#19 Not a quitter

I wasn’t a quitter. I never was. 

When I was a kid, I was small. In Little League, they moved me from the farm team to the majors only because I was too old for the farm team – 12. My first year in the majors, my batting average was .067. I was trying. I wanted to do well. But I was 89 pounds and the pitcher had a beard. I had no chance.

At the start of my second year in the majors, they did something I got the idea they had never done before – they put me BACK down to the farm team. I was humiliated. All my friends knew. I could have done the obvious thing – quit. I think that’s what they wanted me to do. I didn’t. After three games or so, and I think some heated debate among various coaches for it being a terrible thing to do to a kid, they moved me back up to the majors – sequestered to right or left field when I did play. I don’t know why – I just don’t quit. 

Some people don’t play unless they know they can win. Only if they can be the best in the world at it – or the best in the neighborhood or company. This ensures they don’t play much. They’ll take themselves out so they don’t lose; so they don’t look foolish. If they don’t play, they can’t lose, but they can’t win either. If they don’t stick with anything, they’ll never be great at anything – because being good at something takes lots of practice and experience. Yes, you have to get in the right game or career for you. One that your talents and passions line up with. For me, baseball wasn’t it. But whatever you try, you have to be willing to be bad at something to be good at it one day.

This quality would serve me well in life. I have stayed in there when my competition gave up. I have stayed in there when things were going badly, and ultimately made them come out well in the end – sometimes really well. If you quit when things are down, you lose. But it’s not over until I win.

Forty years later, the kid with the .067 batting average was in the Baja 1000 – right now. 

I raced up the paved roads, switchbacked through the hills. I passed buses, and semi-trucks with my little race bike. At mile 520, I pulled onto the dirt and to the Baja pit for fuel. My friends, who were heading north on Route 1 behind me, stopped and checked with me. Trevor came running up to the pit. “Are you ok?” Franz gave me a hug. The sun rose higher and I was full of fuel now – in my gas tank and my heart. That’s what I needed – heart.

I raced up the crossover road – open, wide and fairly smooth with no surprise rocks sticking up. It began going up in elevation, and the switchbacks started. It dropped off like a cliff on the right, and the earth went up on your left. When Tanner was on this road hours earlier, he had to stop twice to warm his hands. Another rider had the tube from his hydration pack freeze. It was very cold, but warming now.

I realized, that like the rest of the course, this section was not how I remembered it from two weeks ago. It was washboarded – badly. The vibration from the endless mini bumps sent shockwaves through my hands – and Tanner’s too. I struggled to find a body position that would pound my neck the least. Was it standing? I couldn’t lift my head up that way. So I pushed my hips way forward and locked my knees, so that my head would stay up easier. But this was awkward and I could only hold it for some time.

Sitting seemed best. My butt was on fire from 24 hours of abrasion on the seat. I had a special wider seat to spread out the load, and I wore padded bicyclist shorts under my riding pants – but the contact point under me had taken a lot of abuse. Washboard chatter was not welcomed.

Still, my speed was faster than it had been for a long time. I was putting miles behind me. When we pre-ran this section, I hit 90 mph at times. But I was rested then. Now I didn’t dare go faster than 60. I didn’t have the strength to handle surprises and my head could not hold my helmet up against 90 mph winds. 

Fans peppered the sides of the course, waving and giving the thumbs up. The sunrise over the mountains was beautiful.

I stopped at another pit. They were super supportive. They did all they could to persuade me to eat a banana. “It’s good for you right now.” I couldn’t. I had to go. They told me Tanner was there at midnight. He was 7 hours ahead of me. “Go Tanner” I whispered to myself. I gave them stickers and took off.

Fifteen miles later, I had to pull over again. I sat on the side of the road and ate a Clif bar, resting my head. I continued, and the pain increased. I was doing the math, thinking about what sections were ahead, and figuring a plan. Thoughts of trying to finish by 6:23 pm were going through my head, but I had to face reality – it wasn’t going to happen.

I held my head up by shrugging my neck brace up. I was in trouble. I knew now that the limiting factor, of all of the things it could have been, would be my neck. I rode very slowly for the road I was on.

Strangely, I wanted to feel what it was like to not be able to go on again. To have my mind say yes, but my body saying a final “No.” I wanted to conquer this moment. Maybe I had been conquering it for many hours now. But now the body was forcing its message on me. “You are done.”

#18 Friends

I sat on the tailgate of the truck. Happy to see them, and so happy it was getting light out. I leaned forward and my head hung down in front of me like a buzzard’s head does. I held it with my hand and ate a bread and ham sandwich that I didn’t want. While I faced the ground, Ralph and John massaged my shoulders and back. I could feel each individual tendon in my left wrist like five tight electrified guitar strings.

