was on a 2020 Husqvarna FC 350. My brand new Deus Ex Machina Alpinestars Tech 10s and Troy Lee Designs GP Air jersey, race pants, and gloves were brilliant white—or at least they were before I had to roll through the muck from my pit area to the staging area. Before I even started the race, it looked like I’d just jumped into a mud bath at one of the local spas. But there was no rest and relaxation this weekend.

In front of me were the first rows of poor souls to depart for the last time I would ever see them in semi-clean gear. The starting line to my left was fairly empty except for some guy riding a Beta, though he looked to have the whole Beta factory support team behind him. Oh, he’s going down, my competitive spirit says in my head, but honestly, he looks formidable, and that got inside my helmet. To my right? Two-time FIM Motocross World Champion Trampas Parker. Well third isn’t bad. I shout his name and he comes over. I introduce myself and shake his hand out of respect—respect that I’m about to bury this guy under 10 feet of Indiana mud—and he introduces me to his friends who are also racing. There goes the neighborhood crosses my mind. Remember, I’m just here to participate.… And to win.

Wait, why was I here again, and how did it even get this far?

New Beginnings

Let’s take it back to March 9, the weekend of the 2019 Daytona Supercross. It was there that my Racer X boss Davey Coombs decided I should join him on his trip from the speedway to the opening round of the Amsoil/AMA Grand National Cross Country Series in nearby Palatka. Now is a good time to mention that although I grew up riding in SoCal, I had never raced a day in my life, even though a younger version of myself would tell you it was my dream to be a professional motocross racer. Keep dreaming, kid.

Not sure if you’ve ever been to Palatka, but there isn’t much around but sand, swamps, trees, and definitely some wildlife. When we arrived, there was even a sign to alert racers and spectators alike of a local concern: BEWARE OF ALLIGATORS.

I got the behind-the-scenes grand tour of my first GNCC race, from the big rigs to the mass start to the electronically scored checkpoints to the televised finish. I could go on all day about the inner workings of the TV trailer and what it takes for RacerTV.com to bring you the live racing action at home, but even more impressive (and necessary) for me was the AC inside the trailer. Turns out Florida gets hot and humid in March. Who knew?

DC then suggested we go for an e-bike ride on the course on some sweet bikes we borrowed from Specialized. Despite the heat, I wasn’t gonna tell him no. We took off riding along the trail, and I gotta give it to the guy—he was working me. He pulled away several hundred yards and I was left sweating, out of breath, pedaling toward who-knows-how-many gators. The TV trailer was calling my name.

As the main afternoon races began and the heat index grew, we watched the starts and I saw some familiar faces nearby. We caught a glimpse of Travis Pastrana, who was there watching after he himself had raced in the morning Industry class—privateer status, even! Donny Emler Jr. from FMF was in attendance, and as always, looked like he was having a good time despite the humidity. Me, on the other hand, I was sweating profusely and still a little worried that my inner thermometer was going to burst.

We closed out the day and started to take our leave, me glad to be both back in some AC and not made to be some gator’s lunch. As we headed back to Daytona, DC turned to me and, in a serious but steady tone, said, “Trent, I have an idea. I think you should get yourself in shape and maybe race one of these GNCCs. It would be fun to follow your whole process and maybe even make your journey into a magazine story. You can start now and race the series final at the Ironman GNCC in October.”

It wasn’t a question, nor a suggestion. He was telling me to do it. Eager to please—and glad to suddenly have some motivation to get myself in shape—I shook his hand. What ensued in the coming months would be some of the best experiences of my life. I just didn’t realize it until it was all over.

The Process

Back in California, I enlisted the help of Johnny Louch and his team at the W Training Facility in Wildomar—the perfect place for me. My first day consisted of setting some goals. Charles Ellis made sure I had everything I needed and made me feel like family. So did Cody Gerhard, who was instrumental in my training because he used to race GNCC himself.

It was time to ride—and there are plenty of tracks near me. I could head in any direction and find a wide variety of terrain. What we don’t really have are trees and mud, or rain. Or even ruts for that matter. I wouldn’t see any of that until I got to Indiana. What I would see was the inevitable: a big practice crash that left me hurting. I had decided I wanted to jump the triple at Fox Raceway. It was a calculated risk, sure. And it turns out I’m bad at math. I was woken up by a flagger asking me if I was okay. I wasn’t. Three broken ribs, a fractured pelvis, and a broken foot. Once I healed, I would practically be starting over. And when it hurt, I slapped some of that MedTerra CBD rapid-cooling roll-on where it needed to go, and I felt like a new man. Seriously, how does this stuff work?

