#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…