The Fig. I have seen the shirts and promotions for a season or two. Hadn’t really paid much attention to the ordeal.  A +60 mile adventure race (AR) of back woods running, biking, orienteering and paddling?  Sounded a bit much.  Filed it in with the, “sounds like a cool idea after tipping back a few beers but not sure I‘d really want to do it come morning” category.  Would put it out of my mind for a while, but, in a few months it started rearing its ugly head more often than that telemarketer selling salad dressing for the State Troopers bullet proof vest fund (I have yet to see a Trooper stuffing telephone books in his shirt because they couldn’t come up with proper equipment).  Fast-forward a year...

It wasn't until the fall of 2007 and some leftover event shirts were hanging up for sale at True North Outfitters, aka The Embassy Suites of climbing hostels. True North is my favorite place to stay at the Red River Gorge - or within a 14-hour drive for that matter.  Good eats, good sleep and everything in between.  While the folks there don’t put the race on, they certainly are involved but I’ve never been there to witness the event.  Thought it kinda cheesy getting a shirt for something I didn't compete in but it looked good and for the nice price of $10, decided the logo’d, black long sleeve tee would serve as a reminder (hey, it beats a magnet on the refrigerator).  A reminder that maybe it wasn't such a bad idea and would certainly be something different to do for the consummate weekend worrier/wanna be.  Can’t stay locked up in the burb forever and not having anything to shoot for or rag about for a while, maybe this is it?  The race isn't till November and we are not even into the new year yet.  I have time, plenty of time to digest this one.

The idea had been lingering in my mind for a couple months and Terry, one of my soccer cohorts had talked about The Red River Gorge a few times and how he used to rappel off the hundred’s of shear faces in “the old days.”  Maybe he’s the sucker, I mean, partner to make number two of a three-man team?  Keeping the flame low and on the back burner, I need a plan.

Come the end of January, I’m getting sick of winter. Half way done with the second session of indoor soccer and things will be slowly warming up in a handful of weeks.  The Midwest weather compares to a 10-year-old, beige, 4-door Taurus of excitement.  The confinement is killing me and we have three more months of gray skies.  Think I really want to do this race thing.  Figure I will have to soft soap Terry.  I mentioned the concept to him before but didn’t set the hook.  This year he turns 40 and he made a pact with himself that he was not going to balk at challenges.  Didn’t want to take the long, slow slide to shuffleboard hell with regrets.  While suiting up on the cold aluminum, tinny stands at our weekly soccer beating, decided to hit him at a low point and expect there would be little resistance... “Hey Terry, I want to do that adventure race at The Gorge. You in?”

I expected, “a what?” accompanied by a face scrunched up as if he has stubbed his big toe followed by and an avalanche of excuses.   Didn't happen. Instead, it was the patented Terry grin.  Like at a high stakes auction, the slightest movement may acknowledge commitment. Good enough for me.  Slam the wooden gavel.  I consider that a SOLD in my book. He is in, I mean, we are in.

I have to admit, it really wasn't in concrete for a month or two. Just putting the feelers out there if this is something we really want to do.  Over 60 miles of racing in 12 hours. The Gorge is not the city park. It is filled with drop-offs, harsh ascents and descents and general treachery, you know, a real forest.  It’s not like I’m blind to the layout of the land. The Red River Gorge has been a family get-away since I’ve been about four years old. THOUGHT I had covered about every inch of the place. Confidence builds. That is not the first mistake of this great pilgrimage.

By the middle of March, weather is beginning to warm and this thing is growing legs. I figured a three man team would be good: 1) It just sounded like a good number for checks and balances with a thread of support thrown in for good measure.  2) Originally, thought this was a relay so I can climb, sometimes (actually I’m better at getting a bad case of “The Elvis Leg”), Terry can run, need a #3 for biking.  3) Somebody would surely bail toward the end and I could victoriously claim defeat against all others as a matter of circumstance.  4) Don’t think I could find a fourth person to join if I had to.  We need number three... Jason, a mountain biking, kayaking friend of mine would fit the bill.  Actually, if Jason turned me down I’d be scrambling. There is not a big pool to pick from when you hit your 40’s and decide to do something “totally insane” as lamented by many of the crowd approaching the half-century mark. Some ask why, I ask why not?  Some like golf.  Some like black diamonds.

Jason is one of only a few people I know that actually does “stuff.” By stuff, I mean to work class 5 rapids, 12-hour single track events, board the bowls.  It’s not week after week of adrenaline rushing, never ending, lunacy. But once in a while, to step into the clip-in’s and hit the big downhill while still being able to get to work come Monday (be it a little bruised and sore) is what I mean. Younger people don't understand. They have plenty of time and the whole world at hand (as well as a quicker recovery rate).  They, as I did, think there will never be a day when you wake up, notice you have two kids, a dog, spend most of your time working, fixing things around the house or dealing with soccer, basketball, football, 4-H, Brownies, junior football, on and on...a.k.a - mid-life.

Jason is in but not without trepidation. Terry has gone nuts as a pack of coon dogs catching a scent. I’m having a feeling of responsibility in coordinating this group but haven't vomited from anxiety at this point. Time to start training but not before christening the team. Need to figure out a name.  We need unity; besides, we have to put something in on the race registration.  The thought of Search and Rescue muddled with the gorge, ravines and a couple of smart asses parlay “S.A.R. - Chasm.”  Quite befitting for the group. It’s voted on and officially approved.

Terry has run marathons.  I only have experience in running my mouth.  We don't know what to expect for the race other than the disciplines of climbing, rappelling, cycling, orienteering, trail running and maybe some team challenges.  Oh, it is not a relay.  A team, the whole team and nothing but the whole team is allowed to start, compete and complete the race...Digging on the net unearths last year’s outline.  Everything looks cool until I hit the 85’ climb and 120’ rappel section. Did I mention that my, “in his previous life” rappelling buddy Terry is afraid of heights? I’ve been lightly climbing for a couple years and that part shouldn't pose too much of a problem.  THE issue may be the fact that Jason has never touched rock, or rope, and Terry is concerned to what his heart may do to his body when dangling over a cliff edge.  Not a problem, we have all summer to get control (think that tally’s about to mistake number eight by now but who’s counting).

We had several trips planned for The Gorge but various influences (please see above: fixing things around the house or dealing with soccer I, soccer II, basketball, football, 4-H, Brownies, on and on...) impedes our progress.  In the spring, I get Terry to a local park where there is an old reservoir wall towering about 30’ above the terra firma and into the heaven’s. Some of the locals go there when they are really bored.  This is the only close place I can think of where we won’t get arrested.  We have to start somewhere...

Terry didn't do too bad. A little concerned after not being on rope for years but after getting set-up, showed him how not to kill himself and his son, we enjoyed a Sunday afternoon with family.  I simply thought, this is nothing to what we are really gonna be hanging onto in five months.  About as close as that 10 cent mechanical pony ride outside the old IGA grocery store relates to being a Kentucky derby jockey...

Around Labor Day, we finally get something planned on sandstone.  I thought the world was going to fall off its axis (September - first week of November...yes, that equals all of two months before go-time).   Up to now, it has been mediocre progression with more emphasis on smack talk. We really need to start some sort of training.

