Look Ma, No Hands!

One of Mark's best friends used to race dirt bikes. He was insanely good at it, and entered into (and won) many national titles. We've even seen him a couple of times on ESPN's reruns of some races.

This friend gave up racing after a string of bad accidents, and decided that he needed to find a career which he could prosper in, without the constant fear of losing a limb. Years after he sold most of his racing things, he bought a new dirt bike to ride with some of his other dirt-bike-fanatic-friends.

Mark took Dylan to watch the guys as they raced. Dylan came home that night begging to be a motorcycle racer. I told him that the first step is to take the training wheels off of the bicycle, and learn how to ride it first without any motor assistance.

The problem? His bike just so happened to break the day before. We went to Wal Mart and got a small bike so that he would feel more comfortable knowing that there was a smaller distance to the ground if he should fall.

The next morning I took the training wheels off, and took him down by the barn to practice. I held onto the back of the seat and the handlebars, and he started to peddle. Ten feet away, he stops the bike, turns his head to look at me, and tells me it's "time to let go." (Sob.)

I said, "okay, Dylan," as I rolled my eyes in a you-don't-know-how-difficult-this-is-going-to-be-but-whatever-you-say kind of way. He put his feet on the peddles and took off. His little feet moving at the speed of light, and his giant black helmet looking like it would pull him over- he rode circles around me. Jordan and I were yelling so loud that the neighbors came out to see what was going on, and eventually joined in with the yelling and hollering.

After a whole 24 hours after his maiden voyage, Dylan asked his father to build him a jump because he needs to get ready for the big race.