Isolation

“The real glory is being knocked to your knees and then coming back.”

The next Baja pit was 16 miles ahead. Could I walk? In riding boots in the sand…it would take forever, and then I’d have to walk back.   

Could I walk back? It was about 14 miles to the river crossing where I could find locals. Too far. More trucks. Another bike slows and stops. “Are you ok?” Nothing he can do. I stopped flagging vehicles. I called Andrew again. Another truncated conversation. He said Arturo was coming out on Tanner’s bike. Before we could discuss details, the call was dropped.

If I could talk for five minutes I would have told him that I was only 16 miles from the next Baja pit – so I didn’t need too much gas. They could fill four or five water bottles with gas and put them in Tanner’s pack. Arturo could ride freely this way.

I stood there in the dark, thinking about how much time I would lose. I thought it would take an hour for them to get back to San Ignacio and unload Tanner’s bike. Then figure 15 minutes to get Arturo prepped. Then an hour for him to get to me. I may even be able to get to mile 784 by daybreak, which would be right on my plan.

I rolled the numbers over in my head as trucks and racing buggies came by and dusted me, my bike, and my pack at irregular intervals.

I was sobered by my situation. I had worked so hard, done so much right, and come so far – only to make such a heavy mistake. If just one person from either crew said, “Don’t forget the gas pit ahead,” I would have been looking for it. But I couldn’t blame them. Everyone was focused on Tanner dropping out and not the details of me staying in. Fair enough. It was my fault.

Well, if I have to wait for Arturo, I’ll take a nap. He can’t miss my bike, reflectors, and blinkers. If I was any closer to the course I’d be on it. I laid down between the low brush and small cactus that lived in this flat sandy plain. I left my helmet on to hold my head up and keep it warm. 

This may be a luxury I thought. Maybe this is good. Maybe I’ll get an hour or two of sleep and be fresh as a daisy when Arturo wakes me up. It was cold. Real cold, and I wasn’t moving. My socks were damp from the river crossing and my jersey was damp with sweat. Cold night air doesn’t dry you like hot day air. The cold sand sucked the heat out of me. I started shivering. Intermittently at first, then continuously. Trucks roared by.

I had to get up. As tired as I was, I couldn’t sleep with my body so cold and quaking. I jumped up and down to get my blood going. I began getting warmer once I got off the ground and heat loss by conduction stopped.

I called Andrew. He answered. “Arturo is coming with a gas can.” I could hardly make out what he was saying. “A gas can?” I thought. How is he going to ride with a gas can? You have to stand up when it’s rough, and he had a river crossing to navigate. A dirt bike seat is about 4 inches wide, and you need to slide forward and backward to use body English to ride. Where is he going to put a gas can?

Time went by. It was 1:30a.m. and I had been there for two hours. It was 24 ½ hours since I saw the green flag. Then it was 2:30. Then 3:30. I kept recalculating the entire rest of the race. I laid down to try to sleep again. Same result – impending hypothermia. Get back up.

The sky was beautiful. I observed the desert at night as I never had before. I had hours to kill. I heard animals; a coyote or desert fox howling, and some kind of night owl. A shooting star. Hues of black.

It seemed to be getting colder. I observe a low cloud – no, a fog bank – rolling in. Soon, I was wet with condensation. My bike and pack and helmet and gear were all wet. When a truck went by, the dust stuck to me like I was a powdered donut.

More time passed. Slowly, I came to the realization that I was going to lose a lot of time. A LOT. This was going to threaten all my cushion time and even the race itself. All that cushion time I had earned with everything I had for the last 24 hours…gone. This I did not want to accept easily. I stayed positive. 

Another light is coming. Is it Arturo? I have a feeling it is. Closer…closer…the lights fly by – again.

By now I was pretty wet. The fog was moving on a slow wind. “So this is how plants and animals drink out here.”

Another light. Is it Arturo? No.

It was 4:30a.m. Then 5:30. A new day was turning the eastern horizon a dark blue, then lighter blue. The satellite phone rang. It was Andrew. I could not believe what the scratchy voice on the phone was saying. 

“Arturo did everything he could. He tried to get to you, but he had to turn back. He’s back here at the van now… We are no closer to getting you gas than we were six hours ago.”

My body was still. I blinked in slow motion…