Hutton watching his buddies at Tumbling Shoals, ArkansasMy 13-year old son, Hutton, has become an avid motocross rider. After a few years of testing out hobbies such as fishing and music, he’s finally found something he loves. The speed, the competition, the dirt, and the jumps all appeal to him in some natural way much more than his other attempts at having a serious pastime, and I have to say, it’s really cool to see one’s child dive into something with such interest and vigor.
It’s also making his mother and me absolute nervous wrecks.
He’s been tooling around on a dirt bike for about three years, zooming along his neighborhood streets and trails with his friends. And every time I know he’s on the bike, I get a cold feeling in my stomach. A motorcycle, whether it’s a street bike or a dirt bike, is a dangerous mode of transportation.
Last year, Hutt started traveling with some pals to the dirt track at Tumbling Shoals. His first few races found him extremely cautious, but with experience, he’s starting to build up some confidence – which is a good thing, but also a tad terrifying. The confidence brings more speed and more air. When he makes those jumps on the track, the amount of time he spends in the air until he safely hits the ground seems like an eternity for me. I’ve seen other riders lose control in mid-air and fall with a violent thud, and I don’t ever want to see Hutt land like that. After such accidents, I’ve turned to other fathers knowing they have the same thing on their mind: Why couldn’t our sons have taken up chess instead of this?
Most of you know I’m not the most mechanical guy around. I couldn’t tell you how to find a spark plug on a cycle, how to replace a spark plug if I did find it, or what the hell a spark plug even does.
It’s sad, really.
So, Hutt’s on his own when his bike has mechanical issues. Which is why I deeply appreciate the dads of his friends. They have the ability to instantly pinpoint an issue and fix it right there at the track. Meanwhile, as those dads try to communicate to me what the problem was and how to fix it in the future, a certain type of fogs envelops my brain and what I’m hearing sounds as if it’s another language.
For instance, one of the dads may tell me something that is totally coherent to a mechanically-inclined person, but to me, it comes out like this: “See, Rob, the air filter’s gonna need to be cleaned out with a little gasoline so the carburetor fumes make the necessary transmission fluid flux with the com-generator next to the throttle maintenance regulator, but make sure before you slack the screw piston, the plug is tight or else it’s gonna lactate all over the accelerator maintainer.”
Meanwhile, I’m standing there slack-jawed with a string of drool dangling from my chin as I slowly nod my head.
Having a full-fledged trailer is not in the budget for our motocross team, so his mom found a neat metal rack that can attach to the back of any vehicle with a hitch. But for some reason the actual process of attaching the rack and strapping in the bike is a struggle for me. My son has inadvertently learned some new and colorful profanity from his dad every time I try to shove in and take out the metal pins that hold the rack in place. And it has taken me a little less than a year to slightly master those new-fangled buckle straps with which you tighten and hitch the bike into place. Before, Hutton’s mother had to stop what she was doing and come out to properly show the doofus father how to properly strap down the bike.
I know there are many sexist men out there who would rather die than have a woman show him how to do something like strapping down their son’s dirt bike.
I am not one of those men.
I can, however, teach some people how to properly nap.
It’s also making his mother and me absolute nervous wrecks.
He’s been tooling around on a dirt bike for about three years, zooming along his neighborhood streets and trails with his friends. And every time I know he’s on the bike, I get a cold feeling in my stomach. A motorcycle, whether it’s a street bike or a dirt bike, is a dangerous mode of transportation.
Last year, Hutt started traveling with some pals to the dirt track at Tumbling Shoals. His first few races found him extremely cautious, but with experience, he’s starting to build up some confidence – which is a good thing, but also a tad terrifying. The confidence brings more speed and more air. When he makes those jumps on the track, the amount of time he spends in the air until he safely hits the ground seems like an eternity for me. I’ve seen other riders lose control in mid-air and fall with a violent thud, and I don’t ever want to see Hutt land like that. After such accidents, I’ve turned to other fathers knowing they have the same thing on their mind: Why couldn’t our sons have taken up chess instead of this?
***
Most of you know I’m not the most mechanical guy around. I couldn’t tell you how to find a spark plug on a cycle, how to replace a spark plug if I did find it, or what the hell a spark plug even does.
It’s sad, really.
So, Hutt’s on his own when his bike has mechanical issues. Which is why I deeply appreciate the dads of his friends. They have the ability to instantly pinpoint an issue and fix it right there at the track. Meanwhile, as those dads try to communicate to me what the problem was and how to fix it in the future, a certain type of fogs envelops my brain and what I’m hearing sounds as if it’s another language.
For instance, one of the dads may tell me something that is totally coherent to a mechanically-inclined person, but to me, it comes out like this: “See, Rob, the air filter’s gonna need to be cleaned out with a little gasoline so the carburetor fumes make the necessary transmission fluid flux with the com-generator next to the throttle maintenance regulator, but make sure before you slack the screw piston, the plug is tight or else it’s gonna lactate all over the accelerator maintainer.”
Meanwhile, I’m standing there slack-jawed with a string of drool dangling from my chin as I slowly nod my head.
***
Transporting the bike has been an adventure as well.
Having a full-fledged trailer is not in the budget for our motocross team, so his mom found a neat metal rack that can attach to the back of any vehicle with a hitch. But for some reason the actual process of attaching the rack and strapping in the bike is a struggle for me. My son has inadvertently learned some new and colorful profanity from his dad every time I try to shove in and take out the metal pins that hold the rack in place. And it has taken me a little less than a year to slightly master those new-fangled buckle straps with which you tighten and hitch the bike into place. Before, Hutton’s mother had to stop what she was doing and come out to properly show the doofus father how to properly strap down the bike.
I know there are many sexist men out there who would rather die than have a woman show him how to do something like strapping down their son’s dirt bike.
I am not one of those men.
I can, however, teach some people how to properly nap.
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