The Sport of Motocross 
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, dirt bikes shinier and cleaner than a brand-new vehicle bought off a new car lot.  Every bike with its own unique color pattern being examined by team members.  Team engineers filled the bikes with fuel and checked the oil to ensure the bikes deliver peak performances. 
The compact dirt was watered down like a soft rain had come through which 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 as though a large garden rake were to be drug 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 which could almost match an outfit of a clown.  Each rider equipped with a helmet, a pair of boots and gloves to match the rider’s shirt and pants.  The riders rode their bikes to the starting line, revving up each of their bikes to warm up the engine.  Like a stop light at an intersection, there was a long moment of silence with the glow of the red light. Then the light switched to green, the gates dropped, and the race was on. 
A sound of a thunderstorm filled the air but there was no rain.  There was a sight of a sandstorm rolling over the hills, but there was no wind.  The start of the race was like a few seconds after a store opens its doors on black Friday.  Dirt bikes soaring through the air like a paper airplane gliding on the breeze.  When they hit the ground again, a stampede of zebras raced trying not to be the one in the back of the pack.  Once the final racer passed the finish, the thunderstorm passed, and the sandstorm died out.