Favorite Parts of a Dirt Bike Day
- MOTOMOM
- Apr 2
- 3 min read
“What was your favorite part of today?” I ask as MotoKid climbs into bed, limbs heavy with the kind of exhaustion that only a full day on a dirt bike can bring.
He rolls onto his side, his mop of sun-lightened hair fanning across the pillow like he’s already halfway to dreaming.
“Just getting to ride my dirt bike,” he says.
That’s it. Not a win. Not a finish line. Not a moment of glory. Just... the ride.
Some days, his answers are sharp with adrenaline—landing the big double for the first time, snagging a podium spot, or launching out with a perfect hole shot.
If I’m being honest—like gut-check honest—I sometimes build up the day in my own head. The competitor in me spins this whole story: it's about the best start. About charging to the front and never looking back. About stomping the other racers. About proving you’re the one to beat.
It’s about being a champion.
That’s the lie I sell myself.
That it only matters if there’s a trophy. That the day only counts if you leave with a plaque.
But then a warm late spring night like this knocks the wind out of all that noise.
Because other days—quiet ones like today—it’s not about chasing first place. It’s about joy.
In the moments like these, I’m reminded just how privileged we are. If you’re reading this and your kid has the freedom to twist a throttle through the trees, up hills, around a track, or even just across a dusty pasture behind Papa’s place... then you already know. We are lucky beyond measure.
“Anything in particular?” I ask, nudging him gently. I’m still hungry for a spark, for something to fan the flame of the story I’ve been writing in my head.
“Mmm, no,” he says, letting out a content little huff as he shrugs his sun-kissed shoulders. One of them still bears a healing scrape—a pink badge from a spectacular yard sale a couple weeks back.
His lashes sink down against cheeks warmed by sun and flecked grit, the freckles of the day still clinging to his temples. He didn’t scrub very hard in the shower. Hell, I still have to fight him to take one at all some days.
I flip the light off, eyes lingering on the glimmer trophies and plaques lining his shelves. Markers of effort, sure. But not what defines him. Not really.
“Mom?” he murmurs as I pull the door halfway closed. His voice is low, drowsy. “What was your favorite part?”
He doesn’t open his eyes, but waits for my answer.
I pause. The lump rises in my throat faster than I expect.
“Buddy, my favorite part was watching you do what you love.”
The corners of his lips twitch, almost imperceptibly, into the faintest smile.
I close the door gently, then stop just beyond the threshold.
I finish the rest of my answer in my head:
...and knowing you made it home safe.
Because when you strip everything else away—every start, every checkered flag, every damn finish line—being there, together, is the best part. Always.
See you Sunday,
-MotoMom Court
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