ROOTS RAW
H
aving come from
another race in
northern California the
previous Sunday, we
had picked up our new rig
in Phoenix, driven eighteen
hours to the heart of Texas,
made a quick stop to pick
up groceries, and ambled
down a dirt road that seemed
to lead to nowhere, before
we arrived at the world-class
national track of Freestone
County Raceway Texas
Motocross.
“Thank you for coming”
Stewart Freestone Spring
Championship. They came
from Florida, California, Ohio,
Colorado, Georgia, and all
over the country. We even met
people from New Zealand!
Over the course of the day,
once more as before we
encountered that strange
sensation of seeing familiar
faces thousands of miles
away from the last place we
had seen them, this time in
the midst of the backroads,
family farms, and cow
Almost as if we had summoned him,
some unknown individual pulled up on
a quad and said, pointing in a general
direction, “We’re barbequing ribs. Come
on by, we’ve got plenty of food.”
Exhausted and exhilarated,
we watched the sun rise over
the track, skies melting from
midnight blue to pink to gold
creating a brilliant backdrop
for the eighty foot tall
flags—one for Texas, one for
America—that rippled in the
dawn breeze. “This feels like
pro motocross,” I whispered.
The track was eerily quiet, the
calm before the storm. You
could feel all around you that
Freestone was ready for it.
We hadn’t been alone in
our mad dash to get here.
We heard more stories from
other families who had pulled
their sons and daughters out
of school, hopped in their
motorhomes and driven
through the night across
country for the chance to
earn AMA titles at the James
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pastures of rural Texas. “I call
them the traveling circus!” the
announcer, Don Collings, said
with a laugh, and we nodded,
because the label fit.
The sun brought with it the
day’s action and promise
of glory. For every child who
stepped proudly onto the
podium before the flashing
of cameras and cheering
of fans, a dozen more
trudged away from the track
disappointed, even crushed,
but with the hope that the next
moto would yield better results.
“The highs and the lows,”
we always say to ourselves.
Because in every corner of this
wild circus, from the people
who race to the people
who support them—parents,
families, mechanics, sponsors,
fans, promoters, and track
owners—there are the highs
and the lows that lead to this
strange moto addiction that
simply cannot be explained.
By the end of the day, still
sleep deprived from the drive
and running on fumes we
began packing up our booth
and debating what to cook
for dinner. Something quick
and easy, we decided. Almost
as if we had summoned him,
some unknown individual
pulled up on a quad and
said, pointing in a general
direction, “We’re barbequing
ribs. Come on by, we’ve got
plenty of food.”
We followed our noses to
the barbeque, pausing
sheepishly on the outskirts of
their pit, scanning the scene
for a familiar face. “I don’t
think we know anyone here,”
I mumbled, but someone
on the inside caught our
hesitance and summoned us
over, offered us a plate, and
encouraged us to “Eat up! This
is real Texas barbeque!” So
we did, and those ribs were so
melt-in-your-mouth delicious
I can proclaim with honesty
they were the best I had ever
tasted. We loaded our plates
with chicken and sausage,
macaroni & cheese and
salad and we ate until there
was no room for more. We
mingled through the group,
shaking hands, trying to figure
out who to thank for the food,
but it seemed that everybody
was host, and yet nobody was
host. Maybe it was Jimmy,
maybe it was Paul, but they
were all from Texas, and they
were all proud to say, “Thank
you for coming.”
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