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Father had started competing in motorcycle races known as enduros. The goal of these competitions was to arrive at checkpoints as close to the prescribed time as feasible. As such, it was possible to be the first person across the finish line and yet still lose the race. Toward the end of the first race season that Father participated in, there was a beginners event, and I was excited to join in the adventure. Most of the first part of the course kept to the wide dirt roads nearer the camping areas of Corral Canyon. I felt as though we hadn’t been riding very long when the markers indicated that we were to follow a road which I knew from experience would lead back to the where the course had begun. Father stopped and put his feet down, so I rode up and stopped next to him. Yelling over the sound of our bikes’ engines, he said “I haven’t seen a marker in a while.” He pointed to a pink arrow affixed to a sage bush and continued “It looks like they want us to turn here, but I’m going to ride down this hill and see if I see any other markers. Wait here.” A moment later, he returned. Looking around he said “Well I guess this is it then. This area has some hard trails, so be careful.” Then we followed the arrow and rode down an embankment, across a dry gulch, and up a rocky hill. The trail quickly narrowed and rose at an increasingly steep rate. Father stopped and pulled his goggles up, looking around again. “There’s a turn off up here. If we don’t see any more markers there, we’re going to have to just ride back to camp.” But what he failed to mention was that the turn off was at the top of a three foot tall ledge. I got off and let Father ride my motorcycle up it for me. Soon we arrived at a split in the trail, littered with pink and orange arrows. Father pointed back down the path, and turned again to the direction we had just come. Riding down the trail was more terrifying than going up it had been. Father was in a hurry though, so I did my best to keep pace. Jumping off that ledge, I didn’t have time or energy to waste on being impressed with myself. Several minutes later, we made it back to the main road we had turned from earlier. Father said “I’m going to miss the start of my race, so I have to go. Just follow this road back to camp. You remember where that is, right?” I nodded enthusiastically, and Father sped away. I followed him at a more casual speed. At the bottom of the hill was a series of large signs reading “Beginners Course” and pointing to follow the way Father had just gone. I immediately wondered how he could have missed them. The last few miles of the race, I rode alone. My time at the final checkpoint was 47 minutes late, but I arrived at camp just moments after Father. I slumped into a lawn chair as he scurried around, preparing for his race. Later, he would tell me that the trail we had turned onto was for the professional racers, but it never occurred to me to be proud of having ridden up and down that challenging course, rather I was embarrassed that I had come in last place on my first and ultimately only enduro.