Race Ready?

Cut to the last Friday in October, and go-time in Indiana was finally here. The weather was beautiful, and the massive Ironman Raceway had become a large village of RVs, off-road toys, and vendors, with people everywhere. I have never seen so many people waiting to participate in an event. It was mind-blowing. But even after all of that, I didn’t really feel any pressure or nervousness. That is, until I took a walk down into the woods where I’d be racing. It was beautiful, but the dirt was nothing like what I’d ridden. Soft, yet tacky and filled with traction. Clear and unmistakable lines that would guide you through the race trails. There was a creek I would inevitably be drawn to, and promptly fall on my ass. And even after that mishap, I felt great, and my loss of emotion turned to excitement. Now it was on!

But that was Friday. Come Saturday, the weather took such an unexpected turn, you’d swear the moto gods didn’t want us to race. It was raining like mad, the wet stuff coming down in all directions. Now it was straight-up fear for me. But I came all this way, and I was not about to quit.

Sunday Funday

Seven months after my first glimpse of a GNCC in March, I was on the starting line in Indiana. The Beta was to my left, Trampas Parker to my right.

The opening ceremonies and the national anthem concluded. Hundreds of engines came to life as everyone warmed them up one final time before shutting them down, as GNCC is a dead-engine start race.

“TEEEEEEEEEEEN SECONDS…” came the shout from GNCC announcer Rodney Tomblin. And then, just like that, the clouds scattered and the sun was shining. It was a cruel development, because the damage from the rain was done, and we’d be racing in bottomless mud.

The lines started splashing off into the muck, one minute apart, and when my row was next, it all kicked in: all my worries, fears, and stress were gone. It was just me and the referee who waved the green flag. Dead-engine start, my finger on the start button like a trigger, my elbows up, eyes forward instinctually as if I’d done this a million times before. I saw green and lit it up.

We were off, and for the first moments slipping and sliding through the start straight to the left-hand turn, I truly felt alive. Every moment of the past seven months had led to this. I didn’t see anyone around me—I had the holeshot! Or so I thought—until I saw a Beta inch right in front of me. I was so close to leading my first race.

It was downhill from there. It was a bloodbath, too. Okay, maybe not that dramatic, but . . . a mudbath for sure. Imagine racing with 800 of your friends in the middle of a damp green forest with thousands of people around. It felt like a movie battlefield, the bikes and bodies and people lying around scattered and frantic, struggling to pick up their machines or push them through deep ruts. Spectators pointed you toward lines that could either be good or bad, depending on their kindness or orneriness. I was busy trying to dodge trees while making sure I didn’t lose any momentum, because even the smallest of uphills could be the end. At this point, all I was thinking was don’t stop for anything. But then someone went down in front of me—what could I do? I took my first of many spills. Great. I went to take a drink of water from my USWE hydration pack, but the nozzle was caked in mud. I got my bike up to realize that whatever color it was before, it was no longer. It belonged to the mud gods now. I hopped back on and we kept it moving.

After what seemed like an eternity, I made it out of the woods and ended up on the actual Ironman motocross track. I took in the fact that this part of the race I knew how to do fairly well. I made a pass of the finish line and, after a little bit, ended up back in the woods. There was an immediate hill section that I had no issues with the first time around, but this time I tried a new route. It would be my downfall. It was a little bit steeper. I gave the bike everything she had, but halfway up the hill, I lost power and fell over. No biggie—I was used to how the ground tastes by now. I got up, freed my leg from the machine, and hopped on to start again. She fired up and I hit the throttle. No juice. I hopped off and made sure I was in first, gave her a little throttle, and saw the rear tire wasn’t spinning. A spectator yelled, “Your clutch is done, bud.”

I tried everything I could think of, but nothing would get my bike moving again. Well, nothing but a tow vehicle. I’d later find out that my slave cylinder just needed to be adjusted, and I could have continued. Oh, the small things in life!

After the race, I got myself cleaned up, which didn’t take as long as it used to, because I’d lost 60 pounds in this whole process. I headed over to the results board, just to see where I ended up. I found my class and saw first place—Trampas Parker, of course. The name after it in second, did, however, stun me: Trent Lopez.

Turns out everyone else in the class DNF’d before completing a lap. I may not be experienced in racing, but I do know that a podium is a podium. And I’ll take it!