“Honestly, I feel really bad for what I did.”
Getting his first win of the season last week, Marvin Musquin knew that more would be coming, by the series finale. A “streaky” racer of sorts, many had the premonition that Musquin would continue to prolong his winning ways, once the final mountain of a “first-win” had been toppled. Of course, he was all smiles when strolling around the pits for press day, reiterating his ability to stay calm within the limelight. Putting on his helmet shortly thereafter, both ignitions would be switched; that of the actual motorcycle, and one of competitive cognition, where a surplus of aggressiveness would drip deep into the being of his DNA. He could be found presenting of multitude of lines throughout practice, demonstrating both jumping and skipping practices throughout the whoops. He wanted every trick in the book to be buried within his sack of arsenal tactics, always having extra ammunition at his disposal. Bolting off the line for the heat race, he would hover near the second place spot to begin jousting with Baggett and Roczen accordingly. It was an all out war between the three musketeers, with substantial periods of titanium bashing, replicating the sounds of swords slashing into one another. Making his way into second, it was all he could do to try and volley around the Honda in front of him. But he would have to settle for this respective position, knowing that the main event was around the corner. The main event, would begin absolutely perfectly for Musquin; where a start would have an open track for him to sprint on. Lap after lap, he would maintain the gap over the likes of Rozen, Tomac, and the rest of the field. Blitzing through the rollers after the finish line, he was showing the ability to toggle back and forth, between a Supercross specialist, and an accomplished outdoor competitor. All seemed to be well, until a rider would fall in one of the rhythm sections. With accompanying red cross flags being thrown, Musquin wouldn’t abide; foregoing the signals from the flagmen, and doubling through the section instead. It would give him a substantial gap, enough to signify a win. As many would question his final result, the official results tab throughout media outlets, would then position him as the winner. Musquin, all smiles through it all, would remain positive in the light of adversity. After the race though, the directors of the AMA would announce that Marvin’s win would be kept; however, he would lose a substantial seven points, in regards to series totality.
“As the red flag came out; I noticed immediately that it wasn’t a legal move.”
With all that Ken Roczen has gone through in the past few years, you could understand how this “dream” of a race win, would seem to be toying with his competitive mentality a bit. Seemingly beginning to play a few tricks on his confidence level, it’s as though the top step of the podium is surrounded by a wall of repellant; not allowing the number ninety-four to ever stand atop of it again. Hoisting all the ability and speed in the world, he knew it would be just a matter of time before he stood there again. Going to the line in practice with a positive attitude, he was one of the first to conquer respective triples and quads, setting the tone for his competition early. Blitzing around everyone in the class, he made sure to fly by anyone on a slow lap; making his presence feel known, in an absolute ferocious manner. Keeping the nose to the grindstone, he would feel ultra-confident in his journey to the main event, where the heat race would be the next stop. Right behind Blake Baggett to begin, he understood the momentum the number four had, due to prior results on the tour. He wanted to creep into the mind of the KTM rider, and therefore make him sweat, throughout the course of this rather short heat race. Doing everything in his power to make the move, Baggett couldn’t withstand the pressure by the beginning of lap three; where Roczen would now inherit the lead. Feeling strong out front, you could see his confidence flow into his riding style, the way he would whip the chassis over the finish line jump. Leading a series of laps to finish, Roczen would be beyond excited once he took the victory for the class. As the main event gate drop would then fall, Roczen would move to the front immediately. He would be just behind Marvin Musquin after working his way around Zach Osborne. Doing all in his power to run down the KTM, he was starting to make a bit of headway, when Musquin would proceed to jump through a red-cross flag section. It was a gap then, that couldn’t be overcome. Although confused and hearing rumors of a win as a result, the final conclusion on the official results page, would leave Marvin Musquin with the win, and Ken Roczen the runner-up, once again.
“It was a definite improvement from last week.”