Over the ensuing summer our diligent climbing training consisted of:

    1 indoor gym afternoon with the kids but not Jason

    2 visits to the park (there is a local park with a 30’ high reservoir wall to rap from)

    1 trip to The Red River Gorge with the kids but not Jason

We ride, we run. We ride, we run.  I’ve never been a distance runner but simply by going out and pounding the pavement, I seem to be getting better; if I want to or not.  Think that is called practice.  What keeps me going is a vision of said adventure racer convulsing on the side of the trail like a deer that has just been hit by a car; too hurt to run, too scared to stay on one place.  Pawing and scratching into the earth’s surface but going nowhere.  Other racers whisking by whispering, “poor bastard, what a way to go. Hope they have a closed casket funeral for him.”  Little do they know I plan on being cremated.

It feels like I am actually making progress.  My running has gone from a labored three miles to a comfortable six. I have been waning on the bike riding but cycling has been part of me for 35 years (I’m clinging to that notion).  My lacking disciplines take precedence.  I recall an acquaintance that is a triathlon racer. Why not give the guy a shout to get some tips? I dial up ole’ Fraser and give him the rundown.  Instantly he gives me confidence (only because he is one of the few that doesn’t say, “what the hell are you thinking?).   Fraser asks, “How many 12-hour practice days have you put in?”  My mind is bouncing like a fishing bobber restraining an errant blue gill. Eyes go into a REM searching for an intelligent answer...12-hour practice days!?!  What the hell is he talking about? Also see: fixing things around the house or dealing with soccer I, soccer II, basketball, football, 4-H, Brownies, fix the invisible dog fence again because my Jack Russell keeps chasing the neighbors cat, on and on...The only response I can muster is “probably not as many as I should” because I’m too embarrassed to say none.  That is lame but brutal honesty is less painful than getting tagged by cardiopulmonary resuscitators...Four days and counting.   Oh, just found out the reservations I made 10 months ago were changed and we no longer have a place to stay the night before the race.  Please Lord, take me swiftly.

P.S.- Stephanie, the race coordinator said my reservations were made for the original weekend of the race and when race day moved up a week, our lodging people forgot to roll our reservation up and there is no vacancy at this point. I’m thinking a place to sleep would have come in handy the night before a big race.  Others don’t seem to care about that as much as I do (mostly people that have a place to stay). More on that later...

I’ve been building a race stash in the corner of my home office for over a month.  Rain shell?  Check. Compass? Check.  2 1/2” collapsible knife and a whistle attached to some utility cord for easy access on the kayaking leg?  Check. What the hell do we need a knife for in flat water paddling? Am I gonna need it to fight off other racers at the check points? Flying sharks?  The list goes on and the pile grows larger as the weeks roll by like dirty laundry in the corner of a dorm room.  Every time I look at it, I get a grin on my face and tug in my stomach. Maybe I’ll get a bleeding ulcer and not have to do this thing. I can get a doctors excuse...We leave tomorrow afternoon...I’m (we) are so screwed.  I get a call from the hostel and apparently they kicked some poor bastard out to the street because a vacancy “just opened up.”  As if I was in a Hitchcock movie, I hear repeated, “60 miles, 60 miles, 60 miles...” coming from under the floorboards.

Friday arrives and I have a half day of work planned. Jason is taking off all day and Terry is under the gun to finish up at work and get over to my house. I can’t tell him to hurry up because Jason and my sorry ass do not have the means of getting us and our gear even out of my subdivision. Terry has the truck. Terry has the gold.

I get an update late morning and all is going well. Terry is wrapping up and Jason is trying to break free of his wife and kids for 48 hours. Wars have been won in less time.  I am jazzed and feakin’ - pumped at the same time.  I remember that my life insurance lapsed. Geez, one more thing to panic on; how to figure out a web payment for life insurance on what feels like my second to last day on earth.

Terry shows up at my house and like clockwork, by the time we are done loading, JC in the CJ roll into HQ.  We hit the road by 3:00. Only challenge now is to get to the hostel by 6:30 for grub, registration and the pre-race briefing.  This is it boys, the rubber is hittin’ the road.

The little comfy cabin is a madhouse.  The place is packed.  I have to slither my way over to registration.  I feel like the new kid in class the first day of school.  Maybe it’s my imagination but everybody seems to be summing each other up.  I mosey around checking out the competition.  Moments later, I get to the registration table and come face to face with the snarky woman (I assume) who threw me and my team to the gutter only days before the race. I recall the three times she chewed me up and spit me out via email as I attempted to arrange boats, lodging and life support systems for our first race. She is Stephanie.  She is a meanie...wellllll, not really, she is simply Stephanie.   I say “thanks for tossing me under the bus Steph” (to myself).  I decide to let her go.  Need to channel my energy in a positive way, besides, she would probably kick my ass anyway. Just an aura thing.

We fill out our release forms, give email addresses so we can get more junk mail, buy insurance we don’t need and get our numbers. Win, lose or draw, we have numbers, we are now, adventure racers.  Actually we may be best classified as obstacles.

We feast on tubs of salad and pasta. The food is not fancy but it is good and atmosphere is excellent. Trying to eat but there is this “electricity” in the air. Really not that hungry but Jason insists we load up on carbs for the big burn tomorrow.  The ziti is piled high like cordwood. Carbs, protein intake...not my forte. I’ll just listen, eat and think of the 12-pack of Killian’s in the truck. Like Eve holding the forbidden fruit in front of me, I have to turn away.  The temptation of only a couple beers will note bode well for my race form. I’ve officially gone insane when not wanting to feel bad has over ridden the desire for an ice cold beer, or five.  All I know is I don’t want to be the wheel coming off the wagon if we crash and burn tomorrow.  The butterflies in my stomach are multiplying faster than caged guinea pigs.

After round two of pasta, the pre-race meeting begins. The basics are gone over and I apparently hear everything except for the important stuff. Not sure if the topic of supplemental maps is covered here but more on that later. The usual reviews of where we start, finish, can stage a cache of supplies, what is classified as cheating and then the rappel section is addressed. I’m by no means an expert climber. I’ve been called marginal and actually took that as a compliment.  My climbing experience is limited to two days of guided climbing and two years of belaying my then 12 year-old son at The Red (does reading The Freedom of the Hills count as anything?). Fairly lame resume. Scratch resume, I’ll go for a G.E.D. certificate of climbing.  Just noticed that I have developed a nervous twitch, or,  am possibly in the early stages of Parkinson’s.

I have had the opportunity to climb with some adults but being the primary belayer with family and friends and official “clean-up” man, has not clocked me much time on the rocks. While I’m not exactly afraid of heights, mostly concerned of having a little kid drop me to the deck or clip an edge because of my 80 lb., tied down like a dog belay meister.  All this is reeling in my mind as a snicker broadens across the organizing teams faces. “The rappel will be... about 130 feet,” the announcement goes. I think this could be anything. 130 feet really isn't THAT much. I mean, it will be a pre-rigged route AND we are forced to be on a top belay, as explained.  Not a big deal but thinking Jason has only been on the rope twice and that was from about 30 feet. He did well though.  What is an extra 100 thrown in there for good luck? I flash back to the park scene - not a flinch. No whimpering. Nice calculated, smooth moves. Terry on the other hand, think I actually heard his spleen explode upon the declaration or maybe it was my stomach growling for those beers again?  I hallucinate the Amazing Kreskin across the room, he says, “You guys are so screwed.” It’s hard to tell really what he’s saying because he is laughing so hard.

