#1 – What are limits?

Are limits physical or mental?  Are they real or created by us?

Finding out can be a spiritual experience. 

After nearly a year of preparation, planning, and sleep lost for what the possibilities were, we were as ready as we were going to be. The Baja 1000 was the longest non-stop race on the planet on the most brutal terrain a motorcyclist can imagine. My 21 year old son Tanner and I were lined up for the start in the dark in Encenada Mexico.  Half the teams of up to six riders don’t finish. We had chosen to race in the Pro Moto Ironman class. This means you are on your own.  You’ll have to race 855 miles in one shot just to finish. Historically, the odds of this happening were very slim.  

Two weeks earlier we were on the Baja peninsula to pre-run the course.  You don’t show up for a survival race having never seen what you’re in for.  While we ran this race as a two man team last year, the course is laid out different each year. We had three bikes, Honda 450X’s, one for each of us plus a spare, packed into a van.  We had a GPS and stared out into the desert.  What now?  Ride out there and try to pick up the GPS line at mile 38. They keep the first 38 miles of the course a secret until two days before the race.  There were barbed wire ranch fences with locked gates.  It took us 40 minutes to even find the race course. A frustrated start 

What possible difference could it make to take four days to ride over 855 miles? Think about how far that is from your home. Now think about traversing that far through the wilderness.  How could you remember every turn, fork, boulder, rut and hazard? That’s what I was thinking.  Amazingly, it helps dramatically. With practice you can make a strategy and be mentally prepared. It can also scare the crap out of you when you realize the magnitude of what you signed up for.

The most I have ever ridden in one day was 390 miles. But that was in last years race and I alternated with Tanner. Every few hours I could rest while he was riding and get myself regrouped.  It was a 25 1/2 hour race, but I only rode for half of that time. Besides that giant effort with its “hurry-up offense” pace, the most I’ve gone was 270 miles. I felt half-dead afterwards.

My plan in pre-running was to ride 12-14 hours to find “The Wall”. I had been training hard since winter broke.  I had been trying to keep up with Tanner with Spartan work outs and races  I was running in the woods regularly. I had lost 15 pounds I did not think I had to lose.  I had taken my body to where I thought I could not go on anymore up Killington mountain.  Now I wanted to do it on a dirt bike.

My plan was foiled by a delayed start for preparation, and what happened when it got dark.  Tanner was behind me by a mile or so. It was ink black.  So dark the night sky looked light with its stars laced gracefully over the unnamed desolation you viewed it from. I got to a barbed wire gate across the course.  These gates would be down during the race, but until then they were holding in cattle and horses.  If you ride into one the wire would get inder your helmet and chin and take your…well – don’t run into one.  

I got off my bike and took the makeshift gate down, with its sticks holding the wire apart. I waited for Tanner. He didn’t come.  With my own lights off, I should be able to easily pick up and glint of light for many miles.  Nothing. I rode back a mile to higher ground.  No light.  I took my helmet off to listen.  I only heard the dry wind. 

Really? We’re supposed to race 855 Miles on this course soon and we can’t go 200 miles without a mishap? Yes…of course.  This is Baja.  Baja doesn’t care about us. The majesty of the desert and mountains can lure you in with its beauty or end your life, without any preference. 

Where’s Tanner? Why does that question sound familiar? And what does a father do now?  I could see for miles behind me and there were no lights.  I decided to go forward.  Maybe he took a different wash down to the lower elevation.  In the shallow parallel canyons maybe he passed me and I didn’t see him. 

I went four miles ahead into the black, and started to feel like I was doing the wrong thing. Something told me to turn back.  So I did.  I saw a white four door pickup truck coming.  We came together.  In the desert, your survival is at stake and when you see someone, you stop and check with each other; not like in places where there are plenty of people to be ignored.  The four guys in the unmarked truck had guns and didn’t speak English. I figured they were police because guns are illegal in Mexico, and they were trying to understand me, not rob me.

As I tried to understand the guy sticking his head out of the rear window, the driver pointed ahead into the dark. A light, far dimmer than Tanner’s approached.  But it was Tanner!  The reason I didn’t see his light is because it failed. Oddly it didn’t go completely out, but glowed like a cell phone.  He picked his way though the rocks at 1 mph this way.  

We rode alongside each other for miles, sharing my light, trying to get to the road.  His light came fullon for five seconds, and then went out completely.  An electrical problem.  The locals built a huge jump, Which we know are often booby traps for racers because they’d have a pit on the other side where they got the dirt from.  If you didn’t clear the pit, you were going to take a dirt nap.  In going around it, I lost Tanner again.  Why?  I went back and shined my headlight on him to find a big bail of wire wrapped around his rear wheel, sprocket, and brake. We worked to get it all out by beding dozens of strands of wire back and forth and back and forth to break it. Finally.

Tiny towns were scarce and had few amenities. We knew we were close to El Rosario.  We found the road and found a small dusty hotel. One problem. Chad, our driver and mechanic, was waiting for us 40 miles away.  I left a tired and cold Tanner at the hotel and set out back into the night to find Chad.  I wasn’t dressed right for high speed in the cold night.  By the time I got there my core temperature had fallen. We loaded the bike in the van alongside the spare one, and I got in telling Chad what happened.  As we drove back to El Rosario, I shivered and my body began to give me signals.  Distress signals.

Riding a dirt bike in this terrain is not like driving a car or even riding a motorcycle on the road. For the first 20 minutes it’s fun. The it’s work.  Then it’s a workout. Then misery. It’s physically punishing.  After 260 miles of riding that first pre-run day, I felt nauseous.  Sick.  Dizzy.

Thinking about the 855 mile race….how could this even be possible?  I was worried.  No, I was more than worried.  

I was terrified…