Eva to the Max

My ride
If my dirt bike
were an animal,
she’d be one of those
mixed mythical creatures—
part tigress,
part hornet.
Ferocious.
Fast.
With a fierce bite,
a nasty sting,
and the ability to remain
airborne
for long stretches of time.

Moto music
Listen to her
revving, growling.
Buzz, buzz, buzzzzzzzing!
Mom calls it noise.
I call it music.
Luckily, Dad agrees
with me.
Motocross
was his world
long before
it became mine.

Purr
The other riders whistle
when they see my bike
waiting in the pits.
She’s souped up, shined up.
Yellow, black, and white.
Prettier than a prom queen.
She purrs.
The sound vibrates
through the pipes of her throat.

Family affair
Everyone expected
Dustin to carry on
the Rummel legacy,
but my older brother
prefers books to bikes.
He used to watch me
from the sidelines,
but lately he’s too busy
studying for the SATs.
Mom rarely comes to my races.
She blames her work schedule,
but the consignment center
isn’t that hoppin’.
My theory?
She thinks girls
don’t belong
in greasy garages
or on muddy tracks.
She expects me to become
some mythical creature
called a lady—
whatever that means.

Pit crew
At least I can count on my pit crew:
Dad. Gray. Toby.
Father. Coach.
Godfather. Mechanic.
Best friend. Cheerleader.
Except today
there are only two.
I’m happy Toby is chasing
his own dreams, but selfishly
I wish my best friend could be
two places
at once.

Ready
Gray and I walk the track,
plotting the best lines,
scouting the worst divots.
Back in the pits
Dad helps me tune my brakes,
check the chains and sprockets.
She’s ready.
How ’bout you? he asks,
giving my helmet a knock.
Remember,
keep your mind tight,
but ride loose.
Thanks, Dad.I nod.
I got this.
If I stick around
he’ll start his safety pep talk,
which I’ve already heard
a thousand times, at least.
Right now
I need to focus.
I throw my leg
over my bike.
I got this, I say again,
this time just for me.
Impossible
Riding is easy.
Jumping is hard.
Flying is harder.
Landing is hardest.
But not impossible.
Even if my dad’s wheelchair
tries to tell me otherwise.
Claws
I take a practice lap.
Fresh tire treads
like sharpened claws
sink into soft earth,
tear through rutted track.
When I twist the throttle
my bike bares her teeth.
She snarls. She pounces.
Wheels become wings and
we fly!

Confidence
If only
I felt half
as confident
at school
as I do
on my bike.
Life would be so much
easier.

Just for fun
I was seven years old
the first time
I asked to enter a race.
Mom flipped out.
Dad wore a mix of
shock and pride.
Just for fun, I insisted.
They finally agreed,
neither thinking
I’d last one lap.
Five years and
hundreds of laps later,
I still race for fun,
but it’s become
so much more.
And the more serious it becomes,
the more is at stake.

Superstitions
Here’s the thing
about competitive motocross:
It’s not if
you get hurt
it’s when.
So all of us riders
have routines, superstitions
to calm prerace jitters,
ward off wipeouts,
ensure victory.
Some wear the same socks,
refusing to wash them
during a winning streak. (Gross.)
Others carry good luck charms,
or put their gear on in a specific order.
Me?
I share a bag of Skittles
with Toby before every race.
He gets the reds and oranges.
I take the purples and greens.
We split the yellows.
Today, I shake the candy into my palm,
glumly pick out my colors.
I could eat Toby’s half,
but that doesn’t feel right.
As I chew, sour sweetness fills my mouth.
I wander through the pits,
eyeing my competition.
Size them up, stare them down.
A few riders glance back, chuckling.
To them, I’m just a scrawny-legged girl
nervously nibbling candy. Not a threat.
Good. Go ahead, underestimate me.
I’ll use this to my advantage.
When the announcer calls our heat,
sugar and adrenaline pump
through my veins.
I’m not just ready to ride,
I’m ready to win.

All or nothing
Coming in second
is not an option.
Everyone knows second place
is just a nice way to say
best
loser.

