losing this heat.
Tate pulled quads in the first heat.
If I wanted to win the Main Event, I’d have to step my shit up. Like Tate.
On the next lap, into the rhythm section, before the sandpit, I pulled a triple first and then slowed my breathing and went to pull that quad. I could do it.
I didn’t.
I came up short, slamming the front tire into the front of the fourth jump.
The bike flipped. Sky. Dirt. Pain.
The bike slammed into my arm and crushed my hand.
Tears streamed down my face, but it hurt to sob. The medics flagged the other riders around me.
Everything hurt. My hip. My leg. My hand.
I couldn’t move my fingers. I wasn’t sure what hurt worse, my hand, or my hip.
The world blurred. I might have passed out.
Dirt in my face, in my eyes.
Finally, I was being moved off the track. My season was over. I prayed hard it wouldn’t end my career. It couldn’t. If I didn’t have Supercross...
I couldn’t even think about it.
In the medic truck, a nurse started an IV, checked my blood pressure and pulse. He was nice and efficient and didn’t make small talk or inconsequential chatter. Something I was thankful for. I didn’t want to chitchat. I wanted answers. Quick.
It didn’t take long before the doctor came in. “Hey, Cole. I’m Doctor Tom. What the heck did you do?” Everyone knew who he was. He was the director of the medical unit.
“Fucked up.” I could hardly speak without a sob coming from my mouth.
“Okay, hold tight. We’re gonna get some X-rays. Maybe an ultrasound. What hurts the most?”
I groaned. “Don’t know. Arm? My hand? Hip?”
“We’ll get that looked at and see if we can get some pain meds for you, okay?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to talk about it. I wanted it done. Doctor Tom patted my shoulder. “Ken is going to take care of that. I’m going to talk with Vick. Then I’ll be back, and we’ll talk again, all right?”
Another nod. I hated to hear what Vick would say about it. He was the team manager. He kept things running smoothly. He’d also saved my ass more times than I could count. We’d moved to a good place, but I could have been wrong about that.
Fuckin’ quads.
My contract was up for renewal at the end of the season. I could be out of a fuckin’ job after all, despite all my good behavior.
“Fuckin’ sucks,” I mumbled as the nurse, Ken, came back in.
“It may not be so bad. Let’s get it checked out.”