“What’s the math, Trevor?” Still 40 hours to finish at this rate. I was in seventh place. Two Ironmen had dropped out, and two were behind me.

I earned what was coming next. 15 miles of pavement, and 70 miles of smooth graded dirt road. I made it here, and I was going to take this gift Baja was giving me. I was hoping next time I asked Trevor at mile 590, he’d say I had made up a lot of time and my projection was within the 36 hour time limit.

Where’s Tanner? He’s at mile 716. I thought, and told my friends what he was dealing with. He’s on pavement right now, and will be heading into the wash where he went over the handlebars last week in a few miles… I was overcome with emotion.

I looked like absolute hell. But I joked with my friends, and they knew I was ok. Ralph was wearing a filthy knit Basement Systems hat that he found under the seat of Franz’ truck. I laughed. I have fond memories of that 10-minute stop at mile 505. When I needed them most, my friends were there for me.

Friends are important in life. Friends that will be there for you when you are in distress. When I was a kid, I didn’t know about all the dramas and hardships life could bring. For example, nobody told me what to do when someone dies. For a while I’d just say “I’m sorry,” and be solemn. I didn’t go to many funerals. Nobody told me I was supposed to. Now that I am older, I have experienced more hardship and loss. It took a while – I lived a pretty disaster-free life in my twenties and thirties.

Now I know, that when people are suffering, you need to talk. Use your rapport skills, but talk. Say something, anything. People need people at low times. I’m not the most nurturing person in the world; it’s not my talent. But we need to stick together when times get tough. Communicate. A caring word, a hug, and hand to the shoulder, or holding hands. It makes all the difference. 

I remounted and thanked them all. “I’ll race you to 590!” I yelled over my engine. They were doing a great job helping to hold me together. Now they had a five-hour drive to see me again. They discussed my plight a bit, and then the truck was mostly quiet for the journey, as they wondered if I’d get there safely – or at all…

#17 Daylight and Hope

There is a difference between being exhausted and being injured. I was both, and the adrenaline that masked my injuries was long burned off.

I was shrugging my shoulders to push my neck brace up against the bottom edge of my helmet to take weight off my neck. I couldn’t breathe for the pain. This is what the path I chose had lead me to – suffering.

I pulled off the course and put the bike on the stand. I dropped down on the rocks and aggregate, laying down in the dark to get weight off my head. I reached up inside my helmet and squeezed an energy gel into my mouth. It would have no effect.  

I’d “invest 5 minutes” in this. I NEEDED it. My body took advantage and acted as if I’d fall asleep and stay here for a dozen hours. My eyes closed halfway, my neck throbbing. My C2 vertebra was way out to the right. My head was on a broken swivel. My left wrist…my knees…my hands.

A minute passed, maybe two. Precious, glorious minutes.  

I had to get up. Tanner was ahead. I needed to get to him. I opened my eyes and turned my headlamp on. A desert plant was illuminated inches in front of me that I had not seen. Get up.

Was I crossing the desert or was I bridging the gap between what I am, and what I could be?

I wasn’t done. Get up.

I held my helmet to steady my head. It took a surprising amount of effort just to sit up. I rolled over to face the ground on my hands and knees. The moment was a masterpiece for me. I pulled one knee up and put my foot on the ground, and slowly lifted my torso vertical. I pushed down with one hand on that knee, holding my face guard with the other hand. I rose.

I got on that bike, and headed up the course. I supposed it was an hour before dawn.

I came around a really silty uphill corner and a guy was flagging me. A Trophy Truck was stuck in the silt, all the wheels buried to the bodywork. I was in the left rut, but the right was where I could blast through the bush and pass. I couldn’t turn out of the deep silty rut. Two locals came to help and push me. I left the truck behind.  

The silt was incredible. None of it was here two weeks ago. Uphills were where trucks spun their tires the most, and that’s where, if there were no embedded rocks to hold it together, the silt was produced deepest. 

Ahead was another silty uphill. The silt takes one shape on top, but being light as flour, your wheels are riding on the harder substrate, which has a different shape. Your brain sees the shape of the silt and your body responds as if that is what you’ll be rolling over. But the wheels see what you can’t, underneath.

I fall over in a foot of flour. The header pipe instantly burned a hole in my pants, and I feel a searing on my leg. Locals, who had a tent set up not 40 feet away, run out to help me. We get the bike up and they push – but I can’t go forward uphill without coating them with silt. They are happy to help and don’t seem to mind. “Go! Go!” they yell. At that hour, their encouragement means more than they will ever know.