Drop
Ready? Set?
Watch me
GO!
The gates drop
I rev, rock
rocket
onto the course.
Nineteen riders
pulling, scraping
at my heels.
Bumping, thumping
at my wheels.
All of us vying
for that spot,
first one
to the corner
gets the holeshot.
Gotta make my move
NOW
no time to waste.
Soon the track
will narrow,
tight
like
a
vise.
Squeezed, can’t breathe.
No place
to pass.
Laps
We’re side by side.
I can’t see their eyes
but I feel them nudging.
Five more laps,
now four . . .
Ripping, gripping,
handlebars tipping.
Bouncing over rollers
up up
down down
Brap! Braaap!
Buzzzzzzzzz . . .
ROAR!
Hammering, hitting.
Close the gap.
Watch the chatter.
Elbows in, head down.
Here comes thestraightaway . . .
Arms aching.
Engine whining.
One more jump—
Last chance.
Let’s dance.

Chase
Braaap! Braaap!
I hear them chasing, racing.
No way. Not today.
The ground rises up.
Single or a double?
Make the call.
Watch. Wait for it . . .
Now, go!
Scrub it.
Stay low.
Flattened on top of my bike
I pick up speed.
I soar - - - - -
Rip it.
Ride it.
Land it.
Find the line |
|
| cross it.
|
|

Art
My race name’s Eva Knievel,
but y’all should call me
Jackson Pollock,
’cause when I splatter
mud
it’s practically
art!

Victory
The best part about winning?
First,
seeing my last name
lit up on the board,
and Dad’s face
just as bright.
Second,
taking a deep breath,
savoring the sweet smell of
dust and gasoline and victory.
Third,
pulling off my sweaty helmet,
letting my long brown ponytail swish
from side to side, watch
as the other racers
stop
stare
realize
a twelve-year-old girl
just kicked their sorry, slow butts.

Badbutt
Scratch that.
My favorite part
definitely happens later
when a little girl comes up to me
wearing a hot-pink helmet and says,
Eva, you are totally badbutt.
What did you call me, little punk?
I’m used to the boys trolling me,
but a pipsqueak six-year-old, seriously?
She lowers her voice.You know? Badbutt.
I’m not allowed to say the real word.
Ohhh. You mean badass?
Totally. Her face splits into a smile.
I want to ride like you someday, she says.
The words whistle between a wide gap
where her two front teeth should be.
You will, I say.
Just work hard.
She nods, beaming,
as if I’ve delivered the most
brilliant advice she’s ever heard.
You gonna race Loretta’s one day? she asks.
I hold up crossed fingers.
Thinking about AMA National Championships
held at Loretta Lynn’s Ranch each year
gets my pulse thrumming.
Hopes (and bones)
are notoriously crushed
on those tracks,
and yet
that venue catapults riders
into professional careers—
something I want more than anything
but something I haven’t exactly
admitted to my family
because, well, chasing dreams at 50+ mph
doesn’t always end well.
A hard fact we Rummels know
better than most.
Suddenly the air feels thick.
Hey, those your baby teeth you lost?
I ask, changing the subject.
Yup. Knocked ’em out
on some nasty whoops.
For real? Whoops?
Whoops are sets of evenly spaced
but seriously challenging dirt mounds.
With the right technique, you can kinda skim
across the tops. But if your front wheel dips too low,
you’ll flip headfirst into the troughs.
A rider needs gumption to even attempt them.
Girrrrrl! You’re pretty badbutt yourself.
Really? You think so?
Heck yeah. I tap her pink helmet.
I just hope I don’t have to race
against you someday.
Why?
’Cause I hate losing. I wink
and she lets out a little squeal.
Hey, I say before she leaves. Sign my helmet?
Me? Her eyes are as wide and round
as my new Maxxcross tires.
I hand her a Sharpie from my bag.
She writes her name: Lilli.
She dots thei’s with hearts.
Below her signature,
she draws a little smiley face
with blacked-out front teeth.
The whole thing is super cutesy
but also totally badbutt.
I wish Mom were here
to watch me race
and meet Lilli
and see
that there are so many
different ways
to be a girl.