#14 Choices

My team was wondering if I would go on, and if they should let me go on; if it was safe to let me disappear into the night again. I didn’t know it, but they had asked me questions to gauge whether I was of sound mind and judgement. Ralph thought I gave all the right answers, and nobody disagreed. My body was in distress, but my mind was ok. They elected to let me sleep.

About 50 minutes after I had fallen asleep, I woke up on my own. The windshield was opaque with dirt. Trophy trucks were coming right by us and spraying us with dust. I sat up, opened the door, got my gear back on, and thanked everyone. It was on to the next stop – mile 470, 55 miles away.

The 55 miles to 470 was rough, but not quite as bad as the sections in and out of the bowtie. After having some food and a rest, I pushed through it. 55 miles was a long way, but not nearly as far as the 125 I had just got done with.  

I came down a slope and saw an alternate route to the right. I figured it must be there for a reason, even though I couldn’t quite make out what was ahead. It looked rough. I saw lights coming so I pulled over to the right side of this alternate way around, which was about 100 feet long. A trophy truck came flying in, and he did not take the alternate and went straight instead. He locked up his brakes when he saw the refrigerator sized rock in the trail. Too late. He steered to the left, which was a vertical wall, his wheels climbing up it in a desperate attempt to avoid the giant rock. He decided he was committed and gunned the throttle. I had a front row seat, just 50 feet away in the middle of the night, to hear violent metal crunching and roaring and wheels spinning. He made it over that rock. I expected to see him in a mile or two with no oil left.

Just as I considered getting going again, more light approached. It was a Class 1 buggy, with the same engines as the trophy trucks. He skidded to a stop just before the rock and put it in reverse, roaring backwards. He turned towards me down the alternate go-around route. Was I far enough over to let him by? He tried to scoot to my left, but there was another rock the size of a refrigerator to the left side of the alternate. If it wasn’t for me being there, he could have avoided it. Crunch! He dropped down off it and it was metal to rock in a violent bang and scrape. Sorry buddy! I didn’t have a lot of sympathy for him as I was stationary the whole time.

I have to say, it was an exciting 90 seconds and it woke me up a bit, even if it was because my life was at risk!  

Later Tanner and I agreed that this race was crazy dangerous. Not dangerous from a mother’s point of view. Dangerous from a adventurer-risk-taker-already-crazy-person’s point of view. It was stupid dangerous.

Keep going into the black dusty night.  

At mile 400, the worst case scenario happened to Tanner. His lights failed. They went out. Just like when we pre-ran. These lights we were using were awesome, but we thought there must be an issue somewhere. Tanner remembered that Jimmy set up an entirely different circuit to plug the lights into. He got his wire cutters out, cut a wire tie to unfold the new plug, and plugged his main light into it. It worked!  

Tanner got us both battery back-up lights that attached to our helmets which we could have ridden back to the van with, but there is nothing like the main double cluster of four LEDs.

I weighed where I should invest energy to save time, or where I should spend time to save energy. I knew I could ride faster, but it would be strenuous (and riskier) and burn up more energy. If I went slower, I could save energy for the last part of the race. But if I went slower, the race would be longer, and I’d have to be awake and on the bike longer. Choices. Tradeoffs.

Isn’t that what we do every day? We have to decide where we will spend our mental and physical energy. Energy for this, means less for that. The same with our time. If we spend time on this, it means less time for that. We all have the same amount of time. It’s precious. 24 hours in a day. 36 hours in this race. When it’s gone, it’s gone.

These are important decisions. I find there are so many “important,” fascinating, interesting, fun, fulfilling things to do and so many fun, interesting, exciting, worthy people to spend time with. But I just can’t do everything. I can’t accept every invitation, chase every opportunity, and experience every place and event. I have to make choices. Sometimes the choice is the best use of my time and energy. Other times, I didn’t choose really well because of limited information. Other times, I’m spent, and I need time for me – to rest and heal and regroup.  

I had been making these choices this whole race. At one point, a bike passed me back at mile 180 or so. It was a bike from another class, likely with a fresh rider. I didn’t want him making dust in front of me, so I raced him back and passed him. I spent the energy to do that to try to have a clear track. I think I surprised him when I came back like that. He decided to race me, and he passed me back. I could have raced him for miles and miles, but I had to let him go. He had teammates and had to ride for less time than I did. He could spend all his energy battling with me. But I had 855 miles to deal with. His wasn’t the only battle I had on my hands. So I made a choice. Let him go.

