Vegas to Reno

On August 18 I entered a 520-mile race across the Nevada desert on a motorcycle – “Vegas to Reno”.  I had done this race before in 2020 and did well.  The terrain is not as difficult as the terrain in Baja Mexico where I have raced many times before, so you can go faster on average.  

It was the longest race since my knee replacement 2 1/2 years ago, and I was looking forward to the test – not just of my knee, but my fitness, as I cannot work out like I used to; no running, and caution overall.

There were 15 in my class.  It was an Ironman Class – meaning solo, no teammates.  I started 12th.  It’s great when there is little or no drama.  Drama means things probably didn’t go well.

There were 13 pits where I could get gas and see my chase team at many of them.  My wife Marie, daughter Jasmine, and son Liam would be chasing with the mechanics – the kids seeing their first race.  It was really cool to share the experience.  

I was worried about the dust.  It’s so thick with bikes starting every 30 seconds at dawn when there is no wind, that you have to slow down to a crawl because you can’t see.  You get that feeling you get when you walk with your eyes closed, waiting to hit something.  But this morning there was a little intermittent breeze, and I knew as the sun came up it would get stronger.  Great news!

I took off the start at about 6:30 a.m.  The bikes in front of me were filling the air to capacity with dry baked desert dust – lighter than air it seems as it just floats in no hurry to obey gravity.  To pass, I’d wait until there was a section where the wind was blowing left to right (or vice versa) and I could see the bike way ahead, with the dust going right, but not left.  If I could race up on him just a couple feet to his left, I’d stay out of the dust; a wall of unbroken blinding dust just to my right.  If he was riding on the left side of the course, I’d have to be on the extreme edge of the course to stay on his left.  

As soon as I’d pass a rider on his upwind side, he’d have to cut his throttle because he could not see in my dust.  I’d been the victim of that plenty in my career, but now I was the veteran, and I knew the dust game. 

I passed 8 riders before the first pit.  By the second pit, Marie told me I was in third.  By the fourth pit, she told me I was in second place.  At about mile 200 my hands started hurting.  75 miles later they were okay.  They “wear in”.  I stayed in second place until about mile 300 where I got passed. I tried to mount a fight but it wasn’t to be.  

There were two remote pits that my team would never be able to get into and out of and still keep up with me.  So there were about 100 miles where I would not see them. The first racing truck passed me at mile 375.  Oh boy.  This meant a pack of them would come through me.  Very sketchy.  Four of them passed me some minutes apart.

In a rocky downhill river wash, I came upon a rider standing in the course.  As I approached I could see another young rider with his back leaned against him.  His femur was broken, and probably his hip too, with his foot facing a direction it should not go.  He said he had help coming.

No more trucks passed me for 100 miles because when a helicopter landed in the wash to help the hurt rider and take him away, they blocked the course and no more trucks could get by.  Lucky for me.

As the race wore on and the hours went by, I counted the miles behind me and the miles ahead.  I rationed my energy to use it all without running out before the finish, which drew nearer and nearer.  But a mile at 387 was a lot more difficult than a mile at 37.  Keep going…..

To be continued…