If you’re like many fans of the industry, many are wondering when the real Eli Tomac would show up, in regards to his results at the conclusion of each main event. Touted as one of the fastest prospects aboard a motorcycle in years, Tomac began to become accustomed to winning throughout his amateur career. It would continue into his journey of professionalism, where wins and titles would begin to stack up. Holding enormous amounts of speed within his canister of ability, Tomac has seemed to have been a bit lost in recent years, configuring back and forth with multiple personas of racing. Hoping to turn it around in Seattle, he knew the likes of Ken Roczen and Marvin Musquin, would be within his respective speed realm. He would notice their positioning throughout practice, but made sure to not let their specific antics deter his own sprinting efforts. Blitzing the whoops in the top of third gear, he would hold the throttle far and wide, as he proceeded to throw down consecutive “heaters.” It would put him in a positive mindset for the heat race, where he could be found nestled in an optimal slot to begin. Second, just behind newfound foe Cooper Webb, he knew he couldn’t relinquish much of a lead to the series points leader. In every corner he could, the number three of Tomac, could be seen “poking the bear” so to speak. A wheel would be shown, the throttle would be revved, so on and so forth, until the final flag would fly. Just short at the stripe, Tomac would hope for redemption, in the longer main event. Fifth place off the start, he would have a bit of stagnation before making his way into third. But that was all that would be needed, for riders like Ken Roczen and Marvin Musquin to proceed forward. Riding the back end a bit, he would wheel tap through the sand rollers after the finish line, never letting the Kawasaki motor below him breathe. He would do his best to reach on to the shirttail of Ken Roczen; but the grab would never be sustainable. Taking third place at the line, Tomac hoped to do whatever possible in order to secure more victories before the series finale.
When many talk about the hottest storylines of 2019, none can be further up the chain than that of Cooper Webb’s surging momentum. Although signed on a premise of 250 SX fortune, Webb failed to deliver in the beginning of his 450 quest. But the boys at KTM continued to hold true to their word, developing the prospect week after week. Finally, as a few rounds would pass in the 2019 season, Webb would simply come to life; displaying the swagger he once had, and immediately began to accumulate significant wins. Now taking the 450 class by storm, he would do all in his power to hold onto the highly desired number one plate. Looking the part as series champion to begin the day, he would display a significant amount of effort, style, and speed throughout practice. It was an all out blitzing of championship contenders, and Webb took it personal that a few riders were ahead of him. But knowing that he could turn it on, when the pressure was accumulating, made him feel ultra confident for the heat races to come. He would then dig through the gear box as he barreled off the line for the heat race, eagerly diving into the opening bend. Situating himself in the following few rhythm lanes, he would establish a lead and pace, that could hardly be contested. Launching through these consecutive triple, and even quad sections, his focus wouldn’t ever waver, regardless of who came into his immediate surrounding. Taking aim at the checkered flag, his competitive spirit wanted nothing more than to demolish the field. He would do so, taking the win, and eager for the main event to come. Seventh on lap number one, he knew he would have to fight through the line of militia ahead of him, and fast. Therefore, he would pull out every trick in the book. Ducking, dodging, and weaving, without the use of a warning siren, would startle many in the field. Persevering through all types of distractions, he would work his way into fourth as all in contention for the championship were ahead of him. He knew he would have to save his efforts for another day, willing to walk away from the table with sum of points he had in his hand. Fourth overall, would be a substantial placing for a track, and array of emotions that were conjoined with this event.
Sitting in the seats as press day would come to life, Joey Savatgy knew this course would have to be operated in a very efficient manner. With a concoction of loose grain, coupled with beach sand and limestone, this true “quarry” of a racing surface would have to be mastered. Otherwise, as in episodes of the past, he could be laying on the ground losing valuable points. He would round the track for practice in a mere cruise mode to begin; understanding that it would be a long night of study, with an ever-changing course below him. Riding behind other series points leaders, each competitor had their own respective style and way of navigating the course. Every portion of visualization he would log, would then be placed into the memory bank; hopefully rekindled once the gate would fall for the heat race. Rolling to the line for the main event, he would take a moment to realize just how big of a stage he was on; with a closing of the eyes, and deep breath through the diaphragm, engine roaring would follow. Chaos would then follow, as twenty-two of the toughest riders on the planted tussled for the lead position. Knowing he had to stay error-free, he would let the field play out as it should, making key moves when opportunity presented itself. Third in the early going, he knew that his placement could suffice; but being the true competitor he was, he wanted more. A craving deep within his being, every second gain was like a shot of adrenaline, boosting endorphins in a consecutive manner. With the white flag now being thrown, he would reside in fourth. Finishing here as well, the main event would then be right around the corner. As the lights shined bright, and the dew would begin to fall ever so slightly, he would barrel around the track in eighth on lap one. Keeping the RPM’s in the right pocket, his display of riding style would hover between aggression and smoothness, the gauge swaying back and forth ever so slightly. He would begin to notice a constant purr within the depth of his ear drum, but made sure not to take notice in an exaggerative manner. Hitting the “SX” triple, a brief glance over his right shoulder would indicate that it was Dean Wilson. He then, clicked into overdrive. Knowing that the checkered flag was right there. Placing fifth as the finale became present, he would be excited with his overall placement; especially after a fall and slip-up, caused him substantial time during the mid portion of the race.