That’s what we have to do, and we have to make these choices without regret. We have to decide how to spend our resources, and move forward and make the best of it. Not look back and worry if we made the right choice. It’s over. Move forward. You can’t change the past.

So my strategy the whole race was to conserve energy, not get hurt, and not break the bike. I figured the other guys would burn up with poor energy management strategies, and I’d come by them late in the race. That’s what I did in Spartan races. That’s what I figured would happen now. I didn’t count on getting hurt. I rarely crash and rarely get hurt on a dirt bike. I had 10 “tipovers” or more, but that’s not a crash. And I had never been hurt in Baja. “So much invested, and now is when I get hurt?” Thoughts went through my helmet. 

Keep going…

#13 Mile 415

A dead abandoned trophy truck was up at an angle on the side of the course. Dark. Nobody around. Erie. 5 miles passed. 10% of the way back to the van. Pain. I scoot off the trail of a truck. I get my front wheel over a hard ball off pointy leaves. It gets under my skid plate and I get stuck on it as it unweights my rear tire. Man, that is one tough plant! I have to get off the bike to lift it off the plant and get unstuck.

I can’t see well. Go slow. Dust. Another light from behind. He’s close and coming in fast. I get off the side, but drop my bike. Damn it! Another dust storm as he passes. I get going. Slow. Dust. After a few minutes, it starts to get thinner. Go a bit faster. Whoa! I fall into an 18” deep slot – a rut from the last rain. I’m down, the bike and me laying across the course in the dark. The bike is on my leg. I look back and see lights coming. Are you kidding?! Worst case scenario!

I reach up and push the switch of my auxiliary light on my helmet. It turns on. I push it again and it starts flashing. Then I make the other one flash, and I point my helmet backwards, twisting my neck so these super bright lights flash right at him. I struggle to get up. He sees me, thank God. He pulls over to the left and roars past before I can fully straighten up. More dust. Can’t see.

How am I supposed to race when I can’t see and they keep coming making more dust?!!!

Tanner was thinking the same thing.

Rocks. My neck is really hurting. Not a sharp pain in one spot, but a regional pain from between my shoulder blades up to the base of my skull. I felt like there was a 90 degree angle in my neck that should not be there. I couldn’t breathe.

I’m in a race. I can’t stop. Forward. But I have to stop. Forward. I have to…I pull off the course by 50 feet between the shrubs and boulders. I turn my bike off and the lights off. I just need a minute.

I get off the bike. God knows what time it is. It’s pitch black. It hurts to stand. I need support. I sit. I need to support my head. I laid down on the gravel, a tumbleweed in front of my face. Relief with my helmet on the ground. I reached into my pocket in the dark and pulled out an energy gel. I had not had any caffeine yet. I was saving that for as late as I could. I didn’t want to be on the rollercoaster. But now I needed it. I sucked it down. It was good. I could just lay there all night. I could have fallen asleep right there.  

“I have to get up.” When I pulled my helmet from contact with the ground, it felt like I had a ball in my throat.  My neck wasn’t right.

I remounted. My bike was not in a good spot. It was pointing downhill and I couldn’t go straight due to brush and the terrain. I tried to push the bike backwards uphill. I got it around halfway, and thought I’d spin the tire to pivot it. I got it around. A truck went by. In getting on the course, I had to go over some rocks…I fumble and go down, awkwardly into a thorny tree. I hoped this was my low point and I was glad nobody was there to see it…

Get up. Pick the bike up. Get on the course. Get going. Forward. Mile 385. 390. An eternity later, 395. 400. Coming down out of the mountains. Good. 400. Thank God for caffeine. Ohhh, going back up. Rocks. 405. Going down. Van at 415. Keep going.

Around 415, there was a flat area and all the teams met their drivers there. I rode through all the rigs, looking for my van and crew. I passed many of them. Did I miss mine? Finally! There they are!  

I pulled in. I had survived the 125 miles of rocks at night. It can only get easier from here, I thought. It was about midnight. It was also 36 degrees and windy here. The crew was frozen. My speech wasn’t working well, nor was the part of my brain that drove it. I managed to tell them how I was, and answered their questions. They asked me if I wanted to sit in the back of the truck and warm up. I did.  

I wanted to lay down across the seats to get the weight off my head. I was so tired. I had been riding for 18 hours, 12 of that injured. “Wake me up in 30 minutes, OK?” I asked. “OK” I heard back. 