Keep moving forward. The course goes around a hotel along Route 1. A lonely building with no neighbors. Heading back into the desert there is a steep uphill – with some of the deepest silt I have ever seen. It was hard dirt two weeks ago. I make it up, using all the power my 450 would produce. Over the crest of the hill I see a rider with his bike leaned against a barbed wire fence post. I stop.  

“Are you ok?” He has his helmet off. A Japanese rider, 211x. No response. “Are you okay?” He manages the words – “Resta Time.” He’s trying to use his cell phone. I reach into my pocket and get an energy gel. “Here. For energy.” He comes over and takes it. “Thank you,” he says. I take off down the hill, into more silt.

My friends are waiting for me at mile 505. Javier and Brian took off from mile 470 to drive 5 hours back to Ensenada and down Highway 3 to mile 590. It should only take me 2 1/2 hours to take the crossover road on the course to get there, so they had to leave me early. The plan was my friends would meet me at mile 505, and see me at mile 520 where I would leave them for the 70 mile leg. Hopefully, Javier and the van would get to 590 before I did.

Waiting was tough for my friends. It was only 35 miles since they saw me last, but I was taking unexpectedly long. Their minds raced and wandered. Did something happen to me? Where was he? Each time they heard a machine approach, they thought it was me. It wasn’t. They looked to the hills for lights. They’d see a bit of light sweeping around up there, and then disappear. Finally a vehicle would emerge – not me.

Finally, I broke free from the desert hills to see Franz’ pick-up truck. Franz, Trevor, Ralph and John were anxiously waiting. They knew I was in bad shape. A funny thing happened so gradually I hadn’t noticed the moment – it was getting light out. 24 hours of riding. I now knew it was possible for me.

After each day, follows night. After each night, follows day. When things aren’t going well in your life, nights are tough. Darkness and dark thoughts. But each morning the sun rises, even if it’s obscured by clouds – it rises. We get a new chance at life each morning when we awake. Things are new. There is hope. A blank slate for something better…

#16 "Trevor, tell me the truth."

I pulled closer to Route 1 and saw lights. A welcome sight. There were a few small structures. Then I see a bridge. Route 1. I pull up a steep dirt slope onto the road. Two blocks, and I see my van. Mile 470. Mercy.

I get off and Javier and Brian check the bike over again. No damage. If they only knew…

They ask me questions to see how I am, physically and emotionally. Like a trainer assessing his boxer between rounds when he is absolutely getting his ass kicked. Should they call the fight?

I am wet from sweat and it is very cold. I need to change my shirts. I had four layers on including my jacket. The jacket was the only thing not wet. I took it all off. I only had one extra layer in my race bag. Javier scrounged up a shirt. Brian gave me back the team pullover I gave him. Jacket back on. I drank some chia, and ate a banana.  

I joked with them – “How are you guys holding up?” They laughed. But it was a serious question. They were staying up for as long as I was for the most part.

“Trevor, tell me the truth.” I knew they wouldn’t bring it up. I had to ask.“You have been riding for 21 hours. At this rate you will finish in 40 hours.” I knew I had lost a lot of time. I knew I was going slow to save my neck from jarring. 

I thought my team would not be surprised if I waved the white flag. It did not cross my mind.  

I knew that the worst of the course was behind me. Could I make up time on the next 385 miles? I needed to make it to the crossover road. It was 85 miles of smoother course where I could make up time with less investment of energy and less punishment on my neck. I had one more section – 35 miles to 505 to where it started getting easier – at least to mile 590 it was easier. That’s all I thought about.

I cherished my time with my team there at mile 470 at 3:30 am. I don’t know how long it lasted – maybe 10 or 15 minutes – but it was heaven. I had dry shirts on, some food and encouragement, and felt a bit renewed.

I rode away up the pavement a few miles to find the course and dive back into the desert. This section was relatively easy when Tanner and I pre-ran it. Not anymore. The trucks had ground the rigid soil to silt.

Picture this – a road with two 18” deep ruts. Now picture it uphill. Now bending left or right. Now add rocks into the ruts. Now add a rock ledge step up once in a while. Now cover the whole thing with a foot of silt. Now make it night and ride your motorcycle up this. It was brutal. It makes an expert rider feel like he started riding last week.

You can’t call “no fair.” There is nobody to complain to. And if you surrender, you stay in the desert until someone finds you the next day – hopefully. You have to go on.  

I had conversations with my daughter, Chloe. I told her I loved her and I was proud of her. In talking to her, I had to stay strong. I was Dad. I couldn’t crumble.

I talked to my father who taught me how to fly, back in the day of Loran navigation. “Keep the bug on the line, right, Dad?” “Right, son.”