During track walk in the moments leading up to the race, many in the field noticed just how many rocks were embedded within this respective soil composition. Pellets, that could pierce and penetrate the souls of even the toughest riders, were something that all would encounter throughout the course of the night. Even if you were out front, there would be a time when you would encounter lap traffic, and be forced to take the beating, or move around otherwise. This thought would enter Dean Wilson’s head, and while slapping on the roost guard underneath the jersey, he knew it would be in his best interest to garner a surplus of protection. Looking around, there were those armored with chest protectors and handguards, all in hopes of surviving the wrath that was to come. His idea you ask? Limit as many opponents in front of him as possible, getting to the lead immediately. Practice was an episode of ducking and dodging, where the machines around, were truly hurling boulders right at him. Weaving in and out, a simple dipping of the visor would have rocks ricocheting off the helmet for a series of laps. Yet somehow, he was still able to engrave his name near the top of the leaderboard. Never being deterred by what could happen, he would immediately begin his assault of the field early on in the heat race. As groups began to migrate in their respective positions, he hoped to be an outlier that would surge forward, against any rebellion standing in his way. Third as the laps would carry on, he could hear small bits of granite pinging off the swing arm; letting him know that his speed portrayed around the course, was something of recognition. Third place at the stripe, the main event would be just around the corner. Riders would be head-hunting one another, going straight for the jugular in certain circumstances. He would have to watch his front wheel, as it could be swept out from underneath him in an instant. Guarding the main line with all of his might, he continued to yearn for better positioning; knowing that the moment complacency entered his mind, a negative would result would continue. Sixth would just a few laps to go, he would begin to envision himself crossing the checkered with a sum of points. It would come to life, where as the sixth position would be conquered.
While the Dirt Wurx crew receives both criticism and praise, you can’t hide the fact they are some of the hardest working guys in the business. Every week, they must adhere to the preconceived design of the blueprint, building a replica of what’s drawn on paper. Yet they must also holster the ability to configure when outlying variables make their way in; deteriorating soil, rain from the skies above, and safety complaints. Rather than being a mockery of dictatorship, doing as they please, they’ve listened to the riders in the past rounds, and molded the sand section to their liking. Tracks in the past have had the sand bottled up in a particular bend or series of corners, making many turns often one-lined. But switching it up for the Seattle round, they’ve decided to incorporate more a roller/straightaway section, offering bit of outdoor tasting to the confines of this Seattle stadium. Baggett felt strong in practice, being a bit advantageous in his choice of line selection. Running lines nearly on the boundaries of the course, he had to be careful not to collect a tuff-block cover on his footpeg, or worse, the inside of his wheel. Luckily he would scurry on the tightrope of soil without any harm, walking away with solid laptimes in the process. Proceeding into the heat race, he felt as though he could do some damage, under the right circumstances. The field, although bottled up, allowed for a bit of wiggle room in the opening circuits, where everyone seemed to be lashing out in rage. Holding strong in the third position (after leading), he would stand his ground, letting his appear two and three times the width of all actuality. As the ruts began to decay, he would force himself out of the main line, taking a risk, but being rewarded with sustainable, gained time. All in all it was a success, where fifth would be taken. With numerous laps now under his belt, every piece of track, at least in his mind, had been conquered. It was now a time of putting the effort to the canvas, and master his craft in front of a large audience. Near the latter half of the top ten in the early going, he knew he couldn’t afford to lose precious time to the leaders. With Zach Osborne on his rear wheel, a valiant effort would be placed forward to conquer the seventh place they both wanted. And it was though the wish would turn into a command, as seventh overall would be his holding in the overall record book.
Looking at past results and settings from the event, the boys at team Husqvarna knew that setting the bike up for the Seattle Supercross would be a tough problem to solve. Watching the forecast ever so diligently, they had to monitor just how much moisture would accumulate in the grain of soil, heavily influencing their tire selection; and add to that, if and how much sand would be thrown on the course, creating a bit of a conundrum for the employees of respective tire companies. Gear setting would be next, with logs of which ratios were paired this time last year, as a certain bit of RPM delivery, could affect things such as gate-drop and rhythm section navigation. With all that being said, he felt confident in his team that they would adapt to the circumstances at hand. Immediately, once practice began, he would pull into the pit area; relaying his thoughts to the head mechanic, and notes would be jotted down. Pulling out a plethora of wrenches and screwdrivers, the rebound of the chassis would be adjusted. They needed to have the chassis as stiff as can be, so he could attack the whoops and braking bumps to the perfect degree. Feeling sound as he headed into the heat race, he would get off to a decent start, but knew he had to push forward while the group was in a bundle. Knowing that he could pass riders in flocks so to speak, any move during this portion of the moto would be critical. He would limit his mistakes to the best of his abilities, feeling as though an error free race, could reap surprising dividends on a track like this. Tallying third he would be able to situate himself in an efficient position to begin the main event. The gate would then fall, and immediately he would be jousting elbows with fellow competitors. Trying to ride nearest inside as he could, his first few laps would be a surprising effort of defense, as Justin Hill tried to work his away around. A blockade of penetration from combatants behind, every roosting, revving, and blitzing technique in the book would be demonstrated, providing a repellant to any bit of competition that came near. Eighth with laps to go, he had to keep his effort sustained in order to secure eighth place. The aforementioned would be demonstrated, and eighth place would be his.