A few more things of what not to do in the race and that about wraps up the meeting.  It is 8:00 p.m. and we are evicted from the lodge and chucked to The White House.  The organizers will be reviewing material with the volunteers and all racers are sent to forage.  I really like the lodge but The White House beats sleeping in a gravel driveway.  Come to find out, our room really isn't bad at all. Had a few concerns when we were told by True North, “we found a place for you to stay” at the last minute (I knew they had a crawl space). Two bunk beds, finished wood floors and a space heater.  We quickly claim our stake and decide to reorganize our gear for the ninth time in two weeks but this time, it’s for real. Trying to nail down the weather for the morning, afternoon, (prudence would have taken us well into the night). Calculating carb intake, hydration. It is like cramming for finals only you don’t die as a rule taking finals.  Time capsule runs backward.  It’s like being a child and my mother getting me ready the night before the first day of school. Get my clothes out and in order to put them on (I don't want to have to think come morning), Lone Ranger lunch box is ready with my bologna sandwich.  Have my pack loaded in order and everything in its right place. For the three of us, this takes over two and a half hours (this would be a good time for St. Jude, patron saint of lost souls to intervene) of comparing crap.  My resting heart rate is about 120. At this point, it is almost 11:00. Time to clean up and veg-out.  No reason to try and sleep, it just isn't going to happen. We are too stoked.

Pretty sure we have everything squared away but a little nervous of forgetting to bring a cable lock for the bikes outside. Should have put Terry’s bike on the tail of the receiver hitch rack as a theft deterrent to any would be perpetrators.  They would probably be crushed by the bike or maybe start laughing hysterically and wake us up, or, more realistically, would simply be unable to move the bike without the assistance of hydraulics or a 3:1 rig. This is a story in itself.  Terry felt compelled to use his department store bike.  Cave men would have been insulted if they had to use it. Chances of procuring Cannondale, Specialized and Trek were all available but for some reason, out of the question.  I was confused. Terry was determined.  Terry had grown to be one with his Mongoose.

We decide to back the truck up within inches of the house/room window and to be doubly sure, I booby trapped it with beer bottles and a dog bowl from the back porch.  I work with a purpose and consider selling my ideas to Homeland Security. We can now rest. The world, if not at least our bikes are safe. It’s approaching midnight.  Alarms are set for 5:30 a.m. Plenty of sleep for a 12-hour endurance race. Waaaay ahead of schedule here Nostradamus.

The White House had a handful of other racers. We all looked organized and pitiful at the same time.  I recognize one of the guy’s as a fellow Gorge hound and try to get some beta on the race.  Tim is in the same boat as us. First time, no idea to what the hell would be going on. It doesn't really matter anymore. We are not going to get any better/organized/get an edge at this point...5 hours 30 minutes and counting.  We wish each other luck and continue on in our nervous organizing.  If I don’t stop jamming crap in and out of my pack, it is simply going to start fire from the friction.

I toss and I turn most of the night. Not sure if it’s from left over “electricity” in the air, not having made out a will, or the snoring but the character Gordon Geko from the movie Wall Street said something like, “lunch is for sissies,” so sleep must be in there too. Just as I doze off for the fifth round that night, it is time to unleash the hounds, I mean alarm clocks. Moving a little slow fearing blizzard like conditions, I stick my head outside and it’s actually quite nice. My mood just went from fairly neutral to a solid neutral!  This was quite a concern. Biking and paddling in mid-30 degree temperature really doesn't appeal to me. It was nowhere near the upper 30’s. Had to be at least 40 outside.  Hey, I’m from the Midwest - not a friggin Eskimo here people!

Like an army of ants, or more aptly, scurrying like cockroaches after “bombing” a value minded apartment, all occupants of The White House flounder our half dozen trips to the trucks and load up our gear. To no surprise, our bikes are just where we left them. I was almost insulted someone didn't try to steal them. We grab our banana breakfast and today I am a coffee drinker (thank you Tim).  There is a 0600 push-back and we are rolling. We have been talking about this day for eight long months.

Our first stop is to dump our bikes and tote with a calculated, little less than half our gear and food at Mill Creek lake (at the time, didn't realize deception is part of the team challenge). Bikes are removed, totes positioned. People seem to aimlessly buzz around the boat ramp like moths to a porch light (why do I have a feeling the others were saying the same about us?).  We were told this would be a restocking point for dry clothes and food.  Guess you could call it Pixie land but that wouldn't be true either.

We try and not run over anyone/anything in the pitch black, bike infested boat dock as The Fig doesn't have a crippled category (I already checked - thought we’d have a shot at winning in that one). Off to the starting gate!

It’s only about two miles down the road. The picnic shelter at Natural Bridge State park is whirling with life. Organized chaos.  Racers and pacers alike.  We are all biding for maps, passports, control card and check point (CP) info. Double-triple checking we have everything ready for liftoff. The mob of almost 100 grows anxious. A low chant of “let’s go, let’s go” starts from a few of the rowdies at the clock strikes 7:00 launch time and eyes shift from side to side as if the space shuttle rockets fail to ignite. I’m thinking, “Take your time. We have all day, literally.”

It is 7:02 and Dale Earnhardt Jr., with his hair on fire, oh no, it’s race director Bossy Rossie (Don’t ask, you just have to believe me on this one. Just like the “Wet Paint” sign on the park bench. You don’t have to stick your finger on it to be sure. Just take my word for it... ) rounds the corner nearly on two wheels into the parking lot and runs to the front of the crowd. Must have been hitting a few finishing touches at the ramp or eating the food in our bin as we wouldn’t see it again until the expiration dates have passed.  I need to pee, again.  Anyway, she gives a few more pointers about running in the prologue through the park and campgrounds then yells “GO!”  We are off like the running of the bulls. Stampede is an accurate description.  Run or get run over. This is obviously a situation of life or death. Meaning, if you don't run, it will be your death. Then you would probably DNF.  Bad publicity for your team on that call. Time to get it in gear.

Like salmon in the quest for renewing life, we gregariously trot up the blacktop to nappy headed Hoedown Island.  It is still dark. I can only imagine what the passers by on the main road are thinking when seeing all these people running by headlamp through the camp ground.  The “island” is a little recreation center used for square dancing at park. Luckily there aren’t too many cloggers out at 7:15 in the morning so all goes well. The gracious volunteers tender over our first set of coordinates.  Haven't seen so many numbers since my last college bar tab. Shouldn't be too hard to decipher. Time for all that university tuition to pay off. Within 10 minutes, we are following everyone else, again (AR race rule #1. Just follow the fast groups to the first TP. They know what’s going on and it is easier to follow than to lead...enjoy it while you can).

