News and Views from Club Members

OK, everyone out of the vans and straighten up we're having a riders meeting. I don't know how many laps "life's race" is gonna be, just stay WFO till you see the checkered flag. The reason for this riders meeting is for one of our family that had a DNF, Michael Crowley. When DeVaughn, who also got a DNF, and I came along most of you guys and gals were in you're 20's full of piss and vinegar and in general were wild as hell and a complete blast. Most of you were motocross racers. The years have passed, families made, new businesses, new friends and new experiences. You play golf, have parties, do things with the family. Well look around this room. You're sitting with the only people in the world who know what beast is hidden down deep within you. The fellow motocrossers who sat on the line with you. They are probably the only ones who know what kind of balls you've got, what kind of heart you have, and what bravery you have pushed yourself to. Michael Crowley was a motocrosser, that's sort of a simplified statement in this situation so I'll explain. A man that motocrosses is a different breed than any other racer. Unlike NASCAR racers, for instance, who compete from inside their steel cage, with seat belts, all inside a vehicle that will absorb most of the impacts while racing. The motocross racer sits on the outside, on his fire breathing machine, willing to absorb any impacts or get offs first hand, that's a given. He's usually a laid-back, fun loving character, cuttin' up in the pits with the guys he's fixin' to do battle with. He chats with his mechanic or buddy as they roll his bike to the starting line. The transformation begins. He lines up on the line, inches apart from the man on both sides, there's forty of them, all with one intent, to be first into the corner at the end of the straight away. They stomp the dirt to the gate to get the best traction. The bikes fire to life, the bullshit stops. They blow out the bikes, check last minute details, no more Mr. Nice Guy, they become a ball of nervous energy adjusting their goggles and adjust to the sweet spot on the seat for the start, blipping the throttle as the beast comes to life. The last thirty seconds the transformation is complete, the engine revving to a point so that when the gate drops the rear wheel will turn into a dirt spewing blur. Look down the line at the eyes blazing from those goggles, it reminds me of the guy in the movies changing into the Incredible Hulk. Then tension is electric, clutch hand like a finger on a trigger ready for launch. The roar of the forty bikes is deafening, the tension going through the roof, each man knows that forty bikes running wide open aren't going to fit into that turn, someone's gonna get creamed and if you fall the rest of the pack is gonna use you for traction and it's not gonna be you. The gate drops, the roar turns into a scream, the beast is released. You have tunnel vision, heart pumping 100% adrenaline, sheer determination and balls like a water buffalo. Bikes on both sides bangin' you, dirt spewing and you make the sensible decision, "Hell with everything I ain't shuttin' off". Thus was born the badge you will always carry. WFO. All the racers in this room have faced this situation many, many times and often against each other. That's why we're family. Michael Crowley was one of the best, natural talent, he rode smooth as Jodie's head. Jack and Barbara Crowley did something right, they raised three men of this caliber, Michael, Kyle and Keller. So let's raise a toast to Michael, a man we respected and loved like a brother, not to mention he made us laugh our asses off more than anyone can imagine. I may not be here in person, but you're all in my heart forever. You're the best people I've ever known. I love you all. WFO. Dale Edgeworth