As the series was just in Indianapolis last week, many riders were a bit jet-lagged due to the respective travel constraints of the tour. A cross-country trek for all involved, riders would have to monitor their energy exertion, food intake, and amount of sleep, in order to perform optimally as the round of Seattle approached. Being taken care of by both trainer and team, Cole Seely took his pre-race habits extremely serious; understanding that his body had to be firing on all cylinders, especially if he wanted his motorcycle to. Rolling to the line for practice, he felt alert and full of energy, knowing that he had adequate rest and nutrition in the hours before. He was keen on the smallest of details, looking at the sharp edges of specific ruts, noticing which portions of the track were breaking down more. Potholes would begin to come about, as the rear shock would “thump” into the depths of these craters, causing a bit of fish-tail throughout the rear-end. Nevertheless, he would power through with the throttle gripped tight, letting the motor do the majority of the work. Shaking his arms out as he exited through the tunnel, he knew it would be a tough test of will power as the night went on. Clicking into third immediately as he crossed the metal bracket starting mechanism, he would do his best to sling the 450 to the inside. As twenty-two riders would proceed to get on the brakes, it was seemingly who had the guts to outlast their competitor. It would relish, with a fifth place placement in the opening circuits. Every lap, he would begin to chip away at the lead, doing his best to make his way toward the front of the field. Knowing that this was such a short sprint of racing, his efforts would be on full-blast, draining every last bit of glycogen storage, in order to keep the fourth place position. Staying here, he would look forward to the main event. Fireworks would then go off, as the best riders would jolt their way into the realm of the main event. In a constant circling of the course, the field of predators looked as if they were migrating sharks, everyone feasting on the prey in front of them. Lunging forward toward the next position, you could see his bike working overtime, doing its best to stay upright while in the trenches beneath them. The white flag would then come out, and he would reside ninth. Staying here, it was where his name would be etched when the race would conclude .
With the season of Spring coming to bloom, many in the field hoped the fridgid temperatures of winter would be pushed to the wayside. However, it never fails that the round of Seattle somehow clings to life, with a climate that creates heaps of shivering. Tyler Bowers knew how to adapt to the variables of an open-domed stadium, coming to the line for practice sporting a sleek team jacket. But once getting off the motorcycle, doing a few jumping jacks in the process, mind, bike, and body would be warmed up; he would then climb aboard, and barrel down the initial straightaway. Trying to piece together as many combinations as possible, he would take certain laps to ride the track in a designated manner; toggling between the idea of specific scenarios, and how he would react to them. As the track began to break down a bit, lap times continued to lessen; and he would find himself optimally in a sound spot for the night show. The heat race would then come into the present realm, where a burst out of the gate would have him sitting around the ninth place spot. Pushing forward to the best of his ability, he knew he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by the presence of Justin Bogle behind him. Otherwise his hope of climbing the leaderboard would be an afterthought. As the skid-plate began to drag the depths of certain ruts, a quick stabbing of the clutch could help thrust the chassis up and over the following rhythm section, soaring through this damp air. Doing his best to keep the number-plate clean, he would rally in the final laps, sporting a sixth overall once all was said and done. The green flag would then fly from the finish line, as the referee ushered this stampede around the track in an aggressive manner. Zig-zagging in the turns before certain straightaways, you could see him swing wide in the corner prior to, just gain a speckle of MPH in the accompanying drive. As he kept the front-end light, he would shift through the gearbox to the best of his ability, up and down the ladder in crescendo fashion. Certain markers in the race would be forgone, including the halfway, and three-quarter indication. It would keep him clinging to life, as he sat near tenth place with just a few to go. Motoring through and running the gas tank dry, he would have enough fuel to cross the checkered flag in a solid position, walking away with tenth overall.
