The Fast and the Fractured

Dennis Jonon lined up for his final race of the day at Grain Valley MX Park the same way he always does: crooked. He wore a red-and-yellow jumpsuit, a silver crash helmet and a three-digit number on the back of his uniform for identification. But most here recognized him by his posture.

The 17-year-old from Spring Hill lined up cockeyed because, really, he had no choice. A nasty spill had left one leg two inches shorter than the other. He leaned toward the right on his good leg. He draped his left leg over the saddle of the 450-cc Suzuki motorbike. The bum leg looked small and thin. It was capped in a boot with a 2-inch lift.

Engines from about a dozen riders crowding the starting gates growled around him. They had gathered on Easter Sunday to pay homage to their own gear-head religion. More than 150 riders from around the metro competed in the Midwest Spring Series Motocross event — mostly for bragging rights. The day's top purse: $200.

Dennis had dominated the three races in which he'd competed so far. He took first in both the qualifier and the final of the 250-cc class, then another first in the qualifier for the 450-cc race. He promised nothing short of four straight victories.

Dennis outgrew turning in circles on small-time tracks like this one last winter. That's when he began road-tripping to national indoor American Motorcyclist Association supercross events in Orlando, Detroit and Daytona, competing in a division just below pro riders he used to read about, such as Ricky Carmichael. He placed well enough to make the night-show heats. He never made the cut to the main televised event, but it was impressive for a rider from the Midwest, where the weather prevents year-round practices.

The touring rider had returned, his skin darkly tanned, his hair short and bleached. He gave one-word responses to questions from riders with puka-shell necklaces or back tattoos. How was Daytona? Sketchy. How were the tracks? Dry.

Terry Jonon got his son interested in motocross and, like his son, nearly died in a horrific dirt-bike accident. He waited in his pickup's air-conditioned cab for most of the day and read a newspaper, emerging for his son's races. When Dennis loped away to banter with friends, Terry lounged in a camping chair behind the trailer. His opinion of his son's performance so far has been blunt: Dennis has been "just dicking around."

Across the track, Dennis watched a man hoist a card that indicated how many seconds remained until the final race began. When the man flipped the card to "5," the engine growl became a roar. Dennis stayed in his leaning position, eyeing the line of orange and blue gates near his front tire.

The gates dropped. He cranked his handlebars straight, shoved hard off his foot and pulled back on the throttle in one fluid motion. Dennis sat straight-up and pulled a small wheelie, spraying dust. He tucked his bum leg against the chassis, a reminder that, in this high-flying demolition derby, both father and son have wagered their bodies against success.

On a scorching winter day in 1990, Terry Jonon dropped 2-year-old Dennis off with a baby-sitter and headed for the harsh desert outside Tucson, Arizona. A veteran rider of desert endurance races, Terry opened throttle on a newly installed motor.

In about a month, he was favored to win the "old timers" class of a 150-mile race across a similarly endless sandlot of cactus and stones, from the Mexican border to tropical Puerto Penasco, Mexico. The 33-year-old was a production planner at the Tucson branch of Garrett Air Research (now called Honeywell), which made turbochargers for cars and planes. He credited his time as a Navy petty officer with teaching him the self-discipline that he needed to practice extensively before a race. Sometimes that meant riding alone.

Terry first piloted choppers on the busy streets of Orange County, California, as a teenager in the early '70s. His gang of buddies took off their side mirrors and added knobby tires to their Honda Mini Trails so they could canvass the beaches. He became addicted to the freedom of riding off-road without lanes or traffic laws.

When he and his wife moved to Arizona, they shunned suburbia for a house near the desert. On weekends, they explored the area on two wheels.

During his practice run, the barren landscape blurred as Terry accelerated. He sweated beneath his helmet and protective body armor. Four miles into the backcountry, he saw a place where the path dropped away completely into the bank of a wash. He'd jump down into the empty river bottom and run it like a walled-in obstacle course.

The next move was supposed to be routine. He had hit that jump more times than he could count. Approaching the gap at 20 mph, he pulled up hard on the handlebars and gunned the engine. His tires spun in midair. The bike pitched forward slightly. The last thing he remembered was diving toward the gravel below. The front tire must have hit first and twisted — a move that would be like jacking the steering wheel of a car on a freeway. He and his bike rolled head over wheels.