They didn’t…

#12 "What it's all about"

The course presented one hellish section after another. Go up this hill with all these rocks. Done? Ok good. Go down this hill with all these. Ok now follow this silty slotted tire track with all the rocks in it, and don’t fall over left down that 50 foot drop. Ok now…  it seemed like it would never end. I was going slow, and I knew it. I’d be going twice this speed if I was fresh and it was light.

A truck coming…no good place to get off the course…he’s closer than I thought….oh crap…I drop the bike trying to get off at a bad spot. He goes by my bike and me laying on the ground. See ya. Get off the bike. Lift it up. Man, this bike is a lot heavier than my motocross bike that weighs 245 pounds. No damage. Start the bike. Look back – no lights approaching? Ok go. Struggle over the rocky berm that tripped me up getting off the trail. Dusty. Way dusty. Can’t see. Go slow. Damn – hit a rock I didn’t see. Which line is smoother, left or right? Can’t tell yet. Too dusty. Rocks.  

On my tank, I wrote another message. Forward. I put an arrow which way that was. I just have to keep going forward. Mile 340. 10 miles is an eternity now. I’m in pain. A lot of pain. Mile 350. 355. The bowtie is at mile 365. I have to make it there to the Baja pit. I can get fuel and take a little rest. My helmet is so heavy on my neck. Rocks. Damn trucks. Visibility is so low. No wind.  

A light ahead. Someone is flagging me. It’s a biker off his bike. He’s got his rear wheel off. “Do you have an air pump?” he shouts. “No” I reply. “#&*^!” he yells. The rocks claimed his rear tire. He changed the tube out here, but he did not have an air pump. I was so glad to have foam inserts in our tires. We could not get flats. There was no air in our tires. You have so much invested in this race, and one errant rock and you are out. There is nothing I can do for him. I press on.  

My neck hurts so bad, I pull over. I grab my chin guard with my hands and take the weight off my neck. Breathe. I take a drink from the hose coming over my shoulder from my pack. Truck passes. I get going. I hate this. Pitch black except for my headlights reflecting off airborne dust. I feel that dust in my throat and nose.

Bowtie should be coming soon. I’d get gas then have 50 miles to go to see my van. Out of the black a rider is waving to me. He has no light. Helmet off. I pull up. “What’s up?” I yell. “You know how far is Baja pit?” His native language was Spanish. “I think about two miles.” I saw his bike way off to the right. 128x. A Pro Lites (250cc engine) Rider. I told him I’d tell them at the pit when I got there. It was six miles to the pit at the bowtie.

I thought about this. The last Baja pit (gas stop) was supposed to be at mile 305. Instead it was at mile 289.  That’s 16 miles early. I questioned them when I was there, but they only spoke Spanish. This interval was 16 miles longer without fuel. This rider ran out of gas in the middle of the night, in the middle of the desert 6 miles before the pit. That wasn’t his fault. It was Baja pit’s fault for setting up at the wrong place. A hell of a way to end your race. I was going slow so I used less gas and made it.

I pulled into the pit. They had a trailer and lights. It seemed like civilization to me. They overfilled my tank when the quick fill nozzle stuck in my tank. Gas sprayed all over my tank and all over me. Rookies! Would I catch fire? Gas ran down onto my hot engine.  

I shut the bike off and put it on the kickstand. Normally you don’t run a kickstand on a race bike. Too much weight and if the spring broke and it swung forward it could dig into the ground and throw you off the bike. But I knew in the Ironman class I’d have to stop for a number of reasons. Jeff Benrud may have had a catheter, but I had a kickstand!

I was so beat after those rocks. They offered me a chair. I sat down. They offered me water and a small bit of chocolate. I declined. They knew I was an Ironman because my number, 714x, began with a 7. That means Ironman. They asked if I was ok. I told them about Tanner. He looked at his chart and told me what time Tanner came through that pit. It was a long time ago. “T” was doing good. I found out the workers at all the pits were volunteers. Enthusiasts. I gave them stickers.

He saw all the messages I wrote on my gas tank. My wife and daughters’ names with a heart… ”Riding with the King,” “Trust,” “Believe.” He took his phone out and made a video of me sitting there looking half dead. “This is what it’s all about. This is why we come out here,” he said while recording. “This guy came out from Connecticut with his son and they are both doing Ironman. That’s so cool,” he said.  

