Ridley Holland has just lost the love of her life. She has no desire to return to the world of motocross, but she knows Teuvo would want her to continue. So she plays the part: an upcoming professional athlete with inevitable determination to domina...
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Jacks
It isn't difficult to read how damaged this team is—and we haven't even hit the track yet. Each one of them has a figment of the past haunting them. It hangs in the air like smoke; thick and suffocating. Although Martin had limited compassion for these three while inducting me, this isn't far from what I was expecting. Motocross, despite its mercilessness, is a binding sport. Whether or not you like it, found family ties will develop. We build relationships on trust and happiness with a sprinkle of competition.
Blakely continues to look over her shoulder at the track, as if Teuvo is about to come over the last jump and skid to a stop behind them. Dyami fiddles with his leather bracelet. Teuvo had the same one; I can recognize it from all the photos on social media. Where I sense the worst is with Ridley. Not only does she bear the trauma of individual injuries but also experiencing the death of a fellow racer. While Blakely and Dyami will make eye contact and interact, Ridley continues to stare at the ground, tracing the tattoos on her arm. She's lost in her mind, and I fear the consequences should she continue down this path.
Seeing their pain brings out the psychologist in me, but also places me in a difficult position. Based on my experiences with Vargas, I can't take Ridley's words with a grain of salt. If I don't display authority and imply the need to achieve perfection as a rider, I'll lose credibility. All Vargas cares about is winning. What I need to do is find a balance. Something that satisfies Vargas but still enables me to treat these three like human beings.
I tuck that away for another time. Today isn't about training. It's about becoming familiar with what this team wants.
I clap and say, "Okay. Today's session'll be brief. As I was telling Ridley, we're not riding today. Instead, I want to create a collaborative agreement. Although you will race against each other, we are still a team. In order to function as a team, we need to create an outline of what is expected of each of us, not only as co-workers, but via our roles as well. In order to function, we need to be collaborative."
From my backpack hanging off the handlebar of my dirt bike, I remove a notebook and pen. I flip to the first clean page and scrawl collaborative agreement across the top. These are a relatively unknown factor throughout post-secondary institutions in Canada. Although there are some flaws within them, I much prefer them over approaches that harbour the basic attributes of colonization. Not everyone learns the same. No two lives are the same. Collaborative is synonymous with intersectional; everyone needs to be included.
When I look up, Blakely and Dyami are staring at me. They look like they're mulling over my concept. "Any ideas?"
Blakely's eyebrows furrow. "Respectful. No misogynistic comments or exclusive language. Use the right pronouns. That kind of thing."
I nod, scribbling it down.
Dyami speaks next: "Come prepared."
Again, I jot it down. Now that they have thrown around a couple of examples, the ideas are circulating. Between Blakely and Dyami, a complete list is constructed within a matter of minutes, with the priority components being respect and commitment. Support follows close behind. All the ideas they're pitching make me realize I have a solid team in my hands, despite the brokenness. What concerns me is that Ridley hasn't said a word. All she's done is stand there, staring at the ground. Either lost in her thoughts or memories. The latter would be worse, but I don't doubt it. Memories are powerful weapons.
