by Tom Haugen

I knew I wanted to be a professional bike rider when I was ten years old. Actually, let me amend that sentiment: what I really wanted to be when I was ten was Dennis McCoy. And I don't mean that in some metaphysical or spiritual nonsensical way; I actually wanted to literally be the exact same human being Dennis was. It only seemed logical, seeing as how he was a professinal bike rider and I wanted to be one as well.

In grade school, back issues of BMX Plus! and Freestylin' Magazine served as my textbooks. I meticulously thumbed through them when I should have been finishing math and social studies assignments. I learned a lot about DMC (as the magazines referred to Dennis) from reading and rereading those pages. He was the only rider in the world who could air ten feet out of a quarterpipe, 360 down a set of stairs, do endless flatland combinations and jump the biggest set of doubles at the track. I was working on the basics out in front of my house day after day, usually in a seemingly endless blur of frustration. My parents used to turn on the light above the mailbox when it was time for me to come in, and as I pedaled back to the garage each night I would reflect on how much progress I was making in the quest to be as good as Dennis, which usually amounted to none.

I vividly recall, at the ripe old age of 14, asking my mom if I would have to go to college if I were making enough money from being a professional rider after high school. It seemed plausible; I mean, DMC only attended college for a semester and then left to ride for a living. My mother stared at me briefly, probably not sure if I was to be taken seriously, and sort of reluctantly responded, "Well, no, I guess not." What she probably really wanted to say was, "Stop day-dreaming and start passing shop class so you can get a real job some day." But being the thoughtful parent she was, she opted not to crush my dream, no matter how far-fetched it seemed.

I did end up going to college and almost finished in fact. In college, I continued to ride my bike every day even though I still couldn't 360 down stairs or do ten-foot airs. In the back of my mind, I still wanted to ride my bike for a living, but at that point it seemed a little more realistic to work overnight. Eventually, haphazardly and so unexpectedly, the opportunity came where I could be a professional bike rider. And, much like DMC, I left a marginally successful college life behind and started living in hotels and eating dinner off the freeways.

My years of memorizing every sentence of every BMX magazine gave me a mildly accurate assessment of what the life of a pro bike rider entailed: travel to exotic countries, free bikes and clothes, pictures in magazines and yor face on TV, signing autograph after autograph to largely appreciative fans. Sure, it's kind of like that in some ways, and in other ways not so much.

Now I'm 27. I still can't do ten-foot airs and my 360s down stairs are at best questionable. I've been a pro for six years, and all the travel, free product and exposure that have come with it have exceeded my expectations ten fold. The magazines of my childhood didn't lie - being a pro is the greatest honor imaginable. And an even better honor is when your phone rings and DMC is calling you to chitchat about nothing in particular. If you had told me when I was ten that someday Dennis McCoy would not only have my phone number, but would actually take the time to use it, I would have passed out cold.

Oh, and by the way, I never did pass shop class, for which I hold Dennis personally accountable. Making birdhouses and ashtrays wasn't for me; I was too busy using scrap wood to cut out miniature ramps, imagining doing ten-foot airs...