#17 Daylight and Hope

There is a difference between being exhausted and being injured. I was both, and the adrenaline that masked my injuries was long burned off.

I was shrugging my shoulders to push my neck brace up against the bottom edge of my helmet to take weight off my neck. I couldn’t breathe for the pain. This is what the path I chose had lead me to – suffering.

I pulled off the course and put the bike on the stand. I dropped down on the rocks and aggregate, laying down in the dark to get weight off my head. I reached up inside my helmet and squeezed an energy gel into my mouth. It would have no effect.  

I’d “invest 5 minutes” in this. I NEEDED it. My body took advantage and acted as if I’d fall asleep and stay here for a dozen hours. My eyes closed halfway, my neck throbbing. My C2 vertebra was way out to the right. My head was on a broken swivel. My left wrist…my knees…my hands.

A minute passed, maybe two. Precious, glorious minutes.  

I had to get up. Tanner was ahead. I needed to get to him. I opened my eyes and turned my headlamp on. A desert plant was illuminated inches in front of me that I had not seen. Get up.

Was I crossing the desert or was I bridging the gap between what I am, and what I could be?

I wasn’t done. Get up.

I held my helmet to steady my head. It took a surprising amount of effort just to sit up. I rolled over to face the ground on my hands and knees. The moment was a masterpiece for me. I pulled one knee up and put my foot on the ground, and slowly lifted my torso vertical. I pushed down with one hand on that knee, holding my face guard with the other hand. I rose.

I got on that bike, and headed up the course. I supposed it was an hour before dawn.

I came around a really silty uphill corner and a guy was flagging me. A Trophy Truck was stuck in the silt, all the wheels buried to the bodywork. I was in the left rut, but the right was where I could blast through the bush and pass. I couldn’t turn out of the deep silty rut. Two locals came to help and push me. I left the truck behind.  

The silt was incredible. None of it was here two weeks ago. Uphills were where trucks spun their tires the most, and that’s where, if there were no embedded rocks to hold it together, the silt was produced deepest. 

Ahead was another silty uphill. The silt takes one shape on top, but being light as flour, your wheels are riding on the harder substrate, which has a different shape. Your brain sees the shape of the silt and your body responds as if that is what you’ll be rolling over. But the wheels see what you can’t, underneath.

I fall over in a foot of flour. The header pipe instantly burned a hole in my pants, and I feel a searing on my leg. Locals, who had a tent set up not 40 feet away, run out to help me. We get the bike up and they push – but I can’t go forward uphill without coating them with silt. They are happy to help and don’t seem to mind. “Go! Go!” they yell. At that hour, their encouragement means more than they will ever know.

Keep moving forward. The course goes around a hotel along Route 1. A lonely building with no neighbors. Heading back into the desert there is a steep uphill – with some of the deepest silt I have ever seen. It was hard dirt two weeks ago. I make it up, using all the power my 450 would produce. Over the crest of the hill I see a rider with his bike leaned against a barbed wire fence post. I stop.  

“Are you ok?” He has his helmet off. A Japanese rider, 211x. No response. “Are you okay?” He manages the words – “Resta Time.” He’s trying to use his cell phone. I reach into my pocket and get an energy gel. “Here. For energy.” He comes over and takes it. “Thank you,” he says. I take off down the hill, into more silt.

My friends are waiting for me at mile 505. Javier and Brian took off from mile 470 to drive 5 hours back to Ensenada and down Highway 3 to mile 590. It should only take me 2 1/2 hours to take the crossover road on the course to get there, so they had to leave me early. The plan was my friends would meet me at mile 505, and see me at mile 520 where I would leave them for the 70 mile leg. Hopefully, Javier and the van would get to 590 before I did.

Waiting was tough for my friends. It was only 35 miles since they saw me last, but I was taking unexpectedly long. Their minds raced and wandered. Did something happen to me? Where was he? Each time they heard a machine approach, they thought it was me. It wasn’t. They looked to the hills for lights. They’d see a bit of light sweeping around up there, and then disappear. Finally a vehicle would emerge – not me.

Finally, I broke free from the desert hills to see Franz’ pick-up truck. Franz, Trevor, Ralph and John were anxiously waiting. They knew I was in bad shape. A funny thing happened so gradually I hadn’t noticed the moment – it was getting light out. 24 hours of riding. I now knew it was possible for me.

After each day, follows night. After each night, follows day. When things aren’t going well in your life, nights are tough. Darkness and dark thoughts. But each morning the sun rises, even if it’s obscured by clouds – it rises. We get a new chance at life each morning when we awake. Things are new. There is hope. A blank slate for something better…