Welcome, to the Lucas Oil Legion

You may have noticed some changes taking place with the look and feel of the My Lucas Oil team. At this time, we’d like to introduce you to the all-new team homepage…


Over the course of 2013, we watched our team grow in number and solidarity. We heard about your triumphs—earning the win that you had trained hard for, mastering a new trick, scoring your first podium—and your struggles—horrific crashes, frustrating injuries, and small mistakes that led to great losses.  We witnessed the hours, weeks, and sometimes months it took you to rehabilitate after an injury.  We shared your joy as you passed your love of your sport on to a young loved one.

We watched you go to battle week in and week out, rising to the challenges that competition brings because of your love, even your addiction, to your sport. And throughout all of it, you waved the Lucas Oil flag, you wore our shield, and we, are all the better for it. So today, to the adrenaline junkies, to the Weekend Warriors, to the die-hard dads, and the promising up-and-comers, we welcome you to the all-new Lucas Oil Legion. We are fighters. We are champions. We are many.


A Brief Walk of Fame

When they asked me if I wanted to be the 30 second board girl for the pro race on the following day, I was hesitant.  “Well I’m not sure about wanting to do it,” I said, “But if it helps you guys out, certainly I am willing,” and I told them to put me down as a backup plan. 

I was aware that donning a sexy outfit and sauntering across the track doesn’t do much to help a woman establish her credibility in a man’s sport.  Wasn’t it just recently that I had read a thread on Vital MX debating whether or not all trophy girls were sluts?  An absurd assumption, of course, but that did little to assure me that this was a position I wanted to put myself in.


When 1:00 came the following day, I was whisked off to the starting line for the 450 class race.  Standing just a few feet away from the front lines of battle, I waited for my cue.  I watched as team managers and crew chiefs prepared the gates, carving out ruts in the dirt and carefully aligning the bikes as they came in.  Malcolm Stewart leaned in and exchanged a few words with his brother; Ryan Villopoto’s gaze remained fierce and stoic as people bustled around him; a pretty girl in a pit shirt handed goggles to a privateer I didn’t recognize; and someone leaned in with an umbrella, offering some last minute shade to Ryan Dungey. 


There was a controlled, frenetic energy in the air.  We were just moments from combustion. 

Countdowns were announced.  “Three minutes!” someone called.  Another minute passed. The officials pointed at me, “You’re on in 10-9-8…”  I silently completed the countdown and started my brief walk of fame from one side of the track to the other. Image

In the subsequent two minutes, the earth trembled beneath my feet as the low grumbling of engines grew to a powerful roar.  The fans who were pressed up against the gates all around the start line let out a collective cry of anticipation.  The 40 world-class riders crouched over handlebars like predators, their sights intent upon the next thirty minutes and two laps that lay ahead of them.


In the midst of my personal concerns, I had failed to realize how freaking cool this would be!  The gates dropped, they funneled into the first turn and through the holeshot.  In a quick blur, they were out of sight.


When they asked later if I would be willing to fill in again, this time I responded confidently, “Absolutely.”

The Serendipitous Tale of the Stolen Bike

This is a story about human goodness, about life’s serendipitous events.  Sometimes, the pieces fit together in just the right way…


For the past six weeks of racing events, the bike had served as a focal point of our display.  Branded in the Lucas red, white, and blue, the CRF 250 #36 Troy Lee Designs Honda had been the backdrop for the amateur champions who posed on the podium; it had served in photo opps for the little kids who were placed on top of it, encouraged by proud parents to smile for the photo; it had been oohed and awed over by super fans and veteran racers at all the events we brought it to. 


So when we woke up on Sunday morning to find that it had been stolen in the middle of the night, to say that we were devastated doesn’t accurately convey the dark cloud of anger and shame and sadness that moved in to hover over us.  We had lost the precious cargo that had been entrusted to our keeping. 