“Yeah. Cool,” I thought, holding my head up with my hands. After about 10 minutes, I got going again. I had 50 miles more of this terrain to go. 

It was back up into the mountains…

#11 Five Dangers

There were five reasons my race was going to get much more difficult and dangerous – trophy trucks, night, rocks, fatigue, and 125 miles without seeing my van.

When a trophy truck comes up behind you, it can surprise you. They should use the Stella alert system to light up the tracker on your handlebars and sound an alarm siren so you know they are coming. But in our experience, only about 1/4 of the trophy trucks used the new system. When it’s dark, you can see their lights bouncing up and down on your horizon, and you have to find a place to pull over. That sounds easy, but many places on the course are one lane wide and have curbs and shoulders filled with berms of rocks, boulders, and cacti. It can be a challenge.  

When these trucks come by, most don’t slow down. They are scary and aggressive. The air is filled with loads of dust when they pass, and you can’t see for a while. Sometimes there is another truck right behind the first. Two years ago, a motorcycle pulled back out onto the course after a truck passed, and another truck behind didn’t see him in the dust. It was a disaster.

I pressed on. The daylight was fading. My goal was to make it to mile 330 by nightfall. I was at mile 305. Mile 330 was where it gets really rocky and tough. Imagine steep uphills where the trail has mostly rocks and not much dirt. These rocks are broken and sharp and all sizes up to breadbox size. You have a 3 1/2” wide rubber tire on a spoked rim that you have to endlessly maneuver between these rocks in the path of least resistance.

Then go downhill with the same rocks. The rocks are interrupted by ledge steps. At least the ledge doesn’t move. Rocks take a lot of energy out of you – especially your hands, arms and shoulders. You start sweating more.  

Night came at about mile 315. I was behind. The dark means slower riding. While the headlights are great, there’s nothing like the sun to light up everything around you in all directions. At this time of year, there would be 11 hours of daylight, and 13 hours of night. 

13 hours of night. Picking away at the terrain for 13 hours of darkness. It was lonely out there, and eerie. Without my GPS, I may as well have been on Mars.

My neck was injured. I had to admit it. And these rocks were making it worse. It was hard to find a comfortable riding position to take the pressure off my neck. My helmet felt like it weighed 50 pounds. It hurt.

I made it to 330. The rocks and hills strewn with them got worse. We were going up into the mountains again. No more deep sand at the shoreline. Rocks. I jumped off the side of the course as a truck came through. Can’t see. Get back on and go slow until dust clears a bit.  

330 X 3 is 990. The course is 855. I’m more than 1/3 done. I don’t have the attention to calculate the percentage in my head. Another 98 miles will be half way. I can figure that much. My left wrist has been sending me distress signals since the incident at 209. I can feel five distinct tendons running from my wrist towards my elbow – like piano strings. They are screaming – like they are electrified and hot. I try to adjust my grip to ease the pain.

No avail…keep going…

#10 The Dragons Catch Up

The El Rosario Bridge, where I last saw my van, was at mile 250. I was almost 1/3 done! On the course, there are markers every 5 miles telling you the mileage. You bet I’d be doing some math in my helmet. What percentage done I was, what percentage until I saw my van again.  

I pulled up on a motorcycle that had just crashed in front of me – 211x. He was standing on one leg next to his bike holding it up. “Are you ok?” I asked. He just pointed down to his knee. He couldn’t put weight on it. “Are you ok?” I yelled over my engine again. We both had mirrored goggles on and couldn’t see each other’s eyes. He just pointed down. He didn’t speak English. There were riders from 18 countries. I saw his shifter was bent and pointing straight out from his bike. There was nothing I could do. I told him I’d report it at the next pit where they had radios to get the word out to his crew.

Ahead, Tanner was battling through his own race. He battled the dust, the terrain, other riders, and pain – especially in his hands. He went off course a bit, and it almost ended his race in disaster. He was approaching a drop in elevation, and skidded to a stop to find it was eight feet straight down. It was the wall of a wash, or dried riverbed. I saw this on the helmet camera footage later. He stopped 12” from the edge. In pre-running, I dropped off a five-foot cliff and saved a crash, but an eight-foot drop when you are slowing down would likely have you landing on your head and the bike right behind to pile drive you into the hot sand.

My leg was another short one – 42 miles. The intervals to see your crew during the race are determined by where the course crosses or touches a paved road. There are only a few paved roads in Baja – one on the Pacific side (Route 1), one on the Sea of Cortez side (Route 5), and one across the middle connecting them (Route 3). If you got to see your crew, you take the opportunity.