From the shelter, we have about a mile run to transition point (TP) 1&2.  We once again meet our house mates Tim and company.  Life is good.  People are still acknowledging each other! As we round the drive through the camper park, a police escort holds up traffic for the racers to cross the two lane road to Mill Creek Lake.  I momentarily think to issue a complaint to the officer and state to have been assaulted by group Tim figuring an arrest equals one less competitor... awwwww, I’m in a good mood and we go on.

The circle of confusion maintains itself as we enter the boat ramp. We rented a canoe so we wouldn’t have to be responsible and bring our own. The boats are still strapped to the trailers and a Lord of the Flies atmosphere breaks out. Guess that is another team challenge, to unleash the canoe without killing yourself or others by accident or intent.  You garner floatation by winning a fiberglass tug-of-war.  I consider having the team sponsored by a law firm next time for any improprieties.  It is 7:50 and we are ready to hit the water.

We carefully stage our vessel and set a plan, “don’t tip over.” The vote is unanimous. We clear the shoreline by a full 30 feet before we nearly slip into the drink.  Not thinking that I am going to die in the middle of this frigid lake - will only be suffering, for a very, long, time.

I’m in bow. Terry is mid drive. Jason is the stern.  Everything is a target except for check points. The morning fog is lifting and we clearly have daylight.  The tree stumps that are just barely under the surface to slightly above the water line are aptly called tombstones.  Kinda like playing Whack-a-mole and we are paddling the mallet.  I feel safe only when we are not moving, honestly. That does not help things considering this is an AR and that does not mean an adventure rest. We meander on.

Starting to get the hang of this rig. Avoiding other racers coming out of the narrow coves where the CP’s are located is a challenge.  Reminds me of the video game Asteroids.  They come from all sides and just like when accidentally hitting the rocket power on the space ship, we spin, we drift.  People are becoming nervous.  All people.  We quickly tag CP’s 1, 2 and 3 (what I mean is I punch the control card really fast).  These are pretty easy.  The gaggle of racers are still pretty much together. There is a steady ebb and flow.  Just pull the boat up to shore.  Get out without tipping over.  Dance around the bog.  Get our punch.  Back through the bog.  Get back into the boat without tipping over.  At this point in time, I’ve lost two years off my life.

Actually, there is some salvation to not being first to a water based CP.  I see one poor bastard with mud half way up to his knees. Trench foot is only good in the first hour of a race when it happens to a competitor.  Sorry to be you.  We paddle in circles for a little bit to make sure we get the most mileage out of our ride.  Kinda like the saying, “nailing one foot to the floor and running around in circles.”  That would be team SAR-Chasm. I wonder if people feel sorry of us? Like a midget, you want to look but embarrassed when caught staring.

We paddle fast, we paddle furious and land our shuttle on the rock lined ramp at the put-in.  The shelter for the next set of CP’s is front and center and we transition to the bikes. I don’t want to see water again for a while (or at least until we run out and that would be in a couple hours - hold on, we’ll get to that in a moment). I’m a little more comfortable on two wheels.  Part of our strategy comes from experience.  Not knowing what we are doing as racers but the fact that Terry and I have been visiting The Gorge for many years and we know 90% of what’s down there. It will be all of impossible for us to get lost. Within minutes of getting our next set of coordinates, we find ourselves in the 10% of the forest that we have never set foot. The Ministry of Trickery 1, Team S.A.R. -Chasm 0.

Anyway, we get on our aluminum and for one rider, his cast iron steed which closely resembled an Abram’s tank. Only difference is the M1 could achieve a top speed of 30 mph. No time to waste. We have one CP to hit and the next TP, Red River Gorge Campground is about 14 miles away.  The sun is bright but there is definitely a chill in the air. Time to break out he gloves and get ready for some wind chill.

The next CP is easy. It’s at an intersection on the way to the campground.  Terry decides to take a rest.  I would have put my foot down but Terry just falls over like the aged mighty oak. We’ll call this incident #1 on not being able to pull one’s foot out of the clip-in pedals. Jason and I WANT to help our team mate but it is easier to point, laugh and make fun of him. Though love if you will.  Women don’t understand this behavior. This is a guy’s way of saying “we care,” God’s way of saying, “bad karma.”

One funny thing I see in the race AR is people go like hell.  Everywhere.  All the time.  Some go and even come back and go like the hell in the opposite direction. Note, this goes on all day long. Maybe not at the same speed later in the day but it never ceases. At least until it gets dark and you can’t see anymore but you know it is still going on.

We get to a monster hill. People are PUSHING their mountain bikes up this thing. Thought, this is strange. Jason and I peddle past. I notice our feet are going about 100 rpm but we are not going much faster than the people walking. I decide to try a road racing technique and draft. Only problem is I can’t keep up with the person pushing in front of me and he gains ground.  I fall out of the slip stream. I think, man, they sure can push a bike fast...

Jason and I get about 2/3 the way up the hill and notice we are short a team member. T-Rock has performed a dismount and joined the trail of tears on foot. Time for a break. The hill was about a mile long of anguish but when hitting the crest, time to turn in those dividends. We descend at warp III carving up the turns like a Christmas turkey.  This is much more fun than going up hill.  Near the bottom, there is a sharp right turn crowded by bikers. Apparently mountain bikes are not made to take gravel turns at warp III.  Guess somebody had to go down.  “Inevitable” will think you may not see the gravel so he/she/it will place said body closer to the ground to get a better look. A fellow racer was sitting upright in a comatose manner but not on his bike, any more.  A few other riders were staring at him. Not sure if they were there to loot his pack or help him out. I asked if they needed any help and just figured they were monks because nobody said much of anything.  Assumed they had money riding on something that was about to happen and I didn't want to conflict with the results. Onward ho!

Pedal down a gravel road and we approach a barn with bikes everywhere. TP 3&4 here we are!  We see other racers running up the hill. It was mentioned to hurry up and follow one of the faster groups. Hey, we have a map, compass and UTM, what could possibly go wrong?!? (let me see a show of hands that may consider this a another mistake)  Coordinates are plotted, gear changes are made, speeches are practiced as we envision winning our class. Good grief, we are delirious already. Jello sets up in less time than it takes us to switch gear.

I now think that God treats people that THINK they can finish their fist adventure race like those who club baby seals.  We expeditiously (in our thoughts) plot our next set of CP’s and take off up the hillside. As if by instinct, I point up the first hill and say, it’s up here. True, the CP was on a hill and we were standing by one.  There appeared to be footsteps in the leaves going up the hill.  In reality, we (I can say we but it was really just me..) thought this was it. 20 minutes later at the top of the hill there was a rock protrusion just like on the map (and just like the three other hills surrounding the one we were on) but no checkpoint. After 10 minutes of pacing, I mean searching, I told Terry and Jason to just wait at the south east corner and I’d run to the north face and punch out CP 5.  A half hour later, I’m dragging back still with no CP.  Things...racing...life in general seems to be getting harder.

