Race day quickly came upon the old motocross speedway. Trucks and cargo vans lined up behind the track with dirt bike after dirt bike being unloaded. The dirt bikes were shinier and cleaner than a brand-new vehicle bought off a new car lot. Every bike had its own unique color pattern. Team members examined them, and the team engineers filled the bikes with fuel and checked the oil to ensure the bikes would deliver peak performances. 

The compact dirt was watered down as if a soft rain had come through; it was just enough to kill the dust. The track had more curves than a cow path through a hilly pasture. Most turns wrapped around groves of trees while others ran alongside a riverbank. On the corners, there were ruts that looked as though a large garden rake had been dragged around the bend. Between each corner came jumps and valleys that flowed together like the ripples on a pond when a frog jumps in from the nearby shore.

Each rider dressed in a uniquely colored riding gear suit; the loud colors were  almost clown-like. Each rider was equipped with a helmet and a pair of boots and gloves to match the rider’s shirt and pants. The riders rode their bikes to the starting line, revving their bikes to warm up the engines. Like a stop light at an intersection, there was a long moment of silence and the glow of the red light. Then the light switched to green, the gates dropped, and the race was on. 

The sound of a thunderstorm filled the air, but there was no rain. A sandstorm rolled over the hills, but there was no wind. Dirt bikes soared through the air like paper airplanes gliding on the breeze. When they hit the ground again, it was a stampede of zebras racing to avoid being the one in the back of the pack. Once the final racer passed the finish line, the thunderstorm passed and the sandstorm died out.