There is an interesting relationship between the mind and the body. The body sends the mind signals – it tells the mind how it’s doing. In our regular life, we are accustomed to responding to the body. But the mind has the ability to send signals back. The mind can ignore the body. The mind can tell the body “I hear you, but I am ignoring you,” or “I am telling you to keep going anyway.” It is a battle for who is supreme. If the body wins, the mind says “Oh my gosh, I am in so much pain I have to stop.” If the mind wins, the body keeps going despite the pain.

My mind was winning so far in this race. But the body’s feedback was getting louder and harder to override…

#15 Moments

Another truck comes by.  Damn them.  This was not a motorcycle course; it was a trophy truck course where the motorcycles are human obstacles for them. I can’t see – again.  I go really slow and pick up the pace as the dust gets thinner.  All of a sudden there’s a rain rut perpendicular across my line.  Front wheel goes in, and it draws the front of the bike left to the big daddy rut on the side of the course.  Bam!  The bike is stopped, nearly vertical, headlight in the hard dirt on the opposite side of a 3 1/2 foot deep, 5 foot wide rut.  

This is what happens on slopes.  When it does rain hard the water gets to running fast down the wheel tracks of the roads and gouges them out one particle at at time.  This is how your left with rocks at higher elevations and silt and sand at lower ones and in troughs.  I hit my visor and helmet going down.  This was the highest speed crash I’d had so far, besides the one I got hurt on.  Low visibility was the cause.  

The rut snaked to my right downhill and got deeper until it finally fell off a cliff.  To the left it went uphill, and there was an 18” vertical step to get out.  I had to try to go that way.  I muscled the rear end of the bike down into the rut with the front end pointing up.  The sides of the rut were even with my handlebars.  I started it and walked alongside the bike and pushed.  I got it out.  I’ll call that one lucky.  I could have been there a while.

Up ahead, Tanner knew this was not going to be easy.  He had battled with various Ironman riders, and found they were surprisingly tough.  He thought if he could just finish, that he’d get on the podium – first, second or third.  Historically that was the case.  Jeff, the special forces guy, was out front.  Tanner was in second at one time, but had fallen back as the pain increased.  He took short breaks at his van stops, and marshaled on – like an Ironman.

At mile 505, he told his crew “I don’t know if I can finish.”  From Tanner, those are meaningful words.  He was suffering, like I was.  He had just buried the rear wheel in soft sand when he pulled off the course for a trophy truck.  The sand was 4” ABOVE his swing arm.  60% of his rear wheel was buried.  It took 10 minutes to get out.  He was angry, tired and in pain.  

After seeing his van, he rode away into the dusty night for more.

I tried to be present.  To not think about how far I had to go, how much it hurt, and whether I could finish this way or not.  Lots of people do that.  They live in the past and think about how it is unfair or relive troubles over and over.  And some live in the future, thinking only about how difficult it will be or how overwhelming it is.  They forget to live now – to be here now.

On my gas tank I wrote the words “Be present”.  No matter how far I had to go, the terrain immediately in front of my wheels didn’t care.  I had to ride this 100 feet, before I could get to the next.  And if I did well in this 100 feet, I’d be set up better for the next 100 feet.  If you do well now, this hour, it sets you up for a successful next hour.  If this day is a good one, tomorrow is more likely to be as well.  Lives are built not of years, but of moments.  We cannot live a year, a month, or even a day.  We can only live now.  Now.  Now and it’s gone.  Now, and it’s gone.

Be present to where you are, what you are doing, and who you are with.  A successful jouney starts with a single successful moment.

#14 Choices

My team was wondering if I would go on, and if they should let me go on; if it was safe to let me disappear into the night again. I didn’t know it, but they had asked me questions to gauge whether I was of sound mind and judgement. Ralph thought I gave all the right answers, and nobody disagreed. My body was in distress, but my mind was ok. They elected to let me sleep.

About 50 minutes after I had fallen asleep, I woke up on my own. The windshield was opaque with dirt. Trophy trucks were coming right by us and spraying us with dust. I sat up, opened the door, got my gear back on, and thanked everyone. It was on to the next stop – mile 470, 55 miles away.

The 55 miles to 470 was rough, but not quite as bad as the sections in and out of the bowtie. After having some food and a rest, I pushed through it. 55 miles was a long way, but not nearly as far as the 125 I had just got done with.  