“This is unbelievable; I’m so happy right now.”
As athlete transitions into a certain sport as a professional, of course, their goal is to generate income to live off of. They aspire for the lucrative contracts, and all of the bonuses that come along with it. However, they would be lying if they didn’t say the illustrious wins, championships, and legacy that are accompanied with their riding ability, isn’t what drives them day after day. Enter Dylan Ferrandis, a young man who’s braved the seas of the Atlantic, to capture a dream, providing an honest income for he and his family. And although he was absolutely ecstatic the day he got the call to join the Yamaha team, you couldn’t help but notice how frustrated he was, through every round that past in which he didn’t win. It truly irked him, frustrating him to his core that he couldn’t climb to the peak of that distinguished mountaintop. But something felt a tad bit different when rolling into Seattle. And it would become a reality, where the process of opportunity and hard work, would be at a staggering crossroads. He felt strong all day, putting out a blistering effort throughout the realm of practice. It would provide positive vibes to all in his camp, reassuring everyone in his camp, that he had matters under control. Transitioning into his heat race, the eighth place start would come to the surprise of many. But he would continue to fight and claw, as a true championship contender should. Never being disgruntled or dismayed, he would continue to penetrate the field to the fullest extent, using his Yamaha 250F as a deadly weapon and force of destruction. Slicing tires, egos, and aspirations with his ability to pass, he would continue to look forward while teammate Colt Nichols attempted to sprint away. While he would finish second, his predator instinct would begin to kick in to overdrive. It was on heightened alert for the main event, and although he would see teammate Colt Nichols go down early, he would take advantage of any opening in his immediate view. Getting around Jimmy Decotis shortly thereafter, he would finally find himself on the final frontier of sorts, attacking the track with an open road ahead. Although he could see the Kawasaki of Adam Cianciarulo in his peripheral vision, it would be of no demise to his self-belief. Taking the checkered flag, there were no words to describe the episode of winning he just displayed.
“First off congrats to Dylan; it’s very well deserved, and he’s a first class rider.”
Winning is nothing to new, to that of Adam Cianciarulo. Accumulating race wins, accolades, and championship since his inception as an amateur motocross racer, he’s done nothing but ascend as each year has passed by. Progressing from one minicycle standard to the next, his speed would carry over into the professional ranks, where the boys at Pro Circuit snatched him up instantly. Believing in his true ability, they’ve kept him signed for a series of years, understanding the true potential that he had. And coming into Seattle, there were few in the pits, doubting his chances of displaying another spectacular performance. A harmonious artist aboard the green-hued motorcycle throughout the likes of qualifying, the way he would transition from one corner to the other, was truly applaud worthy. His masterful assertion of the chassis through the whoop section, was something that few could display themselves. Warranting a standing ovation from the crowd, many in attendance were standing upon their feet as he exited the tunnel. Beyond focused for the heat race, he would display a stoic sense of tranquility when behind the line for this particular round of racing. He knew the plan must be executed, in order to be placed in the position of his liking. Therefore, he would absolutely shoot out of the gate, disregarding any opponent that was in his horizontal parameters. Sliding the rear wheel throughout these series of bowl turns, the tread of the back tire would lock up, while the clutch was being held. Dumping the lever shortly thereafter, he would then catapult himself into the following lane, soaring into another stratosphere. Using his lanky frame to scrub every portion of airtime possible, the lead would continue to lengthen by the time the checkered flag would fly. Now, the main event, would be of actuality. The facade of heat race finishes and qualifying times were now non-existent, and he was salivating at the thought of a strong result for this round of racing. Fourth off the start, he would watch as competitor Colt Nichols would fling over the bars, resulting in an inherited position. Quickly working his way around Michael Mosiman and Jimmy Decotis, it was just he and Ferrandis setting sail on the field. He would desperately try to make his way around the Yamaha rider; but the Frenchman wasn’t giving an inch. Knowing that valuable points were at stake, he understood that he could afford a second place ride at this point in the championship.
“The whoops were honestly really good; I felt as if I was one of the strongest in them throughout the course of the day.”