We decide to look at the map a little closer. We decide that we are on the wrong mountain (which seems to be getting larger as we tire) and traverse to the next in line. We hear and see others coming up, down, left and right on the hill. Geez. With all this brain power, we have to be close. No, we are now just a group of lost racers. We study the map again. A subtle clue of a gravel road is noticed. We ascend to the ridge and walk for half a mile. There is a house. There is no house on the map! It didn't appear to have been build since the map was printed last week. Pieces of the puzzle come together. Apparently using some sort of scale and measuring device works better than guessing. Within an hour and 45 minutes of setting off from the bikes, we locate CP #5.  The 12”x12”, white and orange, nylon, 3-sided control marker.  It is on the east side of a 50’ monolith.  It may sound ridiculous that it took us that long to find it, but, guess by divine intervention, almost 10% of the entire race group showed up at the same point at the same time and no, we are NOT in fist place.

As pitiful as our performance was on our last mark, it became a great motivator. Our achievement gave me the will to live for at least another 20 minutes. Time for a gel. Just like clockwork. Getting two gels and one power bar every hour (if we had started say 45 minutes ago!). Hmmm, starting to run low on water. It’s almost noon and just now taking in food. Not staying to plan.  I’m not hungry at all.  Must be running on adrenaline.  I know I should down something but too frustrated thinking of what a time waster #5 had been.  Lamenting on mistakes is not a good AR attribute. That’s OK, we should be off the mountain soon (mistake number...I dunno, have to be in the double digits by now.).

Jason set the compass to the coordinates and off he (we) went. By some kind of miracle, we bushwhacked up a hillside and found CP #6. The little orange and white maker only a few feet off the ground in scrub. We couldn't find one next to a 50’ rock but managed to pinpoint one in the middle of nothingness.  Good karma or dumb luck? Either way, I’ll take it.

CP’s 7, 8, 9 and 10 were not too bad. 7 was on an overlook spur 100 yards off the main trail (which I ran right past). 8 was under a natural sandstone arch. Luckily I was slightly familiar with arch formations (no I wasn’t looking at it from the side) and gave a good guess when the trail was on top of the natural wonder.  Simply had to figure out how to get 30’ below to hit the marker. We went all the way to the end of the arch and canvassed every inch of the drop offs that made up the sides of the ridge. Finally back at what was believed to be the beginning of the arch was a slight path to the right. More like a long skid over a rounded rock surface but it was going in the right direction and did not appear to put one’s life in peril.  Kinda like a log flume amusement ride only without the water, or log.

When sorting out some gear at the marker, I happened to pull out one of these little supplemental maps handed to us at the last TP. Cripes! There is all kinds of stuff on this little thing. Such as “you will find a foot path southwest of Star Gap Arch that will lead you from the ridge top to the area beneath the arch.” Or, ”follow a bearing of 110 degrees to some orange surveyor’s flagging that will mark you route to the ridge top above.”  That info may come in handy when looking for stuff like CP’s.  I have to think, is adult supervision on the gear list?

Star Gap arch was a few hundred yards off the main trail. We retreat back to move forward.  On the main line, we move easily to the trail’s end where we traverse a gravel road for a short distance then take another left.  This is still a marked tail but not as well traveled.  I am definitely feeling the effects of dehydration. My eyes are a little sketchy.  Need to keep up on the coordination thing.  There are plenty of exposed roots, rocks, stumps, logs and other foresty things waiting to relinquish me of my vertical state.  I’m not worried about the situation, only realizing it will not be getting better for a long time. I remind myself this is our first race (as if there will be future opportunities to perform masochistic acts to myself).

We continue on the single track in a timely manner.  CP 9 is right off the trail as noted on the coordinate sheet.  Right between two large boulders and a tree.  10 is shown to be on a look-out point about 100 yards off the ridge line trail.  In about 10 minutes of underbrush negotiation, we see the point from the starboard side and our little nylon oyster is waiting for us. Maybe things are picking up a bit?

CP 11 has been in the back of my mind since we left the bikes. One of the volunteers said we have to take our helmets on this leg. That means the inevitable. I’m curious, excited and have to pee again all at the same time. CP 11 is the last one before hitting the TP and is only about 200 yards down the ridge. I rehearse my preconceived mantra; “don’t look down, get in your gear, double check everything, lower over the edge and be done with it...”

The last bit of trail, we are back to light trail whacking. I look to the right and can see we are narrowing to the end of the ridge. The cliff is straight down. I break the rules and look straight down. We are up high but it’s not really intimidating.  Maybe I’m still so frustrated from CP 5, I don’t care at this point?  Maybe my eyeball have dried up like raisins and my depth perception is totally down the toilet?

I reach the rap rig. There are two stations. I am greeted by one of four volunteers.  Chris and Susan who run the hostel are working the station.  I know the organizers would not put just anybody out to oversee the rap lines.  I don’t see any blood or gray matter on the ropes and assume everything is running smooth.

I release my pack to anxiously remove clothing then dig out my harness and ATC.  I’m getting suited up and Jason arrives dropping the line, “Terry is locked up on a tree and isn't moving very fast.” This is not good news. I know Terry has this thing about heights. That is what all the practicing on that 30’ wall was for (both times)! I get that not so good feeling and I’m not talking about the same feeling one may have when say, giving grandma a Chia pet for her birthday and not noticing at the time it was the Chia goes through puberty edition. Oh, I’m sure we’ll be able to laugh about this later. Too bad it’s not later right now...

The station greeter said “better drag him up here. People are waiting.”  Easily said. Little tougher to do. Don’t want to keep the Grim Reaper waiting.  I pause for a moment and say, “let me get back to you on this...” I thread through the scrub in the slight path and get a visual on Terry. I’ve heard of tree huggers with Green Peace but this man is taking it to a whole new level.  Squeezing the life out of a white pine may be more accurate.  Every effort is made to motivate 1/3 of our three man team to the station.  My usual arsenal of compliments, bribery and meager attempts at physical harm do not yield the lofty results anticipated by others. Terry simply states that he is not going down, plain and simple and he will back track and find some way to descend.  “Terry, we can do this. We practiced, it is totally safe, there are guides, 130’ - bicycle helmets are here to protect us, WE HAVE OPPOSABLE THUMBS!”  No dice. I scan the ridge line and see nothing but drop-off for miles...Terry is stubborn but I give in as locking up on a conifer 50 yards from a checkpoint is much better than a meltdown 7 feet into a 130 foot rappel. I wish him luck and feel like someone has hit me with a taser, or at least feel like I ate some bad cheese. Figure this is the last we see Terry Dactyl for the day.

I despairingly sprint to the station and walk up to the open line. I am immediately instructed to clip into the top belay (grrrrrr, must be insurance related...).  Next is to step over the rope, lock-in, double check systems, call out “on belay”, check, “lowering”, off I go. Guess it was mind over matter at that point. I’ve never rapped 130 feet before but it wasn't the rush I expected. More like, “oh, this is cool” and continued to get short roped all the way down. Don’t get me wrong, it was a nice deal. Walk over the face of the rock and down for about 30 feet then dangle like spider for the rest. Guess it was like being a kid and opening your second to last present at Christmas.  It was still fun but not the fist pumping fun. I’ve had my fill of excitement already today. I’m OK with this. Really.

