A Desert as my Safe Haven

A personal essay by Cameron Cornejo

Faster, Faster, Faster, until the thrill of speed overcomes the fear of death. 

– Hunter S. Thompson

Sometimes, I reflect on the days when it was ok to just be me. The days when there was nothing but the wide open plain to accompany me and my dirt bike in the desert of Nevada. 

“Will it be safe to ride today?” my brother whimpers. Paralyzed with fear, he looks up at our father with those grey-blue, sleep filled eyes. He’s young, about 8. For a family that is so active outdoors, he seems to fear a lot of things. 

Our father looks out over the subliminal beauty of the desert, contemplating his youngest son’s question.

“You know,” he replies, more to his wife than to answer the question, “the desert would be very beautiful if it wasn’t for all these annoying dirt bikes." 

We'd arrived the night before, camping in the small metal trailer. Wind and rain had battered the walls all night long, which probably only added to my brothers fear. For me, however, the desert morning was quite beautiful.

It wasn’t quite day yet; a pinkish yellow hue originates from the east. In the moisture filled atmosphere, orange and yellow dyes stain the cumulus filled sky, contrasting light and dark. The cloud tops, still grey, span bushy and long across the morning horizon while the rising sun warms the underside of the puffy wisps. The sand covered mountains slowly emerge as their silhouettes take form. All is still. A windless silence emerges after the previous night’s tumultuous rainstorm, and a dry rheum like substance crunches underfoot.

Mute to the naked ear, a swarm of uniformly red-faced fire ants busily work in labored futility in a lone desert mound. Its harsh nature reminds the family dog that this is no civilization. A cricket chirps in the distance, and the silent swish-swish of a ground squirrel's tail swings to bat away annoying insects. From somewhere in the distance, one bike after another, like dogs howling, one starts and the whole pack follows, bike after bike, the dusty gold track comes to life with swarming reds and blues and yellows and greens.

For my dad, the loud intermittent brrrraaaap brrraaap sound of men combatting nature disrupts his silent peace – for me, the marvelous musical brrrraaaap brrraaap is just another addition to a melodious symphony.

I muse of the unpolluted power a bike can have when you twist the throttle. Or the silent mental battle at the base of a 3-mile hill climb and a triumphant scream upon a conquered peak. A quick descent where you have to break so hard and the bike shudders and all you hear is the wind in your helmet and the sound of a sand slide chasing you like a pack of wild mustangs. Watch out for those, too!

“Dad,” I call out, “I’m going to get my bike and take her for a morning ride!”

It’s been a running joke in the family, that the only thing I care about is my dirt bike. I roll my eyes at the thought of him making sensual jokes about my love for my bike. He thought he was so hilarious as he jeered:

“Oh, my little dirt bike, I’ll get my little toothbrush and clean your little sprocket” – then his wheezing laugh would follow without fail – ridiculous.

But that doesn’t matter now. All I can think about is how excited I am to be back with my one and only love. Barely able contain myself, I rush to embrace my Juliet. To start the magnificent machine, she requires a kick start, a flip of the throttle switch, a twist to let the fuel flow from the tank into the carburetor. I pull the choke lever into position before making the initial kick.

I’ve become well acquainted with my mistress and know of her fickle moods at different elevations. A quick adjustment of the leak jet and I’ve calmed the loud screeching and sputtering to the smooth and methodical vibration of content.

My father watches from a distance, observing every move I make. A silent sigh and a thought runs through his mind. Oh, my son will never get a girlfriend. He watches me. I can feel silent judgements being passed.

I admire the orange and black plastics that garnish the interior engine of my KTM and a feeling of appreciation floods over me for what I have. I know I don’t show it often, and maybe that’s why we fight so much, but when I’m out here, all troubles fade away.

I strap on a helmet, pads, and most importantly, riding boots. One small dip in the left toe at the wrong moment will result in a broken foot without the proper riding equipment. My dad knows I’ve got a thirst for speed, at times too much, according to my mother. Excitement flowing through my teen body, I mount the maniacal machine.

A perfect day for riding -- I can feel my body trembling with excitement. After a rainstorm is the best time to ride because from where I’m standing, there’s not a ripple or tire track in the fresh crusty sand. A combination between wind and rain has made it smooth and crunchy. Ideal for tire traction. I’m finally ready and nothing can deter my excitement.

“Remember,” a harsh but loving tone breaks me away from my thoughts as my father calls out, “you crash and there will be no more riding for you.” He tries to give me a stern talk, but my thoughts echo the words of T.S Elliot, “I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”

I hit the throttle, throwing flecks of sand at the metal trailer. He’ll surely make me regret that later.