#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.”