I came down a slope and saw an alternate route to the right. I figured it must be there for a reason, even though I couldn’t quite make out what was ahead. It looked rough. I saw lights coming so I pulled over to the right side of this alternate way around, which was about 100 feet long. A trophy truck came flying in, and he did not take the alternate and went straight instead. He locked up his brakes when he saw the refrigerator sized rock in the trail. Too late. He steered to the left, which was a vertical wall, his wheels climbing up it in a desperate attempt to avoid the giant rock. He decided he was committed and gunned the throttle. I had a front row seat, just 50 feet away in the middle of the night, to hear violent metal crunching and roaring and wheels spinning. He made it over that rock. I expected to see him in a mile or two with no oil left.

Just as I considered getting going again, more light approached. It was a Class 1 buggy, with the same engines as the trophy trucks. He skidded to a stop just before the rock and put it in reverse, roaring backwards. He turned towards me down the alternate go-around route. Was I far enough over to let him by? He tried to scoot to my left, but there was another rock the size of a refrigerator to the left side of the alternate. If it wasn’t for me being there, he could have avoided it. Crunch! He dropped down off it and it was metal to rock in a violent bang and scrape. Sorry buddy! I didn’t have a lot of sympathy for him as I was stationary the whole time.

I have to say, it was an exciting 90 seconds and it woke me up a bit, even if it was because my life was at risk!  

Later Tanner and I agreed that this race was crazy dangerous. Not dangerous from a mother’s point of view. Dangerous from a adventurer-risk-taker-already-crazy-person’s point of view. It was stupid dangerous.

Keep going into the black dusty night.  

At mile 400, the worst case scenario happened to Tanner. His lights failed. They went out. Just like when we pre-ran. These lights we were using were awesome, but we thought there must be an issue somewhere. Tanner remembered that Jimmy set up an entirely different circuit to plug the lights into. He got his wire cutters out, cut a wire tie to unfold the new plug, and plugged his main light into it. It worked!  

Tanner got us both battery back-up lights that attached to our helmets which we could have ridden back to the van with, but there is nothing like the main double cluster of four LEDs.

I weighed where I should invest energy to save time, or where I should spend time to save energy. I knew I could ride faster, but it would be strenuous (and riskier) and burn up more energy. If I went slower, I could save energy for the last part of the race. But if I went slower, the race would be longer, and I’d have to be awake and on the bike longer. Choices. Tradeoffs.

Isn’t that what we do every day? We have to decide where we will spend our mental and physical energy. Energy for this, means less for that. The same with our time. If we spend time on this, it means less time for that. We all have the same amount of time. It’s precious. 24 hours in a day. 36 hours in this race. When it’s gone, it’s gone.

These are important decisions. I find there are so many “important,” fascinating, interesting, fun, fulfilling things to do and so many fun, interesting, exciting, worthy people to spend time with. But I just can’t do everything. I can’t accept every invitation, chase every opportunity, and experience every place and event. I have to make choices. Sometimes the choice is the best use of my time and energy. Other times, I didn’t choose really well because of limited information. Other times, I’m spent, and I need time for me – to rest and heal and regroup.  

I had been making these choices this whole race. At one point, a bike passed me back at mile 180 or so. It was a bike from another class, likely with a fresh rider. I didn’t want him making dust in front of me, so I raced him back and passed him. I spent the energy to do that to try to have a clear track. I think I surprised him when I came back like that. He decided to race me, and he passed me back. I could have raced him for miles and miles, but I had to let him go. He had teammates and had to ride for less time than I did. He could spend all his energy battling with me. But I had 855 miles to deal with. His wasn’t the only battle I had on my hands. So I made a choice. Let him go.

That’s what we have to do, and we have to make these choices without regret. We have to decide how to spend our resources, and move forward and make the best of it. Not look back and worry if we made the right choice. It’s over. Move forward. You can’t change the past.

So my strategy the whole race was to conserve energy, not get hurt, and not break the bike. I figured the other guys would burn up with poor energy management strategies, and I’d come by them late in the race. That’s what I did in Spartan races. That’s what I figured would happen now. I didn’t count on getting hurt. I rarely crash and rarely get hurt on a dirt bike. I had 10 “tipovers” or more, but that’s not a crash. And I had never been hurt in Baja. “So much invested, and now is when I get hurt?” Thoughts went through my helmet. 

Keep going…

#13 Mile 415

A dead abandoned trophy truck was up at an angle on the side of the course. Dark. Nobody around. Erie. 5 miles passed. 10% of the way back to the van. Pain. I scoot off the trail of a truck. I get my front wheel over a hard ball off pointy leaves. It gets under my skid plate and I get stuck on it as it unweights my rear tire. Man, that is one tough plant! I have to get off the bike to lift it off the plant and get unstuck.

