Facing Reality

“The keenest sorrow is to recognize ourselves as the cause of all our adversities.” – Sophocles

It said plain as day on the tape on my front fender – Van stop 607. Baja Pit (gas) 607. I never saw the pit. It was in San Ignacio along the street with the people and the lights and the colors. It was camouflaged in plain sight. When I was fist pumping the crowd to the right, it was on the left.

I accepted what happened right away and began thinking about what to do about it. It was 11:32 pm and I was far away from any people or structure. It was 45 degrees and dropping. I pulled my bike over to the left side of the course and heaved it up the bank of sand to get it off the course. The sand was deep, and the bike would not roll. I had to pull it sideways one wheel a few inches at a time with great effort. 

I was ahead of my plan. It will be ok. I’ll get gas somehow, and if it takes an hour or two, I’ll be alright.

I didn’t pull it more than four feet out of the way of race traffic, because I wanted to be seen. Maybe someone would stop and help me. It was very dark, and the desert stars laced the sky above the clear air. I took my pack off and got my satellite phone out. I turned it on and waited to get a signal. I called Andrew and hoped he was monitoring his phone. 

There was a time when Iridium satellite phones were a hot technology. With 22 satellites orbiting the earth, supposedly you could call anywhere on earth from anywhere else. It never took off and I knew why. The damn things didn’t work half the time. I knew this from last year. The calls would not go through often, voices would come in garbled, and the calls would be dropped halfway through. Still, we rented them for the race because there was little choice in a situation just like this.

Andrew answered. He was on his way to our next rendezvous point at mile 784 and had driven over an hour away from San Ignacio. “I missed the pit, I’m out of gas at 646,” I reported. “Oh shit!” he said. After a pause for not knowing what to say, he said he’d head back toward San Ignacio and figure something out and call me back. I wanted to discuss some options, but the call was dropped. All I could do was wait.

Lights appeared on the horizon, coming my way. I stood near the course near my bike. Was it a bike? A truck? A buggy? As it got closer I could tell. I had never been stranded in a race before. When I saw a bike stranded, I always stopped to ask if he was ok. I guess I was assuming they’d do that for me. 

I had two red blinker lights on the back of my pack when riding at night. I also put reflector tape on every rear facing surface I could – the shoulders of my jacket, my pack, the back of my boots, under my rear fender and the back of my helmet. I didn’t want to get run over by an 800-horsepower truck going twice my speed. I positioned my bike and the blinkers so other race vehicles could see me.

Soon enough I had my answer. They didn’t even slow down. Race trucks went by at 80 miles an hour and showered me with dust. At first, I was disappointed. But when I thought about it, I guess I can’t blame them. They are in a race in their respective classes and have planned all year and spent a ton of money on this race. Bikes are cheap. The trucks are one million dollars apiece, not including pre-run trucks, the crew, chase vehicles, and the shop they built them in. If I was stranded, that’s not their problem.

A light approached and this time it was a motorcycle. I waved to him – as he went by. “Oh, ok. It’s like that then.” The thick of the pack of trucks and buggies were coming through – one every few minutes now. I knew there were about 300 vehicles besides motorcycles in this race – 400 entries in all.

Another bike…he slows and stops. “I’m out of gas,” I shouted over his engine and through his helmet. He thought about it for five seconds and then shook his helmet and shrugged. “I’ll tell them at the next pit,” he said. I paused. “Okay. Thanks.” He took off. There was nothing the guys at the pit could do for me other than report it to my team if we called them. What did I expect? That’s what I said to a rider who was out of gas last year. There’s nothing a bike can do. They don’t have any extra gas.

I called Andrew again. No answer.