There was a part of the course called the “bow tie.” The course came into a point and turned 90 degrees right. It made a big 100 mile long loop and came back into the same point, as if the course would cross itself, but instead turned right without crossing. It made the shape of a bowtie, or like the waist of an hourglass. I got to the bowtie where the Baja pit was. The next 6 miles were fun, easy sweeping roads. I’d love to make miles that don’t beat me up. It was a relief from some of the silt and terrain that was behind me. Unfortunately, I was beginning to realize I had a problem. My neck was not just sore. It was… I tried to ignore it.

I pulled out near the road at mile 292, happy again to see my crew so soon. They massaged my neck, shoulders and arms. It felt great. I knew this was making a big difference. When you stay in the same position with strenuous limited range of motion, eventually you lock up in pain. These massages were helping a lot.

The next leg would be the hardest for me. 125 miles of mostly rocks. It would get dark. It would take five hours or more. Javier and Brian mounted the dual LED headlights on the bike and battery back-up lights on my helmet.  Wires came off my helmet to the battery packs in my backpack. I put flashlights in my pack and layered up for the colder temperatures that come as soon as the sun goes down. I had to eat, and I choked down more than I really wanted, because I knew I’d need the calories.

A helicopter approached. Bop bop bop bop. The crew next to us had the Trophy Truck radio communication blasting through speakers. When the truck navigator talked, you could hear the roar of the truck engine. The dragons were coming now. The race was about to change again.

A Trophy Truck roared out of the desert right past us, filling the air with violence and dust. Another followed a minute later. These were the overall race leaders, and helicopters covering the action chased their dust trails through the desert to follow it. By the time I got going again, two more trucks came by, with all the mayhem they produce. “That’s four trucks you won’t have to worry about,” Ralph said. He was right. Only 130 left to pass me. Gulp.

I thanked my crew, and remounted. I knew this leg would bring “the wall.”

#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.

#8 Trouble

It took 3 1/2 hours to run this section. It seemed like forever. At mile 209 it was almost over – the section, and my race.

Booby traps are known by racers in Baja. What is a booby trap? It’s an unexpected man-made obstacle designed to create drama for the cameras and spectators. Specifically, it’s designed to create a crash.  

Most spectators are race fans and want you to succeed. They will assist any way they can. But some think seeing a crash is entertainment. When we see NASCAR or Olympic highlight reels, they always feature crashes and failure. Wide World of Sports – “the agony of defeat.” I guess we all find it fascinating.  

Some booby traps are obvious. A man-made jump with spectators on the left and right holding cameras and phones. When I saw one, I’d always slow down and go around, to the crowd’s disappointment. Sometimes I’d see it was a legitimate jump – shaped well that may have been fun to hit. In my native dirt bike sport of motocross, I hit 23 jumps per lap on my own track – the longest one being 90 feet. Jumps are not the problem.  

Our Baja race bikes had suspension designed to suck up the bumps, not jump off them. The biggest problem, however, was what was on the other side of these ramps. Sometimes nothing. Sometimes the pit where they got the dirt from. Sometimes worse – rocks, big bumps, or who knows what.

Ahead there was an elevation change – a rise. The course was wide there, not funneling racers to any particular spot. I was right, and slowed from fairly high speed to about 25 mph as I went up the rise because I couldn’t see what was on the other side. As I came up I could see more. It happened so fast… I remember a pit of water and it was farther than my bike would clear at that speed. The other side was fairly abrupt. I yelled out audibly as I do when I know I’m going to crash.

I pulled the front end up to my chest to try to get the front wheel to clear the pit. I thought it would not and I’d cartwheel the bike and drill myself into the ground. The front wheel hit the opposite edge of the pit hard, and my body slammed forward. My head whipped forward so far I was looking at my own headlight.  My left wrist rolled back at impact and hyper-extended the tendons from hand to forearm, and I took the GPS in the sternum. I rolled it on the front wheel not knowing if I was going over the bars, but I managed to save it. I unexpectedly went from maybe 30 mph to zero in about 12 feet. I heard audible gasps and yells from the crowd as I piled in. 

All of a sudden, things changed. I looked around at the people near the track, and started yelling at them. Something about not warning riders of the hazard so they could be entertained…even if they didn’t know English, I think they got my point.  