I can’t see well. Go slow. Dust. Another light from behind. He’s close and coming in fast. I get off the side, but drop my bike. Damn it! Another dust storm as he passes. I get going. Slow. Dust. After a few minutes, it starts to get thinner. Go a bit faster. Whoa! I fall into an 18” deep slot – a rut from the last rain. I’m down, the bike and me laying across the course in the dark. The bike is on my leg. I look back and see lights coming. Are you kidding?! Worst case scenario!

I reach up and push the switch of my auxiliary light on my helmet. It turns on. I push it again and it starts flashing. Then I make the other one flash, and I point my helmet backwards, twisting my neck so these super bright lights flash right at him. I struggle to get up. He sees me, thank God. He pulls over to the left and roars past before I can fully straighten up. More dust. Can’t see.

How am I supposed to race when I can’t see and they keep coming making more dust?!!!

Tanner was thinking the same thing.

Rocks. My neck is really hurting. Not a sharp pain in one spot, but a regional pain from between my shoulder blades up to the base of my skull. I felt like there was a 90 degree angle in my neck that should not be there. I couldn’t breathe.

I’m in a race. I can’t stop. Forward. But I have to stop. Forward. I have to…I pull off the course by 50 feet between the shrubs and boulders. I turn my bike off and the lights off. I just need a minute.

I get off the bike. God knows what time it is. It’s pitch black. It hurts to stand. I need support. I sit. I need to support my head. I laid down on the gravel, a tumbleweed in front of my face. Relief with my helmet on the ground. I reached into my pocket in the dark and pulled out an energy gel. I had not had any caffeine yet. I was saving that for as late as I could. I didn’t want to be on the rollercoaster. But now I needed it. I sucked it down. It was good. I could just lay there all night. I could have fallen asleep right there.  

“I have to get up.” When I pulled my helmet from contact with the ground, it felt like I had a ball in my throat.  My neck wasn’t right.

I remounted. My bike was not in a good spot. It was pointing downhill and I couldn’t go straight due to brush and the terrain. I tried to push the bike backwards uphill. I got it around halfway, and thought I’d spin the tire to pivot it. I got it around. A truck went by. In getting on the course, I had to go over some rocks…I fumble and go down, awkwardly into a thorny tree. I hoped this was my low point and I was glad nobody was there to see it…

Get up. Pick the bike up. Get on the course. Get going. Forward. Mile 385. 390. An eternity later, 395. 400. Coming down out of the mountains. Good. 400. Thank God for caffeine. Ohhh, going back up. Rocks. 405. Going down. Van at 415. Keep going.

Around 415, there was a flat area and all the teams met their drivers there. I rode through all the rigs, looking for my van and crew. I passed many of them. Did I miss mine? Finally! There they are!  

I pulled in. I had survived the 125 miles of rocks at night. It can only get easier from here, I thought. It was about midnight. It was also 36 degrees and windy here. The crew was frozen. My speech wasn’t working well, nor was the part of my brain that drove it. I managed to tell them how I was, and answered their questions. They asked me if I wanted to sit in the back of the truck and warm up. I did.  

I wanted to lay down across the seats to get the weight off my head. I was so tired. I had been riding for 18 hours, 12 of that injured. “Wake me up in 30 minutes, OK?” I asked. “OK” I heard back. 

They didn’t…

#12 "What it's all about"

The course presented one hellish section after another. Go up this hill with all these rocks. Done? Ok good. Go down this hill with all these. Ok now follow this silty slotted tire track with all the rocks in it, and don’t fall over left down that 50 foot drop. Ok now…  it seemed like it would never end. I was going slow, and I knew it. I’d be going twice this speed if I was fresh and it was light.

A truck coming…no good place to get off the course…he’s closer than I thought….oh crap…I drop the bike trying to get off at a bad spot. He goes by my bike and me laying on the ground. See ya. Get off the bike. Lift it up. Man, this bike is a lot heavier than my motocross bike that weighs 245 pounds. No damage. Start the bike. Look back – no lights approaching? Ok go. Struggle over the rocky berm that tripped me up getting off the trail. Dusty. Way dusty. Can’t see. Go slow. Damn – hit a rock I didn’t see. Which line is smoother, left or right? Can’t tell yet. Too dusty. Rocks.  

On my tank, I wrote another message. Forward. I put an arrow which way that was. I just have to keep going forward. Mile 340. 10 miles is an eternity now. I’m in pain. A lot of pain. Mile 350. 355. The bowtie is at mile 365. I have to make it there to the Baja pit. I can get fuel and take a little rest. My helmet is so heavy on my neck. Rocks. Damn trucks. Visibility is so low. No wind.  

