If Dirt Bikes Could Talk...

Well, thank God that’s finally done.

Tell me about it. I swear they’re getting worse. 

I get that father-son time is important, but I don’t know which is worse: the 64-year old who has technique but no fitness, or the thick-headed 42-year-old who can’t stay in the saddle.  

Same bony butt on both of them. 

Those hill climbs weren’t even that steep. The dad made his way up slow and steady. But that boy again…

Sigh, when will he ever learn?

Most of the time he was barely hanging on to the handlebars, legs pedaling on the ground. 

Amateur.

The rocks bounced him up too many times to count, so that my seat kept slamming into his groin. 

Ha! Serves him right!

A few groans later and he finally figured out how to keep his feet on the pegs and let me get him up the hill. 

Neither of them seem to realize it’s not the bike holding them back. Our engineering is worlds ahead of their riding.

Speaking of which, did you see him practicing wheelies along the trail?

No way.

I mean, honestly. Circus tricks are nice and all, but let’s keep them in the parking lot, shall we? 

No kidding. 

By the third hop, he had my front tire two feet off the trail and completely sideways. Sure enough, we came down hard and he went flying over the handlebars. 

What a dummy.

So there I was, lying on my side, back wheel spinning, leaking gas on the ground…

Honestly.

And he starts mumbling about a “stupid root”. 

You’re kidding.

Not a lot of brains in that boy’s head. 

It’s not the trail’s fault he wiped out again.

And all that wheelie practice didn’t make a lick of difference when it was actually needed! We rounded a hairpin and found a 20-inch log across the trail. No throttle, no hop. He just ran straight into it.

Ouch! I wondered what happened there. We came around the corner and found the two of you sprawled out on the ground.

I thought he bent my rim.

You poor girl.

Aren’t there courses to teach these basic skills?

Sigh, what I wouldn’t give for a half decent rider. 

I know, right?

There was that retired motocross guy. You could tell he knew what he was doing by the way he checked me out. Really gets the engine turning, if you know what I mean.

Now Katie, there’s no point eyeballing other riders. At least we get out regularly.

I know, I know. But to feel a smooth hand on my throttle… 

Tell me about it, that boy doesn't know a torque wrench from a ratchet. He nearly stripped my bolts! 

Honestly, kid, just let your dad do the wrenching.

I wish somebody would throw a socket on his nipple and wrench it around. That’d teach him.

Ha! Yazzie, you crack me up.

And now there’s talk of doing it all tomorrow. 

You know, they’re not the best dirt bikers in the world, but they’re ours. I know plenty of gals who barely get out twice a year.

Tough to complain when they love you so much.

At least they try. Our chains are greased every ride, fluids topped up, and we’re hosed down if there’s even a speck of dirt on our skidplates. 

Sigh, it could be a lot worse.

The old guy even hugs me goodnight sometimes. 

Yeah, you’re right. That boy is constantly checking me out, a half-grin plastered on his silly face. It’s cute. I’m sure I race through his head  all day.

Aw. That’s sweet.

 His wife barely gets that sort of attention.

Heehee! I’m sure she would love to sell you to the scrap yard for all the weekends he’s spent alone with you. 

What can I say? He’s a gear head. She knew that when she married him.

Well, we’d better get some rest. We’ll need to be on our game to keep those numskulls safe in the morning.

Our numskulls.

They’ll be dreaming about us tonight.

Boys. They can’t help themselves. 

And we’ll be dreaming about them.

Sigh, so true. Goodnight Katie.

Night, Yazzie.