I had put so much effort into this quest, those people had no idea, and it would be a shame for it to be over like this. Anyway, I saved it. I thought I’d be ok. I restarted my stalled bike and rode away, not knowing the damage that was done.

I’d know it soon enough…

#7 Dreams require work

My hands started aching. I expected this, and I tried to save my right hand especially. This one you could never take off the throttle. For 30 hours or more, it had to clutch a grip that was attached to the end of a handlebar that would pull that hand when you accelerated or went uphill, push that hand when you braked or went downhill, and constantly vibrated it, often violently over rough terrain.

I knew my hands were the part of my body that would fail first. So we used foam grips, and a neoprene palm liner under our gloves to try to save them.

I emerged from the first 80 miles onto Rt. 1, and turned south 8 miles to El Rosario where my first van stop was. My crew held the big sign that read “714x.” A welcome sight.

After about 2 1/2 hours, I was 10 minutes behind my estimate of where I’d be. But I attributed that to the severity of the dust, which I did not account for. “Where’s Tanner?” I’d always ask when I saw my crew. He was 25 minutes ahead of me. Perfect.

My friends were getting their first taste of what this race adventure chase was really all about. They were excited to do anything they could to help. And they were a huge help. I looked forward to seeing them at each stop, and they looked forward to seeing me after sometimes interminable waiting, and wondering if something bad happened.

Trevor changed my helmet camera battery and memory card, and gave me clean goggles. Ralph was struck by how coated in dust I was. I would not see the van again for 122 miles – a long way. There was only one section between van stops longer – 125 miles. But that was later. One leg at a time.

My only concern was to get to the next place I had to be – the physical checkpoint one mile away. Then I’d have to stop at the Baja pit to get fuel a few miles after that. Then the next Baja pit. Then the next one, and then the van again.  

To remember what my goal was, I had written the mile marker numbers on white tape on my gas tank.  Black ink was fuel stops at Baja Pits. Blue was physical checkpoints, and red was the beloved van stops where I could see my crew, and get encouragement and food.

I sped away, weaving in and out of local traffic on the paved road for 1/4 mile. The roads are still open. The locals may or may not have any idea there was a cross-country race going on, and you had to be hyper vigilant around civilian vehicles.

Tanner pulled into a Baja pit and was one of three Ironmen side by side waiting for fuel at the same time. The winner and the second place finisher got served first. They fueled Tanner, but ran out of fuel from their quick fill jug. Tanner had to tell them “More!” They came with another jug with just a little in it. Still not full. The leaders sped away. “More!”  

You are responsible for how full your tank is. When they fill your tank, you have to look and make sure you are full. They had to run back to the drums and get another jug. Finally he was full, and sped away after the leaders.

At mile 150, Tanner passed 702x, and was in second place. Go Tanner!

This second section took us down along the Pacific Ocean. Blue water broke to snow white waves on our right – but you couldn’t look. Rocks appeared that could deflect your front wheel sideways and take you down at any moment, and you had to pay attention at every second.

The course took us on a rocky beach where there was only smooth round rocks the size of softballs to ride on – whooped out no less.  

There would be deep silt beds, deep silt uphills, rocky uphills, sandy washes, some peppered with rocks, dark gray volcanic rocks, and out onto a beach with pure white sand, dry and loose, where your wheels would sink a foot deep. A geological tour of the Baja California peninsula.

Knowing I was going to hit “The Wall,” I covered the left and right of my gas tank with white tape and wrote words on it, where I could see them while riding. These words could remind me of ideas, and thoughts to motivate me.  

One word I wrote was “Flow.” In the book by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, flow describes a state of optimal performance that some of us refer to as “the Zone.”  Unconscious high performance. The more I could lose myself in the Zone, the better. It was helpful early in the race, but later when you are severely distracted by pain, it would be very difficult.

When we pre-ran this section, there were three water crossings. Water is very scarce in the Baja desert, but this section was along the ocean – sometimes very close. The tides brought water into spots. One water crossing was 25 feet across, 20” deep, and on the other side the bank was straight up 24”. I didn’t know if we could make it up the bank. I recalled our extensive water crossings in South Africa where we rode 200 feet in 24” deep water successfully. But those exits were gradual.  

I went for it while Tanner watched me. I got the front wheel up the opposite bank, but the back wheel just spun and dug in, leaving the bike almost vertical – and stuck.  I was soaked by my own roost. A local with an ATV tied a rope to my forks and helped pull me out. I gave him a few dollars, which he didn’t want to accept at first. Tanner used the slot I made in the bank to get out of the water with great effort.