Although a long way from home, Jimmy Decotis brought his full effort to the town of Seattle, for this particular springtime showdown. Literally on a polar opposite coast from his home in Massachusetts, Decotis knew within his head, that he had the ability to adapt to any particular racing surface, climate, and atmosphere presented. He would look to assert himself as an alpha throughout the likes of practice, as he was one of the first bikes to roll the chassis out to the straightaway. With the waving of the green flag, he would simply dash throughout the opening laps, mimicking that of a race rather than ease of qualification. This idea would ring true as each lap would pass, where he could be seen urgently glancing at the clock just above the finish line. As it would strike zero, he would land off of the double, taking his arms off immediately and letting them relax into the breeze of the Pacific Coast. Going back to the trailer, he was fluid with language to help carry he and his team perform, assessing what needed to be corrected for the night show. Sixth off the start to begin the heat race, he understood that he would have to weed through highly-touted competitors, in order to be granted a spot he would desire. The top five would be a benchmark of completion, followed by fourth, third, and so on, all the way until he was placed in second. Just behind that of Adam Cianciarulo, he would yearn for the thought of a mirroring result in the main event. Getting out to an absolutely utopian start for the main event, Decotis was truly in contention for the win to begin. With Nichols going down just ahead, Decotis would then take the lead, taking reign at the front of the field for a few laps. Keeping the momentum going, he would fight tooth and nail to keep Dylan Ferrandis behind him; but it was to no avail, where both he and Cianciarulo would make their way around. Keeping the front end off the ground throughout the course of sand rollers, there was simply no letting off around this Seattle circuit. He knew the podium was attainable, especially after taking a subtle glance over his shoulder. Residing on the last step of the podium, you could see the amount of joy overwhelming the JGR Suzuki rider.
With the Husqvarna team going under major employee turnover throughout the years, the managerial crew was in a conundrum of sorts, in regards to just who they would hire in the recent future. Michael Mosiman was a rider they had their eye on, watching him with keen regard throughout the midst of his amateur career. As he would begin to blossom, so too would their interest; resulting in a signage early on in his pro-am career, putting him under the factory tent almost immediately. With a storied racing background, he felt confident in his abilities to generate strong results. But, like with any other youngster, there was a cluster of butterflies within him prior to his inception as a professional. He’s endured, willing to get through the initial jitters, and continued to ascend as months had passed. Mosiman was now eager to get on the track at Seattle, ready to truly make an impact on this 2019 Monster Energy Western Supercross series. Displaying a sound sense of rhythm throughout qualifying, his efforts would push him to the front of the field; with just a few competitors in front of him, once the final flag would fly. Ninth on the first lap of the heat race, he would remain calm under pressure. Knowing that each position inherited would result in a better gate choice, he would climb forward with all of his might. Slowly plucking through the series of heavy competition, the top five would be a keen reality to his present-day circumstance. Just behind the likes of Jimmy Decotis and Cameron McAdoo, Mosiman would reside fourth for the conclusion of this race; and the main event was around the corner. The second race was then upon him, and you could see him truly flip the switch into an aggressive manner. Pushing the pace to begin, he had to monitor his throttle control, as any surplus of movement, could result in the back-end sliding out. Hitting these series of triple-triple combinations, he would wait as riders began to fall around him. Moving into the top five permanently, he would preciously eye the fourth place ride, just one spot off the podium. The tearoff’s would begin to be pulled, as he made his way deeper and deeper into lap traffic. Taking hold of his best overall finish ever, Mosiman would absolutely be ecstatic as he crossed the line one final time.
With the Seattle Seahawks normally residing here throughout the year, many fans in the area are used to astronomically loud noise protruding from the bounds of these walls. However, with football season being a thing of the past, numerous citizens in the area were searching for a bit of thrill-seeking entertainment, in order to satisfy their needs. Chris Blose knew what it would take to become a crowd favorite, and would start his antics early. As fans would come by the pit area, he would be one of the first to stand, shake their hand, and offer to take a picture. It was little things like this, which would have the crowd screaming and yelling when he would proceed around their particular area of seating in practice. Revving the bike to the moon, his motor screaming to a certain decibel range, would be in an indication of just how well he was feeling beneath the shell of his helmet. Trying out a series of lines throughout the confines of this sector, each lap, his mechanic would reach over the paddock with a thumbs up. Nodding his head in agreement, he would go onto take an admiral spot on the leaderboard. The heat race would be a standout place for Blose, where he would be continuing to work forward off of his foundation of practice times. The number 111 would display actually exceptional riding style, choosing to both jump and skim the whoops when necessary. Taking a page out of Dylan Ferrandis’ book, he would follow the Yamaha to the best of his ability as the number thirty-four worked his away around. And although this particular outlet of racing was rather short, each lap sustained in the current position of third, would offer him heaps of confidence throughout the course of his frontal lobe. All in all, this race would be considered a success; third place once all had concluded, had him stoked for the main event. Sixteenth off the line, it would be easier to see where a rider this far back could be distraught; however, Blose was a veteran of the class, remaining poised when matters got tough. Slowly working his way through the field, his process of analysis was truly a game changer when sorting through various odds and ends of the course; resulting in a significant gain of positional change. Fifth overall at the stripe, this was truly one of his best performances ever.