I hit the deck. Pull off the gear. Descend down a small scramble to Jason and who is sitting on a rock?  Terry!   I thought, sweet!  The three amigo’s are back on track. Unbelievable...Apparently Terry found a washout on the ridge and became the human tumbleweed. Seems that 90 degree descents are no good but 89 without a rope works fine. My jaw is on the ground. Bugs are crawling in. Time to close it and move on.

We begin mistake like 9,237.  Not paying attention to the map, we simply go straight down the steep hillside to the gravel road (per the map of course) but neglected to rationalize that we are supposed to go down to the left at the point. We pick up another half mile of unimproved roadway. I wish we were getting paid by the hour. I wish I had more water. I wish I could feel my legs.

We return to TP 3&4.  An hour and a half trek took us (and many others) almost five hours. Time, Mother Nature and genetics are not on our side right now. Luckily, the owner of the primitive campground doesn't want us to die in his front yard and stink the place up. We beg and he cordially supplies us with two gallons of water. I was having delusions of Man vs. Nature and having to drink my own urine but I had nothing to pee. Transition point turns into reality check.

We get our next set of coordinates and off we go. Our three man team is now flowing like the mighty Niagara. Well, maybe not that vicious but at least running like the toilet at the Speedway gas station. Never stopping, constantly trickling. Harness the power.

We don our bikes and it looks like a 9 mile leg.  We quickly pick up CP 12 on top of a lichen speckled boulder which is off the gravel road that runs along the Red River.  If we would have again realized the potential benefits of that supplemental map/passport thing, it would have served us well.  There was a small footnote indicating to cross (“ford” in AR lingo-can I use that in Scrabble?) the river within 200 feet of CP 12.  Instead, we push on, down the gravel road. Well it is 9 miles on paper but due to the wonderful scenery this time of year, we decide to make it 15 through the cow pastures. Starting having second thoughts about our map reading skills again when we crossed barbed wire fences with the bikes and peddled through sicker bushes. Not like we were the first ones down the road but it sure felt that way.

The gravel road turned to dirt, turned to grass, now turning into water. Something seems awry. Cars are buzzing by above the riverbed. Obviously there is a road and there’s only one river to cross according to the map. We observe the cut of the river in a race speed survey of the land (had to be at least five minutes...). When I approached the waterway, noticed another racer traversing right at, what we thought was the roads’ end. I don’t like trench foot and peel off my socks and shoes, heist my bike and make way across the river. Water only came to the hem of my shorts and I didn't fall in. I consider this a small battle victory in the war.

I turn to see where the rest of the fearless warriors are positioned. For some reason, Terry is looking at me as if I just ran over a puppy. Jason decides to blaze (ford) his own trail on pedal.  Thinking the man is going biblical on me.  Either he was attempting to part the Red sea, I mean the Red river, or simply bike on water.  Apparently something seemed like a good idea at the time but about half way across, momentum apparently met gravity who was hanging out with fate. I thought for sure he was in the swim. It was a small miracle that he was able to unclip and keep himself upright before life would take a turn for the worse.  He managed to muster up the strength to drag himself into the sticker thicket. Not sure what tactic that was but losing weight by bleeding out is not the answer.  Will file that under “things not to do” for any future competition. Given the options, Terry wisely follows my route.

From the way we acted, one would think we were trying to cross a crock infested, piranha laden Amazon tributary. I’m glad nobody was watching. We should change our name to “Pack of Schoolgirls,” then I think we may be overestimating ALL of our skills at this point and not just playing the kazoo. We have CP’s 13-16 laid out but we see that we are supposed to be to be at TA 5 by 4:00 to be granted access to CP’s 17-19. It is now closing in on 5:00. Not good. Doesn’t take too much to figure out that we need to modify our plans. We will have to ditch 13 and company and figure out where in the hell we are at.

Up on the tarmac, we meet up with another group of racers (poor bastards are as pitiful as we are).  I’ve been on this road before (according to the map) and it was gravel. This is old blacktop. Not much choice at this point; left or right.  We proceed on an easterly bearing.  Suddenly there is a change in the pavement to gravel. This is a good sign. A beacon of hope. A biscuit of salvation for my hungry soul. After a few miles of serpentining gravel we come to the coveted steel bridge (as opposed to the other bridge in the gorge; the concrete bridge).  Time to evaluate our situation. We have been in this thing for 10 hours. Fear of dying has been replaced with who the lucky one will be and kick the bucket first. 1) I hope it’s not me. 2) Hope they bought some cool stuff for this race because I’m gonna be all over their stash like a bad rash.

I estimate we are probably an hour and a half away from the finish line if we wimp out now.  We will get back at a decent hour, scavenge food, water and all that other sissy stuff. If we choose left, the ride continues for all eternity or more.  There is about an hour of daylight left.

One of the riders from the other group sums it up in one bold statement as we stand there like deer in headlights and declares, “This race isn't over till 7:00 and it’s not 7:00 yet.” I agree. Didn’t come to this thing to lay up. We have clothing, headlamps, I think there is water at the next TP which is only about four miles out...only thing we are missing are muscle spasms (more on that later). Time to cut some wind.

The intersection is a paved road. It follows the snaking Red river and has little in the way of elevation changes. We wind through the valley.  The yellow and red leafed trees line the hill sides. The sun is warm and we know where we are at. Think my blood pressure just dropped 20 points. I get into a groove.  Actually, feeling pretty good, my speed is increasing. Pulling away from the group. Just a long steady pull. I’m not racing our new found compadres (that stuff left my body five hours ago).  I’m just going.  I glance over my shoulder and see the peloton about 100 yards back. I go for another couple more minutes and in a rare straight-a-way give another rearward glance, it must have been 200 yards, the coast is clear, no one is within eyeshot. Even if it is only for a few minutes, I find my place.

Ahead I see a sharp bend in the road and I recognize it as the Bison Way trail head. It’s the next TP. I descend the gravel pull-off to hear cheers from the volunteers and our illustrious R.C., Stephanie. I’m thinking the volunteers are cheering because they can now go home. I am informed that few groups have made it this far. I’m amazed. Well, not too surprised because we did actually skip like 4 CP’s.

The rest of the group converged and I knew we were close to the Gladie ranger station. One of the workers said they thought the welcome center closed at five. It was 5:20. Maybe I could get lucky and find a garden hose?  A horse troth or dog bowl would be acceptable. Sucking the moisture out of my underwear has crossed my mind at this point. Stephanie tells us we missed the cutoff for points 17-19.  She actually looks enthused.  Probably thought F-Troop would never make it this far.  I’m just glad she didn't yell at me again.  We are directed to go straight to the next set of CP’s (20 &21) then hit the finish. We grab our coordinates and push off for the ranger station in search of hydration. Those two gallons from the camp ground didn’t last the team very long after being out on that whole damned five hour ridge catastrophe.

Good thing we only had to ride across the street and up a grade to see cars. I see a ranger taking down the flag and he doesn't appear to be wearing a gun so I decide to rush the front door flinging out my hydration bladder. To calm my nerves a bit, the door says they close at 5:30. Seven minutes to spare. This equates to a second chance at life for team SAR-Chasm.