A light ahead. Someone is flagging me. It’s a biker off his bike. He’s got his rear wheel off. “Do you have an air pump?” he shouts. “No” I reply. “#&*^!” he yells. The rocks claimed his rear tire. He changed the tube out here, but he did not have an air pump. I was so glad to have foam inserts in our tires. We could not get flats. There was no air in our tires. You have so much invested in this race, and one errant rock and you are out. There is nothing I can do for him. I press on.  

My neck hurts so bad, I pull over. I grab my chin guard with my hands and take the weight off my neck. Breathe. I take a drink from the hose coming over my shoulder from my pack. Truck passes. I get going. I hate this. Pitch black except for my headlights reflecting off airborne dust. I feel that dust in my throat and nose.

Bowtie should be coming soon. I’d get gas then have 50 miles to go to see my van. Out of the black a rider is waving to me. He has no light. Helmet off. I pull up. “What’s up?” I yell. “You know how far is Baja pit?” His native language was Spanish. “I think about two miles.” I saw his bike way off to the right. 128x. A Pro Lites (250cc engine) Rider. I told him I’d tell them at the pit when I got there. It was six miles to the pit at the bowtie.

I thought about this. The last Baja pit (gas stop) was supposed to be at mile 305. Instead it was at mile 289.  That’s 16 miles early. I questioned them when I was there, but they only spoke Spanish. This interval was 16 miles longer without fuel. This rider ran out of gas in the middle of the night, in the middle of the desert 6 miles before the pit. That wasn’t his fault. It was Baja pit’s fault for setting up at the wrong place. A hell of a way to end your race. I was going slow so I used less gas and made it.

I pulled into the pit. They had a trailer and lights. It seemed like civilization to me. They overfilled my tank when the quick fill nozzle stuck in my tank. Gas sprayed all over my tank and all over me. Rookies! Would I catch fire? Gas ran down onto my hot engine.  

I shut the bike off and put it on the kickstand. Normally you don’t run a kickstand on a race bike. Too much weight and if the spring broke and it swung forward it could dig into the ground and throw you off the bike. But I knew in the Ironman class I’d have to stop for a number of reasons. Jeff Benrud may have had a catheter, but I had a kickstand!

I was so beat after those rocks. They offered me a chair. I sat down. They offered me water and a small bit of chocolate. I declined. They knew I was an Ironman because my number, 714x, began with a 7. That means Ironman. They asked if I was ok. I told them about Tanner. He looked at his chart and told me what time Tanner came through that pit. It was a long time ago. “T” was doing good. I found out the workers at all the pits were volunteers. Enthusiasts. I gave them stickers.

He saw all the messages I wrote on my gas tank. My wife and daughters’ names with a heart… ”Riding with the King,” “Trust,” “Believe.” He took his phone out and made a video of me sitting there looking half dead. “This is what it’s all about. This is why we come out here,” he said while recording. “This guy came out from Connecticut with his son and they are both doing Ironman. That’s so cool,” he said.  

“Yeah. Cool,” I thought, holding my head up with my hands. After about 10 minutes, I got going again. I had 50 miles more of this terrain to go. 

It was back up into the mountains…

#11 Five Dangers

There were five reasons my race was going to get much more difficult and dangerous – trophy trucks, night, rocks, fatigue, and 125 miles without seeing my van.

When a trophy truck comes up behind you, it can surprise you. They should use the Stella alert system to light up the tracker on your handlebars and sound an alarm siren so you know they are coming. But in our experience, only about 1/4 of the trophy trucks used the new system. When it’s dark, you can see their lights bouncing up and down on your horizon, and you have to find a place to pull over. That sounds easy, but many places on the course are one lane wide and have curbs and shoulders filled with berms of rocks, boulders, and cacti. It can be a challenge.  

When these trucks come by, most don’t slow down. They are scary and aggressive. The air is filled with loads of dust when they pass, and you can’t see for a while. Sometimes there is another truck right behind the first. Two years ago, a motorcycle pulled back out onto the course after a truck passed, and another truck behind didn’t see him in the dust. It was a disaster.

I pressed on. The daylight was fading. My goal was to make it to mile 330 by nightfall. I was at mile 305. Mile 330 was where it gets really rocky and tough. Imagine steep uphills where the trail has mostly rocks and not much dirt. These rocks are broken and sharp and all sizes up to breadbox size. You have a 3 1/2” wide rubber tire on a spoked rim that you have to endlessly maneuver between these rocks in the path of least resistance.

Then go downhill with the same rocks. The rocks are interrupted by ledge steps. At least the ledge doesn’t move. Rocks take a lot of energy out of you – especially your hands, arms and shoulders. You start sweating more.  