I was worried about this crossing now during the race. If I fell over in the water, my boots would fill up and my feet would be soaked for nearly 700 more miles. That would be a huge problem. At mile 165, I was relieved to see they piped it and covered it over with dirt. Why? Not to help us. A few UTV’s (side by side vehicles) and buggies got stuck there.

I had been riding for over 6 hours now with just a 10 minute break. I was around mile 200. The fun was well over, and things were starting to hurt – hands and knees in particular.

It’s easy to say we are going to do something. It’s fun making plans and telling everyone how you are going for something. Actually doing it is something else. But chasing big goals always breaks down to hard work and sacrifice. Sometimes suffering and pain are involved – physical or emotional. Keeping it all together when it gets tough, and being able to make the right calls under stress is important to be able to keep going.

Thinking about how hard it is, or how hard it will be, doesn’t help. Often “hard” is what happens compared to what you thought would happen. I expected pain, so I wasn’t surprised when it came. There is a time to be an optimist, and a time to be real.

Reality was starting to kick my butt…

#6 The journey of 1000 miles…

A few years ago, just two blocks from the start, a buggy blew a turn and ran into the crowd of spectators, knocking them down like bowling pins. This year, they put a 37 mph speed limit for the first eight blocks out of the start. It felt like slow motion.

Once I got past that, I sped up. I wanted to stay in control and not make mistakes. Last year, a motorcycle had a huge dramatic crash just four blocks from the start. That’s what happens when you’re all amped up.

I sped up in the wash with the city street bridges passing overhead. Fans lined the course, even now, at 6:23 am. I was calm. My strategy was to go smooth and as fast as I could without burning too much energy. Above all else, don’t break the bike and don’t get hurt. It was an “Energizer Bunny” approach.

I popped up out of the wash onto city streets again. Left, five blocks, right, a few left forks and then the road opened up to a highway under construction. Hold the throttle wide open. 90 mph wind wants to blow you off the bike. Course turns to dirt. Occasional surprise bump at high speed – be careful.  

I heard a bike coming up behind me at mile 9. I expected Tanner to pass me. I expected him to win this race. He did, too. Tanner has the riding skills, the fitness, and the determination to do it. We just didn’t know what the other guys were made of. We knew there were guys who were tough as hell – but could they ride? And we knew there were guys that could ride really fast – but for how long? Tanner was the whole package. And if I could finish, I could be on the podium, because historically only 2-3 guys even finish.

A KTM came past me on my left. Not Tanner. Huh? Someone passed Tanner already? Later I’d learn that this guy totally ignored the speed limit at the start and blew by Tanner at twice his speed. We also found out that his tracker was not working until the last 90 miles of the course, so he never got penalized for it. Controversy…

I heard another bike coming up. I looked over and it was Tanner. He looked at me. I said silently, “Go Tanner.  Good luck, son. I’ll watch your back, and I’ll see you at the finish line.”

I knew if he just did what he does, he would do well. He didn’t have to go and try to be a hero. He just has to be Tanner today. He is a calm strategist. He won’t make rookie mistakes.

I followed Tanner for a mile or so, but when we pulled into the hills, he blinded me with dust. My first taste of a huge factor in the race. The desert is parched each day with sun. The soil has zero percent moisture content. They do get rain at some time of the year, but it was far away from November. As vehicle wheels travel on the soil that fills the spaces between the rocks, it pulverizes it to weightless flour. When a vehicle, even one as small as a motorcycle, passes over it, the dust leaps into the air, and is in no hurry to end its flight. The particles are so small, they stay in suspension in the air for an eternity.

Wind helps. But there was no wind today in the morning, no wind in low areas, and no wind at night. Sunlight or headlights hitting the dust makes the dust glow like a back-lit shade being pulled down in front of you. When I couldn’t see, I had to back off. At times, I could not see 10 feet in front of me. I had to nearly stop many times.

Other guys were braver than I. They charged into my dust and would pass me. That made it worse for me with a whole new generation of dust to deal with. I thought these guys would eventually pay for their risks. In life, and in a race, you don’t follow reckless people.

In front of me somewhere, Tanner was making some passes. The field of motorcycles was closer now, in this first 88 mile section, than it would ever be. We’d all spread out, and later in the race, you may go for two hours without seeing another motorcycle.