We refill with water and enthusiasm then plot the next two CP’s. I reorg. my pack a bit and spread my power bars and gels on the sidewalk.  What kind of yard sale is this?  I feel like a little kids poking through Lucky Charms picking out the marshmallows.  Looking for the good stuff.  We are 10 1/2 hours into the race and I’ve only taken in 1/4 of my carefully planned out and heavily scrutinized, not to mention just plain heavy (and expensive) energy sources.

I’m still not hungry but feeling guilty, I gnaw on a bar and down a gel.  Geez, this is like doing the salt, tequila, lime thing but there is no happy ending.  I grimace, we pack, we go like the wind. I gently break it to Jason that the next couple miles will be like dragging an 18-wheeler through a sand bank. A grueling hill of sizable ascent. Simply pace yourself and plan on pain. It gets worse before it gets better. Just a little pep talk there Trigger.

The ranger closed the metal pipe gate when he left. There is a small gap to the left side we could ride through to get back on the road. I chant out loud, “look at where you want to go, not at what you are trying to avoid,” and PING! My handle bar tags the right gate post. This inhibits my momentum somewhat and apparently Terry thinks I’m a better rider than I do! He doesn't miss a beat but narrowly misses taco-ing my rear wheel. What he does not manage to do is unclip, again.  Like a turtle on the side of the road that has been flipped upside down, albeit, a turtle with Tourette’s, he violently flounders to regain composure (gonna have to rub that magic lantern a little harder Terry, the Genie is not going to grant you that wish today).  I can see his frustration growing faster than a goldfish bowl full of sea monkeys over that whole pedal thing.  A skill set to work on next week but for now, time to make something happen.

On the pavement and on the way to check point 20. For the last 5 minutes, I have been filling Jason’s head with PMR’s (positive mental reinforcement’s) on the heinous hill climb that awaits us. Things like: better off dead, know where you keep the cyanide pill, we shoulda bailed and went the other way at the bridge, etc. The hill isn't THAT bad, if you name starts with Lance but for Team Learning Curve here, it could be a life altering experience.  Less than a mile in length and going from river side to ridge line in elevation 10 1/2 hours into a 12 hour adventure race and we are losing light at about the same speed I’m losing the will to live.

Granny gear again is my best friend. Still don’t see the logic of my feet seemingly spinning at 85 rpm and moving at walking speed but I’m in the saddle and moving forward. I’d stop if there was strength to unclip before hitting the ground.  The hallucinations become more frequent.  Really, I’m starting to enjoy them.  A flashback of Terry on his side in the gravel serves me well as inspiration. Like carrying the torch to light the opening of the Olympics, nothing but a muscle spasm can stop me now. Damn, mentioning muscle spasms must actually trigger them.  My right leg goes into contortions and I grab a handful of brake in an attempt to unclip a foot I can’t even feel all while not falling flat on my side on a blind curve road and avoid the sheer drop-off on the shoulder. Not feeling groovy. I beat my leg like it owes me money.  I am continuously taking in water at this point. Kinda like putting sun screen on AFTER you feel the sun burn.  A bit on the late side for that but it does lighten up the pack.

We hit the ridge line and have a really lame jube moment.  Feel the need to sacrifice a virgin but it sounds like work.  Making the God’s happy is not one of the team challenges so we maintain our mo in search of CP 20. According to the coordinates, it should be at the Wildcat trailhead.  I know where the Wildcat trailhead is located. It’s right on Rt. 715. The very road we are on. No big need for maps, supplemental or otherwise.  Several light years or possibly a couple miles or so up the road; we pull off at the trail marker and begin the search for the orange and white marker. Running up and down the trail, well, maybe that is a little optimistic. Ok, dragging our knuckles up and down the trail donning headlamps, we find nothing.  What the hell. It says right on the coordinates 0271915   4185725 - Gate (flagging only). We walk back to the road to hold a summit. The location is right at the trailhead per the map. One of the guys we passed 15 minutes ago rides by and yells, “you jackasses” or maybe he said, “you guy’s passed it. Back that way (as he points over his shoulder).”  I read the word “gate” on the coordinates.  About a quarter mile back, there was some orange surveyors ribbon on a tree. Maybe that is a subtle hint. I mount my aluminum steed and back track to the marker. Jason and I search in the scrub. I see no gate and sure as hell se no CP marker. I’m getting pissed...

I look at the coordinates for a third time...like when you lose something and check a drawer over and over as if there is a false bottom or something - maybe the little elves that stole your keys/wallet/cell phone/what ever put it back when you weren’t looking...keep riding and look for a gate. Check the map again. I see a forest service road about another quarter mile back. On my way, again...

I pedal out of frustration rather than ambition at this point. I see a slight pull off on the right and down about 50 yards is a gate with two foot long pieces of surveyor’s ribbon. Check point 20, you are mine.  This is NOT Wildcat trailhead.

I gain a little momentum at this point. A sprint back to the guy’s and we have another short lived celebration (you earn these things; they just don’t give ‘em away).  We get a solid idea where check point 21 is and push off. Terry gives notice this is the worst day of his life.  I opt for something a little more optimistic. Terry, “this can’t be worst day of your life. You are not dead yet and we always have tomorrow!” The cheery theme song from Cinderella and the 7 dwarfs, “High-ho, High-ho, it’s off to work we go”...never enters my mind.

The top of the ridge is rolling terrain. Up and down, gentle sweepers left and right.  It is a great ride. Have always wondered what it would be like to bike this as I remember driving the blacktop for the past 25 years. The sky has turned to a faint blue.  The sun has been gone for a good 45 minutes.  We can see the last fringe of the sunset dimming between the tree bases. We forge on to the intersection of Rt. 715 and Campton Rd. It’s only about five miles away. We will turn right, cross two bridges and immediately on the left will be a gravel road. Access to our final CP, number 21.

I feel weak. So much for taking two power bars, a gel and plenty of liquid every hour of our race. It has been 13 hours and have downed two Snicker bars, one power bar, two gels and about 140 ounces of electrolyte enhanced water. I wouldn’t qualify for the Special Olympics. I have either not had the water to drink or not hungry from intensity to down anything. I’m not hungry now but my body is telling me different.  The temple is angry. My legs cramp and effectively go on strike. I take a quick 60 second breather to think of a valid excuse for not playing it smart. Nothing comes to mind and I spin onward. I come to grips with a quick leg message and my last Snickers of the day. Got to go. Got to go. It’s only about a mile to the second overpass. Thankfully, my body does not hold my willpower hostage.

A few minutes later, I have the overpass in sight. I’m bringing up the caboose on this leg. Just as I start to cross the overpass, both of my quads go into muscle spasms. Here I am trying to keep my bike upright, not careen off the side of the bridge onto the mountain parkway below and see where I’m going while figuring out how to deal with the situation.  There has to be a plan “B” in here somewhere! I think for a minute. I paid to do this? Muscles regain composure before I do.  I almost break out into a delusional laughter.  What is next, a battle reenactment?  I get to be Custer? No thanks. Think I know how that turns out.

Moments later, we convene at the entrance of the gravel road. Terry is not his chipper self and I have a decent idea where the marker could be (from actually looking at all the maps but didn’t I say this earlier in the day, aka CP 5?).  I volunteer to make a run down the gravel road to hopefully find the marker, punch it and get the hell out. Another plan that sounds good on paper.

