#9 Scorched Earth / "Get to"

I pulled into the van four minutes after the impact. It had been 122 miles since I saw them last. I was reeling from the non-crash. I told them what happened, still upset about it. After observing me for a few minutes, my friends could tell I was in shock. Kevin had my wife Wendy on FaceTime, which was odd as I didn’t think there was cell service here. It brightened my spirits to see her face. 

While I ate something, two guys dug into my trap muscle, neck and forearms. It felt great unless they touched the wrong spot in my neck. When I ride long distances, my right trap muscle locks up and really starts hurting.  My chiropractor told me why. There is a nerve that goes from your little fingers up to your elbow, through your trap and into your neck and spine. When your hand is in distress, the trap protests, too. He said by digging in there you can release it. It worked. 

Franz told me I was only 10 minutes behind my estimate which would have me finishing in 32 1/2 hours. The time limit was 36 hours, so I had a 3 1/2 hour cushion. I felt pretty good about that. In 15 short minutes, I was on the bike again. The next leg was short. I’d see the van again in just 39 miles. I like that kind of race. 120 miles on your own is a long way; too long. Unfortunately, I’d have to do this one more time, at night, on the toughest part of the course.

I’ll have to deal with that later. Now it was down the pavement a few miles, left into the desert for a 12 mile pennant pattern. Not too bad. Back out on the pavement, turn south, 10 miles, and right into the desert where I lost Tanner when his lights went out while pre-running. A sand wash that was a small canyon filled with rocks took a lot of work. You try to avoid all the big rocks (like basketballs or larger) in favor of riding on the ones that were smaller.  

Mercifully, it finally ended and now I was in deep sand, much of it whooped out (like waves on an ocean). My friends waited for me, and walked out onto the course. They had trouble just walking in the deep sand and silt. “Scorched earth” was the term they came back to the van with.

Tanner and I agreed that there must be more people watching this live than attend the Superbowl. 855 miles of people peppered here and there, with small crowds gathered near populated areas. Add it all up and it’s a lot of people. Baja is the off-road racing capital of the world. That’s how these courses, roads and paths get all beat up and whooped out. Lots of racing and there is nobody to groom them in the middle of nowhere.  

I made it to the rendezvous point at the El Rosario bridge. It was nice to see my team just 1 hour since I saw them last. If I could do this the rest of the race, it would help dramatically. The team said I looked better than the last stop. I drank some more Chia as Javier changed my air filter, and checked the bike over.  

“What’s the math, Trevor?” Trevor was Franz’s 20 year old son. He was into robotics, a whiz kid, so I figured he’d be the best one of us to calculate how long it would take me to finish at each stop. “At the rate you are going, you will finish this race in 27 hours,” he said. I was so happy to hear that. I must have taken shorter breaks than I figured I would. New life came into me.

There were kids hanging around us at this stop. About 9 of them, 7-13 years old. They asked us for stickers. My pack had little pockets in the front of the straps just big enough for our team stickers. I filled these pockets with stickers so I could reach them without taking my pack off. I gave each one a sticker, making a little game out of it. My team told me later that when they saw me do that, they knew I was ok, and their spirits were lifted.  

Some of the well wishers, some of you, said “have fun.” Another message I wrote on my gas tank was “love riding,” and “get to.” I do love riding dirt bikes. I have been doing it for 20 years twice a week unless the ground was frozen. The Baja 1000 was my chance to do it all day – and all night – and all day again! What’s not to like? I don’t have to do this, I “get to” do this.

A sticker on my bike just under the seat read “glad to be here,” a message Blue Angels pilot John Foley gave us, talking about debriefing after flights. When you say “glad to be here,” ultimately you are acknowledging that it is a privilege and you are expressing gratitude.

We should be grateful. Not only for the good things that happened in our lives, but for the suffering, too. Out of suffering comes a wiser, stronger, more appreciative version of ourselves. Our failures are the stepping stones to get somewhere better. And we should be grateful for all the things that DIDN’T happen to us. When you think about all the tragedies that could have happened but didn’t, it’s easy to feel lucky.

It was about 2:00 pm. I thanked my friends and crew, and took off up the wash, feeling lucky.