The course wound up into the mountains. The steep inclines were filled with rocks and the silt was very deep. Wherever pre-running trophy trucks got on the gas – coming out of a turn or going up a hill, their wheels would grind the soil into silt deeper and deeper. Mile 55 to mile 80 were very tough.

I got to a switchback section where the locals pointed you down a very steep hill and back up another steep one on the other side. A shortcut you could take to save a few seconds. Last year I didn’t go for this shortcut – too risky. It looked like most vehicles took it due to the condition of the course, so I went for it. It was so steep down that there were rain ruts like wavy slots heading downward. One grabbed my front wheel tight, and I felt the rear wheel coming up…then the rut released my front wheel. Whew – that was close.

The entire course is an exercise in accident avoidance. Disaster awaits nearly every few seconds. The only way to be safe was to stop and get off the course. If you’re moving, hazards come at you like they were on a conveyor belt, and the faster you went, the faster they were delivered to you.

Small goals – small problems. Big goals – big problems, and lots of them.

#5 Time to Perform

I woke up at 3:30am, a half hour before my alarm was set. I couldn’t squeeze the extra half hour of sleep in, but I just laid there, conscious, unmoving. At 4, we both got up. All our gear was laid out, and we dressed quickly.  Then we had to eat. I’m never hungry early in the morning, but I knew I needed to get some food down. An apple, a banana, and an avocado.

We went to the lobby and met our friends. Then we went outside into the cold night where the mechanics had the bikes ready to go. Pack, helmet, neck brace, gloves, goggles. Tanner and I rode our shiny clean race bikes to staging before the starting line.

Tanner’s GPS was displaying upside down. Uh-oh. Did we have time to dive into the menus and figure out how to fix it? Yes. Get heart rate back down.

They lined all the Ironmen up. I was fourth in line, and Tanner was fifth.

Was I supposed to be here? Was I good enough? Was I ready? At 52, I’d be the oldest rider to ever finish the Ironman class. Maybe the oldest to start. Next to me was Jeff Benrud. He crossed the finish line first last year, but was penalized for missing checkpoints and got second. Jeff was a Special Forces soldier. He was the one who found Saddam Hussein in his underground bunker. No joke. Now he trains Delta Force military personnel to drive motorcycles and other vehicles fast off road.

I noticed Jeff had a hose coming out of his pants above his boot. A catheter. He wouldn’t have to stop to urinate, saving time. He’s in it to win it. Serious business.

Ironman was filled with elite athletes. The best endurance riders in the world. Nobody else would be crazy enough to enter. The immense challenge was no secret.

I think if we have a desire, we can do incredible things. Sure there are limits. I could never be the next Michael Jordan – I’m not tall enough, talented enough, and I’m too old to start learning how to play well. But if we put ourselves in the spheres of the world we belong in, and we have a burning desire, we can do more than most of us believe we can. We define what is possible for us.  If we believe we can, most often we are right.  Maybe our time table will be off, but we can get there if we don’t give up. And as the old saying goes, if we shoot for the moon and miss, at least we will land among the stars.

The Chaplin came over and prayed with me. Then he prayed with Tanner and Chad. It felt like the right thing to do right now. Like it needed to be done – now.

My friends were very nervous standing nearby. Many months of preparation on the part of hundreds of people were necessary to field the 11 Ironman motorcycles lined up right here, right now. I was calm. I knew it was a long race, and I’d have plenty of time to set my pace. It didn’t matter much what happened off the start, so long as you didn’t crash out. The middle and finish was going to matter most.

The lower edge of the deep purple sky began to turn dark blue, and then orange.  

Ready?

What if I fail? That is the wrong question. What if I succeed? That is the right question.

I pulled up onto the podium with its bridge spanning the stage. A huge red sign above me read “Baja 1000.” I pulled forward. The smell of exhaust and the rap of high performance engines filled the air. Fans were 10 deep to the left and right. An official marked my engine and frame with a unique mark (to ensure you don’t swap bikes).  I pulled forward. I looked back at my son.

Ready?  

The first Ironman got the green flag and spun his tire getting off the line. I pulled forward. Every 30 seconds they let another bike go. I looked back again. Here we go son…

Jeff sped off in front of me. I pulled forward. The green flag dropped in front of me to hold me. 20 seconds passed and an official counted down with his fingers – 10, 9, 8…2, 1. The green flag lifted. I let the clutch out.

Only 855 miles to go.