OK, it has been pitch dark for a while.  That nifty little LED light on my bike is about as bright as the kid next to me in second grade art that was always eating the paste. My “on closeout” 3 light Tikka helps a little. At least to the point that I can see into the woods as I ride my mountain bike as fast as I can down a loose gravel road. Could be worse. Could be 8:30 instead of only 7:30.

From my finger print on the map, I estimated the CP to be about a quarter mile off the intersection. My trusty Cateye (that had me pegged as doing 77 mph immediately after the paddling section in the frigid morning air) brings me to a halt.  I see nothing but darkness.  Jason takes off like my Jack Russell sighting a squirrel. He must have a plan? I decide now is a good time to think. All I see is Jason trying to outrun his headlamp down the road.

Immediately to the left is a short grade, the Bert Combs highway, Rt. 715 then some houses. I check the map again try to find within 50’, where to enter the woods. The houses are little black squares on the map. I see a transition from gully, to level to grade. It has to be there. The little light returning up the road must be Jason or maybe some hillbilly wanting to kill me for trespassing. I think again of the Blair Witch Project...if I was only so lucky...Jake pulls up looking for beta.

For a nano-moment, it feels like I know what I’m doing. “It HAS to be right in here. Let’s just run in about 50 yards and start searching.” The coordinate notes simply say “flat top.” Enough for me!  And if it wasn’t, would it have mattered?

We crunch and we crunch through the underbrush and the first fallen leaves of the season. Hmmmm, doesn’t look like 91 other people have trampled through the area but it HAS to be here. We split up. Jason bears left and I go straight. Scan, stomp on, scan, stomp on, stick in the face (that hurt), scan, stomp on.  Thinking “The Clapper” with a giant strobe would be handy right now but guess that would take some of the sport out of it.

I see something glow about 25 yards out. For a second, thought it might be some piping on Jason’s jacket and yell out for his 20. “Over here” comes out of the darkness in a much different direction. I shake my head and think; it’s either a no trespassing sign or the marker. I approach with trepidation. Freaking aye, we have a visual! “I found it!!!” is second only to locating CP #5. Jason dodges trees like Jerry Rice rolling off a free safety or maybe Bill Clinton dancing around those pesky Lewinsky inquiries. Out of breath, out of time and out of his mind, Jason punches the coveted 21. The monkey, a.k.a. 400 lb. gorilla is off our back.

We casually trot back to the roadside bikes. I actually feel excited again. Can’t wait to tell Terry we have conquered this beast (well, annoyed it a little may be a more accurate description).

Back at the intersection, Terry tells us again of another patented dismount and how he cleverly used his elbow on the gravel to keep from scratching up his handle bars. Gravity still working properly? Check!  We need to be making a list of things “not to do.” Terry reminds us again, this is the worst day of his life.  The funniest thing is, I have never heard Terry say a negative word in the 14 months that I have known him. Today, he purges his soul. I remind Jason -  “Remember last week at LaRosa’s pizza? When you commented that when were done, we just might be saying “hey this wasn’t so bad after all. It may actually be pretty easy!” Let me know when that thought crosses your mind again.  We laugh (except for Terry) but the tension is fading and I think I see a grin via headlamp. Let’s go boys, only about 8 miles to the finish. We won’t even talk about the second paddling section at the Mill Creek again and the remaining check points 23/23 who’s cutoff time was two hours ago.

Back on the 715 pavement I alert Jason to a nasty 90 degree lefty up ahead on the downhill. We are on top of a ridge and the steady grade down goes for several miles. We crank, we tuck, we pray for passage guided by 3-LED lamps and moon light. The hard left is in our sight and I gently fade onto some brakes. Jason has a different technique of turning the bike in low and dragging his left foot on the ground. Not familiar with this move. I check over my shoulder and Terry is still moving as are we. I forgot about the two other tight turns ahead. Good thing these headlamps can project a good 25’ so we have plenty of time to set-up as we consider our 35 mph corner speed. Note to people in cars. In total darkness, you don’t need to turn on your brights to make sure we see you. Believe me, going 35 mph through downhill turns in the middle of nowhere, we see you before you see us. You are not doing us any favors by shunning enough candle power directly into our retina’s to challenge space shuttle personnel into confusing our locale with Vegas. Fear and “the force” keep us all between the lines and we roll. Like the New Year’s ball dropping on Times Square, the miles are like seconds, quickly counting down.

We reach the bottom of the hill and the terrain levels off. The light from the used tire store serves as a locator beacon. Subway is next and we know the left to Rt. 11 is only seconds away. This could be a booger. Rt. 11 is a gentle, 3 mile grade from the intersection of Rt. 15 to the entrance of Natural Bridge State park. Our start/finish line. It is dark, there is little shoulder, cars doing 50 mph, anyone riding a bike this time on night on this road just can’t be right. We don’t claim to be right, only hungry and tired. Actually, this is probably the most dangerous part of the race.

The finish again gives me purpose. Jason is in close to my six. Terry is fighting the demons of his department store bike and a nine hour long migraine. Lance said something like, “it’s not about the bike.” I bet Terry could punch him right about now.

Jason and I turn into the park entrance. “We have to wait for Terry-Dactle. We leave as a team, we return as a team. I cheer Terry on as he rounds the turn, “It can’t be the worst day of your life because it’s now night time!!!” He ignores us.

We regroup just before the finish and a round of applause comes from the group that has obviously been there a while because they have regained the strength to clap. The same spot we started off at just under 14 hours ago. It is impossible to remove the grins from our faces.   Pizza, door prizes and beer in the cooler, life is good.  A few other stragglers filter into the closing ceremonies each awarded with a well deserved cheer from the organizers and racers alike.  We basque in group revelry. Tomorrow it will be group therapy.

As things wind down we load our gear, swing by Mill Creek Lake to get our stash of half the gear/food we never got to see then head back to True North Outfitters. Warm showers and bunks await horribly distorted tales of honor and bravery that would have bestowed knighthood to the common man.

Back at True North the lodge is calm. I guess most of the guests were killed off in the race today. Drill Instructor Stephanie is staying there too. Jason goes over the details with her and in true Ross fashion, tells us of all the stupid things we did.  There are too many to list. I’m only mad at myself for not figuring out the obvious.  Little things like “we gave out the little supplemental maps because the big map was wrong!” Oh...The notes and passport also had handy time saving clues in it like good places to cross a river or there really isn't a road where the big map shows one. Oh...I have to laugh. We all have to laugh. Terry’s headache is now as weak as 3.2 beer and he is on the doorstep to all things normal.

We retire to our “estate bunk room.” It’s 11:00 and the adrenaline is still working. Not even tired. Too pumped to sleep and talking trash about next year.  What a day.  We are in God’s country, an unforgettable first run, perfect weather, a kick-ass race and a couple of good friends. Guess I could have summed the story up in those couple of sentences.

Team “S.A.R. - Chasm” has come to find out, you don’t compete for an Adventure Race, you experience it.

The jerky lasted a day.

The race shirts will last a few years.

The scars will last a lifetime!

Fig VII, 363 days and counting...

        game day photo’s below