#20 600

 “You are done”.

I didn’t want to accept it.  I struggled to find the least uncomfortable position.  Finally I broke onto the straight stretch of dusty road  that ended perpendicular into Route 3.  I could see pit vehicles ahead.  I knew I’d have to make a decision.  The next leg was 60 miles of sand whoops.  My neck could not take the G-ing out 5000 more times.

I saw the white van, a welcomed sight as always.  Javier and Brian had beat me to 590 with their 5 hour drive – only because I was going so slow.  My friends were not there yet.  They put the bike up on the stand while I dropped down into a folding chair they set up.  I knew it was over.  I was disappointed.  No, I was more than that.  I held my face guard up, and cried in my helmet; not for what I hadn’t done, but for what I had. 

Javier didn’t want to declare anything. He was quiet. He saw my condition, but was patient.  He pretended to take longer with the bike than it really took.  He knew I was processing.  A few teenage kids walked up.  I gave them stickers.  They could tell by looking at me that I was at a crossroads.  They turned silent and just observed me.

“Where’s Tanner?”  “He’s near Ojos Negros” Javier said.  Ojos was 40 miles from the finish.  I knew he had it made.  For all his suffering, I knew the excitement of closing in on the finish would anesthetize him for now.

I noticed a nail sticking out of my rear tire.  If it weren’t for the foam inserts, I’d have had a flat.

I took a breath.  My voice was firm as I told Javier my final plan.  “I’m going to 600.  Follow me.  The course is alongside the road.  I’ll meet you there.”  

“Ok” he said, like a silent negotiation had been settled.

Mile 600 was where I wanted to get.  It was not a scheduled van stop.  It would be my limit – today anyway.  

Two trophy trucks had collided somewhere nearby.  I heard that a driver’s leg was severed off right in the truck.  A whole bunch of guys were working on the front end of a truck next to me, but I hardly noticed.

I got up and swung my leg over the bike.  I knew it would be for the last time.  I headed down the road, standing on the pegs, resting my helmet to the side on my neck brace.  

I didn’t see a sign for mile 600, and the course turned off the road into a wash full of deep sand with the occasional boulder half buried in it.  I turned in and weaved through, the soft sand cushioning my ride, careful not to hit anything hard.

There it was ahead.  Mile marker 600.  It was 9:30 am.  I had been riding for 27 hours and 7 minutes.  

Could I go on?  Ahead I saw monster sized sand whoops.  If I went farther in to tackle 50 miles of that, I’d have to stop every five minutes.  Maybe I’d be in there for many hours before I saw my trucks again.  I wouldn’t gain anything by it, it was mathematically impossible for me to finish in time in this condition.  A DNF (Did Not Finish) is a DNF.   Nobody cares how close you got.  There was no point in prolonging the agony.

I pulled up onto the road where Brian and Javier parked the van.  I couldn’t turn my head to see if any cars or trucks were coming, so I just listened.  I crossed the road and shut the engine down. I had Brian take a picture of me, and gave him the bike.

I slowly walked back to the 600 sign across the street.  I stared at the sign a long minute.  I took a picture; a picture of great meaning.  I walked back in the deep sand to the van.

In the Baja 1000 there is a radio antennae high on a mountaintop.  It’s monitored by a guy called “The Weatherman”.  Any accidents or emergencies would be reported to him and he’d dispatch emergency crews.  These reports included disabled vehicles on the course and vehicles dropping out of the race.

I climbed up into the passenger seat as Brian got on the radio to do his duty.  “Weatherman”, he said, “714x is out of the race at mile 600”.  

The Weatherman repeated it back.  “714x out at mile 600.”  I sat there stunned on hearing the words. 

There was nothing more I could do…