o dirt rider, where art thou?

Ah, the smell of premix in the morning. The mighty sound of ‘braaap’ echoing between the pinetrees. The Oakley goggles softly pressed against your forehead, the slender clutchlever resting underneath two fingers of a crisp washed glove, the ball of the feet giggling on sharp titanium pegs. The perfect anticipation, the perfect storm. Submit, dirt! Submit, I say! My chunky Dunlops will eat you up, spit you out in arcs of beautiful roost, carve a line, bust the berm, break free, take off, fly away.

I was the dirt rider for nearly 20 years, the motocross racer who believed he would ride forever. It was my life – but it was sadly not to be. What gave me life also almost claimed it. Stay tuned and I will reveal, in terrible episodes of violent suffering, how I became the ghost rider.

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