Day 8 of the trip. Stage three today. But at 3am before my day started I woke up sweating. Something was wrong. Soon I was on the toilet. Then I was yawning into it in technicolor. I’d hope it was over and done and went back to bed. Nope. This process repeated itself many times until 8 am. I get up, and I know I am in deep trouble.
I manage to get my gear on and go to breakfast. I have my head down on the table. I can’t sit up. I take Dramamine. One of the guys has diarrhea meds. I take those. I lay down on the ground. I am being attacked from within. I wonder if my being sick on day one was motion sickness or the prologue of this same enemy.
I can’t. Today there are even bigger dunes. Ok, but I can’t even sit up. I can’t even drive on asphalt. In Dakar, if you don’t finish a stage, you are out of the rally. We were sitting in 20th place overall in our class, and because I had not broken the car and was consistent, we were catching up each day in the overall standings.
I think about how I must get in that car and be there for eight hours to continue. But I will surely be sick as a dog and need a bathroom many times in the middle of nowhere. I am already getting dehydrated as I can’t eat or drink anything.
I am sick, and heartbroken. We made the call.
I get in the car with Bruno. We get the green and drive out of the bivouac onto the paved road. This was to be the last day at this bivouac. This stage was not a loop but a one-way northeast to another bivouac. The pit crews would all pack up and take a five-hour drive on the road to set up at the next location while their race vehicles were out on course.
I go a quarter mile and pull over in front of the small RV South Racing had. I get out and climb into the RV. Bruno gets in the driver’s seat of our car. I lay down in the RV and try to sleep but I can’t. First it’s 100 degrees in there and the AC is not working. Second there are 20 flies in the RV and they keep landing on my face every 10 seconds. I try to cover up but it’s 100 degrees. I am swatting and cursing the flies for five hours, sick as a dog.
When we get to the Mengoub bivouac they take me to the medic tent. I get an IV and two bags of fluid. I have aches and pains and my breath is hot like I am getting a fever. My neck hurts really bad. The French doctor tells me to drink Coca-Cola. I figure he doesn’t know what he’s doing. When I get out of there I find my tent and go to bed early.
Ted and I decided I’m so sick that I’d sit out stage four tomorrow too, and rest up for a nice finish on stage five. I’d be out, and heartbroken that I came all this way not to finish. I’m not a quitter. But I did my best.
Oh Larry, that all sounds horrible. Proud of you for pushing through as much as you could. You still got out there and did what you could and did well moving up each day. A total out of your control situation but none the less I know still heartbreaking.
My god Larry I’m riveted to these e-mails with your story. I remember my first national waterski tournament in central Fla 1985. We went to dinner the night before my first day of competition where I had lots of oysters (you know where this is going)I woke up just after midnight deathly sick coming out of both ends. At a certain point I continplated calling for ambulance. But what rescued me was calling the front desk and some angel from heaven brought me Alka Seltzer It WORKED! Very shortly I was to get ready to go to the ski site and wait my turn to ski. I was pounds lighter and dehydrated and weak but i skied.
Larry, thank you again for your words of encouragement. Im sorry you DNF’ed the race but at least you tried and made the effort. That means everything. Im a 57 year old dirt bike fanatic and want to race BAJA but finding people my age to team up with is impossible. Even the guys we raced with in the past wont even think of it. I haven’t raced BAJA in 25 years, but we still do excursions from time to time. I love reading your stories about Mexico because I knew every city you mentioned and how the chase trucks meet you on the pits. Because of you, I am going to make this happen. I own a plumbing business in Phoenix and it allows me to make a team, but I can’t seem to put it all together. But keep writing the stories because they will get me to finally commit.
Sincerely,
Mike Gerstein