Nikole Azpurua--Undecided

My vision was dark, blurry. Where am I? Is this a hospital? What happened? I was wearing motorcycle pants. I checked my arm. There was an IV. 

“Is my bike ok?”

My mom said, “You were in a motorcycle crash. You have a concussion.” 

When I was 12 years old, my parents bought my two siblings and me a 140 Kawasaki. It was small and perfect for a kid. I’d been obsessing over motorcycles for some time. My dad had a motorcycle when he was a child and was excited to hear of my fascination. We practiced in an undeveloped lot where I picked up the basics: clutch, balance, accelerating, brakes. I felt comfortable riding on mellow trails and around my neighborhood. As I got older, I wanted a bigger and more powerful bike. My parents surprised me with the Honda CRF 250F.

I read articles and watched videos of enduro, a motor sport that focuses on trails and rough terrain. Enduro is a little bit more technical than motocross which tends to be more powerful and dangerous.  

The day of my accident, my family borrowed a trailer and we drove to a motocross track thirty minutes from our house. I hadn’t spent much time on the Honda and was excited to practice tight turns and clutch control. When we got to the track, I put on my helmet, chest armor, elbow protectors, a jersey and headed out by myself to explore. What would happen if I went full send? I visualized the perfect landing. 

I wanted to complete a double jump, a new skill for me. I studied YouTube videos in slow motion, so I  knew what I needed to do. I didn’t let fear get in the way. I wanted to get the feeling of riding the bike in the air, and the only way to do that was to go for it. Looking back, I see that doing smaller jumps may have been a better way to advance, but at the time, I wanted to get better faster.

I heard my little brother approaching just as the ramp appeared ahead. I sped up, hit the ramp, launched into the air, and leaned the bike like I’d seen in the videos. Only, as I came down, the front wheel dug into the sand and I landed head first. When my brother caught up, I was unconscious.  

In the hospital, I had no memory of the accident. As if on a constant loop, I asked the same question: Where am I? Is this a hospital? What happened? 

I was released later that day. The body protection did its job. I was uninjured except for a concussion and some memory fog.  

I know it was a stupid thing to do. I took a shortcut. I wanted to make the right adjustments to land safely and I thought if I could make that jump, I would have something to learn from. 

I wanted to conquer the sand in Florida, so I could advance to better tracks further north. I should have put in the time required to go big, learned from a professional or an experienced rider instead of learning solely from videos.

Once I was able to remember the accident, I was shocked to hear what happened. It was as if I was hearing about something terrible that happened to someone else. It could have been so much worse. There could have been permanent consequences that affected the rest of my life. I’m lucky. I know that. 

These days, fear slows my pace. It prevents me from cutting corners. However, I don’t let it stop me from riding my bike or anything else. Recently, I started bouldering. I was hanging upside down when I slipped. Thankfully, I was only a few inches off the ground with a soft mat below me. Now, I respect the importance of the learning process.