With many people around the world, a typical 9-5 work week is considered the norm. Clocking in and clocking out, the course of their efforts are displayed throughout Monday-Friday, eagerly searching for a day of relaxation, as Saturday and Sunday roll around. But this, those days that seem oh so precious to many, are the times that racers of motocross and Supercross, have to perform. RJ Hampshire understands that Saturday is a place where his checks are earned and cashed. If he doesn’t perform here, then the source of income may cease, in somewhat of a rapid manner. He didn’t let the pressure accumulate though, as he looked awfully loose throughout the course of qualifying. Shakings his arms out over the “SX” triple, there was a period in time where he honestly appeared to be riding around the tack, in a “Sunday Cruise” type manner. But it was efficiency that was being displayed by both he and team, where they too were working on the bike throughout the paddock in a timely manner. It appeared as though everything in his realm was firing on all cylinders, leaving nothing but a positive aura around him as he walked to the line for the heat race. The gate would fall, and he would be absolutely dashing around the raceway; feeling as though he was on cloud nine so to speak. Embracing the moment, it was pure adrenaline that was propelling him around this rather slick circuit, but he had to make sure to not get too “antsy.” If that were the case, he could be face first into the soil, almost immediately. Luckily he would stay upright, throwing down consecutive solid laps in order to sustain the sixth place ride. With the main event around the corner, he took a moment to visualize before getting on the motorcycle. Cranking the engine to life, he would storm down the opening few straightaways, battling with the likes of Mitchell Harrison. Hammering down through the sand section, he didn’t have time to blink, in regards to noticing who was around, or even what lap he was on. The laser-like focus was imminent, something that was of crucial transition to his flow forward. With just a few short laps to go, he would be placed into the sixth slot for a results keeping standard. Buckling down, he would make sure to bring it home, stoked with how he would end up.
With the open-domed stadium hosting this particular round of Supercross, many both in the stands and throughout the pits, wondered if substantial moisture would hold off. Luckily, the clouds decided to withstand the urge to drop cumulative droplets, and the racing surface for Seattle would be rather pleasing. Mitchell Harrison found himself enjoying the track from the get-go, letting it all hangout for the respective territory of practice. Hitting fourth gear in multiple areas of course layout, he would hold the throttle on as long as possible down these respective straightaways. Keeping the front wheel light through the sand rollers, you could watch from a distance, seeing his body transition to the rear of the motorcycle. His efficiency would pay off, vaulting him to a solid position on the leaderboard. The heat race would then take off, and the field would barrel into the opening laps. With riders pin-balling off each other, it was a true force field of ricocheting when opponents began to scatter. Yet, he had to focus on what was in front of him; there wasn’t anything else that mattered, other than his current position. Attempting to roost Justin Starling behind, the pellets he was beginning to throw were seriously deterring the competition behind him. So every so often, you could see a little bit of exaggerative clutching, just to hurl a few of this chips further and further. With the white flag now coming about, he knew he had to withstand the walls that were coming in, one last time. He couldn’t break, forcing him into the LCQ, or worse, missing the main event. Luckily he would hold on, walking across timing and scoring with a sixth place spot. Yellow flags would immediately litter the course to begin the main event, as riders like Colt Nichols were crashing to the ground. With these rather speedy rhythm sections, he had to be careful in his timing operation. Each transition, would have to be masterful; landing with the throttle on, and staying sound while jumping through each lane. His triple-triple line past the mechanics area, was truly exceptional. Keeping both the competition and fans on their toes, the laps would dwindle, yet he would sustain. The crowd would begin to cheer, indicating that the leader was approaching the finish line; and he could feel the sense of urgency overtaking him. Dashing to the final stripe, the seventh place tally would be his.