Filing a state police report and making announcements over the loudspeaker at Budds Creek did little to reassure me that there was any hope of finding the bike or the culprits.  Surrounded by backwoods trails, the bike could be anywhere.  Most likely, it was long gone by now.

But it was amateur race day, and there was work to be done.  The boss at home urged us to move forward–make the best of the day–so we lugged our supplies through the hot morning drizzle that was all around us like a suffocating bog, and got back to work.

Once our booth and podium display had been erected, the amateur riders who had stuck around to race, along with their families, the track staff, the promoters, and the vendors, began to trickle in to our booth. 

They commiserated with us over the loss of the bike.  They offered their own stories of lost and stolen property.  They cursed the thieves and summoned karma.  “They’ll get theirs,” they said, shaking their heads in solemn disgust.  They searched for solutions and directed us towards nearby trails to search.  

Thirteen year old AJ, who knew the area well, even hopped on his ryno and rode through miles of backwoods to search for the bike, in hopes that it had been stashed somewhere while his dad fed us lunch.

When it was time for winners to be crowned, the mood lifted.  Pint-sized kids on their 50’s showed up to claim their trophies and prizes and stand on the podium, as mom called out “Smile!” and dad added, “Hold up your trophy, son.”  They all beamed with pride.

We snapped photos, shook hands, gave out bags of prizes, offered congratulations, and gradually, in the midst of the excitement, the gloom of the morning burned off.  It’s hard to feel down when everyone around you is so happy, so appreciative, so empathetic.


When Bryce Mauldin, who took first in both his races, realized we were taking photos of all the winners, he went back to his campsite for his racing boots.  He didn’t want to be photographed in his tennis shoes. 

In the meantime, we got to talking to his parents, Shelly and Vance, and the story of the bike unfolded.  We described in detail the events of the morning.  They wished that there was something they could do.

As the afternoon drew to a close and the evening brought some coolness to the muggy day, we said our goodbyes to the Mauldins, along with the others who, just yesterday, had been strangers.


A few miles away, Frank Wood turned off the main road to stop at his property. He parked and got out of his truck.  His eye caught on something out of place–down a ravine, in a half-concealed ditch, something red, white and blue peeked through the dense foliage.  When he trudged down to investigate, he found a dirt bike.

Having had his own bike stolen in the past, he knew that thieves in the area would steal bikes from the track, stash their finds in the woods, and come back with pickup trucks during the night to take off with them.  So he called the police.

The police officers checked police report records for a stolen bike, but found nothing.  They called a tow truck to haul it off to impound.

Meanwhile, Vance and Shelly Mauldin were on their way to the grocery store, but they missed their turn.  Just as they were turning back around, they spotted a red, white, and blue dirt bike strapped onto a tow truck on the side of the road.


They pulled over excitedly, explaining that they knew the bike’s owner, and then lead the police offices back to the track with the runaway bike in tow.

When Bryce and his friend Joey raced up to us on their bikes breathless from pedaling to tell us that the bike had been found, we were incredulous.  But that is just how we found it—strapped to the back of the tow truck, surrounded by a buzz of excited people, everyone chiming in to tell their part of the story. 

Carrie Coombs-Russell, the front-woman of MX sports, smiled serenely, sipping on a Coors Light, and said, “I told you it would turn up.” 


[Photo: Frank Wood]

“If Frank hadn’t stopped at his property,” we mused, “they would have come back for it tonight.”

“If we hadn’t missed our turn,” Shelly realized, “we wouldn’t have seen them to identify the bike.”

“If I hadn’t gone back for my boots, we never would have gotten the story,” Bryce observed.

“If we had given up on the day, and flaked out on running the podium…” I said to Jason, and he nodded knowingly. 

We hugged and cheered and stared long and wild-eyed at the prized bike before us.  We couldn’t believe our great luck, and looking around, we couldn’t believe we had so many new friends with whom to share the triumph.


[Photo: Vance Mauldin, Shelly Mauldin, Joey Farrell, Bryce Mauldin]