s Monica going to be at the races this
weekend,” asked Lovely Louella as I loaded up
my bike in the Jodymobile.
“Who’s Monica?” I asked in all sincerity.
“You know her. Don’t be stupid you moron,” she said.
“Monica is Monty Floyd’s girlfriend.”
“I didn’t know Monty had a girlfriend,” I replied.
“She’s been his girlfriend for nine years,” said Louella.
“Is Monty going to be there?”
“I dunno. All I know is that I’m gonna be there,” I
This conversation, or one eerily similar to it, takes
place on a weekly basis. You would think that after
all these years Luscious
Louella would have a fairly
decent understanding that
motocross racers don’t talk
about their personal lives to
each other. We talk about
how bad the track is, how
dirty #87 is, how hot it is,
how we were miss-scored in
moto one and how we once
owned a CZ, but we don’t
carry on revealing
conversations about our
deep-rooted fears or
anything remotely private.
“What does Fred Phalange
do for a living?” asked
“I dunno,” I replied.
“You’ve known him for 20
years and you don’t know
what he does for work?”
“It never came up,” I said.
I don’t have any relationship problems with Lovely
Louella—at least none that
I’m aware of. Strangely, the
fact that I’m not aware of
them is a relationship
problem for Louella. Over
the years I always assumed
that she had come to accept
that I answered all of her questions with one-word
answers, knew that while she was telling me about her
day I was looking over her shoulder to watch “American
Dad” on the television, and that I didn’t actually know
what she did for work either.
“When is Crazy Dave’s wife going to have the baby,”
“Oh, is that why she ballooned up?” I replied as she
From what I understand, Louella is the glue that
holds our relationship together. She says that I value
achievement, work and my own self-interests more than
I value her. She, on the other hand, values the depth of
our relationship more than anything else and wants me
to stop retreating into the man cave and talk more about
the important things in life. I accept all that she says as
true—and show my agreement by nodding.
“How has Jimmy Mac been dealing with his
problems,” asked Louella.
“Fine,” I said. “He ordered a Hinson clutch basket to
fix the grabbiness, and that should work.”
“No,” she said. “Monica told me that Sheila said that
Jimmy might have to have surgery on his knee for a
“Oh that,” I said. “I had a torn medial collateral
ligament back in 1992. It’s good now.”
“I’m not asking about your knee,” she said angrily.
“I’m asking how Jimmy Mac is doing.”
Louella likes to say that I’m from Mars, and when she
says that in front of the other wives at the racetrack,
“No, you dope. I meant,
did you see John and Hope’s
baby, Brayden, at the track
“Oh, I wondered where
that smell was coming from,”
I said as a joke. Louella has
no sense of humor where
babies are concerned.
challenge with me is to
correctly interpret what is
going on in my life without
me talking about it. I see the
limitations that this places on
her. She defines her sense
of self through her feelings,
while I suppress my feelings
to focus on problem-solving.
I rarely talk about the races,
my work or my aches and pains. And, when I’m silent,
she often imagines the worst.
“Why did you make that face when you opened the
door? Let me see your right arm,” she insisted. “What
are these dark gouges?”
“I dunno,” I said.
“You need to go to the doctor now,” she said in panic.
“I already saw the doctor. It’s okay.”
“When did you see the doctor?” she asked.
“I went to him three weeks ago after the crash. He said
it will heal if I give it some rest,” I said.
“Why have you kept on racing then? What about the
rest the doctor said your arm needed?”
“Oh, I’ve got that handled. There is a week off from the
races coming up at the end of the month. I’ll rest it then,”
“Mars is too close to earth for you to be from there,”
she said cryptically. ❏
By Jody Weisel