All throughout this week of practice, Cameron McAdoo felt as though he had a rocketship underneath him. Powered by gallons of high-octane fluid, he would simply take a step back and marvel at the bike being revved by the mechanic. Appealing to all his senses, he realized just how blessed he was to be doing what he loved, as a career. Understanding just how fortunate he was, the sense of being, purposes, and drive would overtake him. Leading him to this particular round of Seattle, where he showed extreme amounts of gratefulness to those in his corner, as well as the fans that came up to greet him. Almost accumulating a bit of arm pump from how much scribing he was doing with the marker, he felt as though good karma would be coming his way, throughout the course of the night. At the beginning of the practice session, he could be seen riding around the track, giving thumbs up to respective members of the crowd. Whipping the chassis into the wind over the “SX” triple, there was a sense of joy overtaking him as he complied a significant accumulation of fast laps. Transcending into the heat race, his positive attitude would ring through and through, even when he was stuck behind a bit of traffic. Never letting the heart rate rise, or lactic acid begin too accumulate, he would endure as the laps began to trickle on. Holding off the likes of Michael Mosiman, his mechanic would continue to help him rally, relaying him for just a few more laps left. The checkered flag would then fly, and he would put his bike into the third place ride. As the first laps of the main event would come about, the field would begin to shuffle and sort themselves out. With yellow flags being thrown every which way, he would advance a spot up initially, as leader Colt Nichols would go over the bars. Going through these serious of triples and slick straightaways, he had to be utterly careful with the twisting of the throttle. Swaying the bike side to side, he knew he would have to keep a feverish pace if he wanted Enzo Lopes to remain behind him. As the flags began to change colors, his resiliency would stand clear; it was eighth place in which he would receive. No questions asked, he knew his best effort would be placed forward.
Before the break, Enzo Lopes had a bit of momentum going, in regards to solid finishes within the series. Trying his best to keep the ball rolling so to speak, he would immediately forget any mistakes that were made, in a practice of visualizing successful occurrences. Prior to practice for this round of Seattle, he could be seen sitting by himself, nodding his head to the music being played within his ears. It was his way of getting in the zone, as a trance of success would begin to engulf his mind, forcing him into action shortly thereafter on the practice track. He never looked to see who was beside him in qualifying, focusing forward with blinders like a race-horse in the stall. Galloping his 250f machine around the field, he would appear as a stallion on Derby Day, staying as unblemished as one could, all the while throwing down absolute heaters. Hovering near the top of the leaderboard, he would pull into the mechanic’s area, receiving a bit of encouragement and reassurance from those in his corner. Heading back out, one final episode of sprinting, would occur, cementing him in an optimal position for the racing thereafter. The field would appear as though they were in a magnetic universe for the opening circuit, one front end seemingly attached to the opposite rear end; so and so forth. In a train of absolute raw speed, he had to focus on the task at hand, rather than the 250f that was flying behind him. Keeping his overall speed sound and in harmonic rhythm, the laps would begin to accumulate; yet his position wouldn’t deviate. Finishing in the fifth spot, there would be nothing but confidence oozing from the shell of his helmet. As the field would barricade themselves into the opening bend for the main event, he had to be careful, not to lean in and create a domino effect of sorts. Because if you wanted to discuss problematic episodes in the highest degree, that would be it. Pushing forward as the laps would begin to pile on, his poise would be rather applaud worthy; never one to just let opponents around. The stamina of his being would then come into play, as the fifteen-plus minute race would begin to take its toll. His ability to remain steadfast was key in his overall position of ninth, where he would reside.
With the series taking a rather long hiatus of sorts, many in the field were tempted to take a bit of a break. A few days away from the gym, track, and stresses of racing could do a rider well, allowing the body to adjust if necessary. However, for competitors like Justin Starling, each day was filled to the absolute brim with work to hone his craft. And that’s exactly what he wanted, as the forces that were inside him as a competitor, attracted him to working every single moment of the day. Therefore, he would come into the round of Seattle rather prepared, feeling as though he could outlast much of the competition that entered in beside him. Sprinting off the line with a burst of speed, no time on the track was spent wasted. He began to mimic each lap, as if it were the white flag of a main event. It was as though it were a dyer need, to better himself as each circuit would pass. Being propelled by his mechanic, leaning over the paddock while waving a towel in clockwise motion, the subtle sign let him know that he had his crew rallying behind him. Satisfied with his result as practice would taper off, he would look forward to the heat race, as ready as ever. Everyone in the crowd would then dive to the left, a current of testosterone slamming into this rather tight window. Emerging fourth his charismatic style would be portrayed with hints of whipping when possible. To many, it would show just how relaxed he was, especially when the pressure was on. Feeling a bit of a push from Dylan Merriam behind, it was all that was needed for he to secure seventh. With the fastest riders of the day now sorted together for the main event, he would work in the early going to establish his presence near the top ten. Taking matters into his own hands, he wouldn’t wait for a specific opening; instead, dive-bombing the bow of his motorcycle into the sea of riders in front of them. Pushing them to scurry as they saw the hue of his motorcycle in their peripheral vision. A mechanism of aggression, he would act as a predator, swallowing up riders like Robbie Wagemen. Cemented into tenth in the final few laps, he would be pleased with how he wrapped up this particular main event.