Night came at about mile 315. I was behind. The dark means slower riding. While the headlights are great, there’s nothing like the sun to light up everything around you in all directions. At this time of year, there would be 11 hours of daylight, and 13 hours of night. 

13 hours of night. Picking away at the terrain for 13 hours of darkness. It was lonely out there, and eerie. Without my GPS, I may as well have been on Mars.

My neck was injured. I had to admit it. And these rocks were making it worse. It was hard to find a comfortable riding position to take the pressure off my neck. My helmet felt like it weighed 50 pounds. It hurt.

I made it to 330. The rocks and hills strewn with them got worse. We were going up into the mountains again. No more deep sand at the shoreline. Rocks. I jumped off the side of the course as a truck came through. Can’t see. Get back on and go slow until dust clears a bit.  

330 X 3 is 990. The course is 855. I’m more than 1/3 done. I don’t have the attention to calculate the percentage in my head. Another 98 miles will be half way. I can figure that much. My left wrist has been sending me distress signals since the incident at 209. I can feel five distinct tendons running from my wrist towards my elbow – like piano strings. They are screaming – like they are electrified and hot. I try to adjust my grip to ease the pain.

No avail…keep going…

#10 The Dragons Catch Up

The El Rosario Bridge, where I last saw my van, was at mile 250. I was almost 1/3 done! On the course, there are markers every 5 miles telling you the mileage. You bet I’d be doing some math in my helmet. What percentage done I was, what percentage until I saw my van again.  

I pulled up on a motorcycle that had just crashed in front of me – 211x. He was standing on one leg next to his bike holding it up. “Are you ok?” I asked. He just pointed down to his knee. He couldn’t put weight on it. “Are you ok?” I yelled over my engine again. We both had mirrored goggles on and couldn’t see each other’s eyes. He just pointed down. He didn’t speak English. There were riders from 18 countries. I saw his shifter was bent and pointing straight out from his bike. There was nothing I could do. I told him I’d report it at the next pit where they had radios to get the word out to his crew.

Ahead, Tanner was battling through his own race. He battled the dust, the terrain, other riders, and pain – especially in his hands. He went off course a bit, and it almost ended his race in disaster. He was approaching a drop in elevation, and skidded to a stop to find it was eight feet straight down. It was the wall of a wash, or dried riverbed. I saw this on the helmet camera footage later. He stopped 12” from the edge. In pre-running, I dropped off a five-foot cliff and saved a crash, but an eight-foot drop when you are slowing down would likely have you landing on your head and the bike right behind to pile drive you into the hot sand.

My leg was another short one – 42 miles. The intervals to see your crew during the race are determined by where the course crosses or touches a paved road. There are only a few paved roads in Baja – one on the Pacific side (Route 1), one on the Sea of Cortez side (Route 5), and one across the middle connecting them (Route 3). If you got to see your crew, you take the opportunity.

There was a part of the course called the “bow tie.” The course came into a point and turned 90 degrees right. It made a big 100 mile long loop and came back into the same point, as if the course would cross itself, but instead turned right without crossing. It made the shape of a bowtie, or like the waist of an hourglass. I got to the bowtie where the Baja pit was. The next 6 miles were fun, easy sweeping roads. I’d love to make miles that don’t beat me up. It was a relief from some of the silt and terrain that was behind me. Unfortunately, I was beginning to realize I had a problem. My neck was not just sore. It was… I tried to ignore it.

I pulled out near the road at mile 292, happy again to see my crew so soon. They massaged my neck, shoulders and arms. It felt great. I knew this was making a big difference. When you stay in the same position with strenuous limited range of motion, eventually you lock up in pain. These massages were helping a lot.

The next leg would be the hardest for me. 125 miles of mostly rocks. It would get dark. It would take five hours or more. Javier and Brian mounted the dual LED headlights on the bike and battery back-up lights on my helmet.  Wires came off my helmet to the battery packs in my backpack. I put flashlights in my pack and layered up for the colder temperatures that come as soon as the sun goes down. I had to eat, and I choked down more than I really wanted, because I knew I’d need the calories.

A helicopter approached. Bop bop bop bop. The crew next to us had the Trophy Truck radio communication blasting through speakers. When the truck navigator talked, you could hear the roar of the truck engine. The dragons were coming now. The race was about to change again.

A Trophy Truck roared out of the desert right past us, filling the air with violence and dust. Another followed a minute later. These were the overall race leaders, and helicopters covering the action chased their dust trails through the desert to follow it. By the time I got going again, two more trucks came by, with all the mayhem they produce. “That’s four trucks you won’t have to worry about,” Ralph said. He was right. Only 130 left to pass me. Gulp.

I thanked my crew, and remounted. I knew this leg would bring “the wall.”