Finish Line

What is it about athletic competition that drives someone to try and do things they might not be physically capable of doing? Is it simple vanity or an overblown sense of pride? Is it some primal need to conquer someone or something? I had been thinking about that for months, ever since I’d decided to take up competitive bike racing. And the day I got the race application and map in the mail was the trigger for getting me to stop thinking and start doing.

It was hard to match the details on the course map with the actual terrain and landmarks. The map showed a clearly defined trail for the  riders to follow but standing there at what would be the starting point all I could see of a trail was a faint, worn strip of ground that curled up the first hill and around a large stand of mesquite trees. The website for “The Red Rock 24” showed photos of what the riders would see as they navigated the terrain of the grueling twenty-four hour race. What the photos showed and what I was looking at on the map were just vaguely similar.

The race was a qualifier for a three hundred mile ultra-distance race I’d been planning to enter since I’d started serious riding two years ago. My training regimen had consisted of daily hours on my stationery bike and an ever increasing amount of trail riding in the hills near my home. With any kind of intense, physical competition it’s hard to know exactly when your body and mind are ready to go, but if I wanted to compete in the Red Rock I had to meet the entry deadline. My hundred dollar non-refundable entry fee made any questioning of my readiness moot.

The race was still a week away but the organizers had already set the start line marker, first aid tent, water and nutrition stations at regular intervals and white safety flags to mark the trail. The map said the starting line and finish line were the same, with miles and miles of terrain and roads in between them. The race was called a twenty-four because it was designed to take about twenty-four hours to complete; riding day and night with only occasional, self-directed stops to rest. For a beginning rider it was a daunting goal but I knew if I couldn’t make it through this race I might as well give up on my ambitions for the really long ones. I rode up to the crest of a small hill about a hundred yards from the start marker and looked out over the course. It wove its way through the high desert foothills of central Arizona, a combination of creek basins, flat ground, rolling terrain and hills covered with brittle bush and cholla. Steeper hills at the base of the mountains to the north defined the edges of the course. To a hiker the scenery was breathtaking but to a competitive biker it was an adversary.

Standing astride my bike I took the race map from my pocket and studied it, trying to get my bearings and a glimpse of what might lie ahead. I looked back down the hill and saw the sign where the course started and ended at the same spot and then found it on the map. That part was easy but as I continued trying to match landmarks and visual cues to the course map I got confused. The surrounding mountains seemed to be noted properly and the tall ridge in the middle of the course was about a mile in front of me, exactly where the map said it should be. Beyond that the course I was looking at seemed to bear little resemblance to the official map. It didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. I rode about a quarter of a mile farther up the trail to see if I could get a better understanding of things and to find the point of the trail that connected with the road that would be the night time part of the course. The website said the road was well lighted and the entrants should ride to the turn-around marker and then follow the road back to the main trail. If the riders did what they were supposed to do they’d reach the road around sunset and get back to the main trail around sunrise. That was the point where the riders would be closing in on each other and the trail would be crowded. Eventually the trail led back to a stretch of road and the final trail back to the finish line at the parking area. Timing would be critical. The race website had posted comments from other entrants who had already done test rides on parts of the course and found it to be challenging and picturesque. I’d wondered if any of them found the map as unclear as I had.

I spent the week doing my normal routine of getting in a quick morning workout, going to the office, following a carefully designed dinner plan and then going for an evening ride in the nearby hills. I tracked the race website every night to read more comments from entrants but there still was no indication anyone had found the course confusing like I had. For safety’s sake on the narrow trail the race plan called for entrants to leave the start point at fifteen minute intervals so I knew I wouldn’t be able to see the riders ahead of me and follow their lead. Knowing the race would be as big of a mental challenge as a physical one I decided that worrying would just be self-defeating. I’d have to focus my thoughts on other things if I could.

Saturday race day was cooler than normal for mid-October and I was sure the other riders were as glad for that as I was. There would be a nice breeze and clear skies to help us follow the trail. There was even going to be a full moon for the nighttime part of the race. Mother Nature had favored the race organizers. I’d driven to the trailhead parking area early and found one of the spots designated for racers. It took a few minutes to unload my bike and I saw four other riders doing what I was doing; checking our caches of water bottles and going through the bike inspection checklist we all relied upon. The organizers had erected a large, colorful shade tent over the sign-in table where I got my number tags and instructions. My race number was the same as my age, 34. A few minutes later when the start bell rang the first rider took off and I watched him until he disappeared over the first hill. I was third in line and fifteen minutes later when the second rider cleared the hill I walked my bike over to the start marker. I had expected a noisy crowd of organizers, riders and their friends but the people near the starting line were surprisingly subdued. When the bell rang I took a long, deep breath and headed for the first hill.

I had the course map in my rear pocket but decided to just follow the trail and trust that I’d be riding where I was supposed to ride. The trail itself wasn’t as clearly defined as I’d hoped, just a two foot wide path of dirt pocked with clusters of weeds. The first hour was a winding, hilly route past mesquite groves with several dips into a dry creek bed so deep I lost any view of my surroundings. The man who included that little feature in the course must have had a small sadistic streak in him. The white flags that marked the trail led to a wide area of fairly flat ground. After a quick stop to drink from my first water bottle I rode up a long hill and rode for another hour and a half. While I rode looked around but didn’t see the two riders ahead of me or the ones coming behind me. Spacing the riders at long intervals made sense on a narrow trail with loose dirt and gravel but it also made for a lonely ride.

After another half hour I came up to the first water and nutrition station under a mesquite tree. The water in the tank was warm but I filled the paper cup and drank it anyway. I figured it couldn’t be any warmer than what I had in the bottles strapped to my bike. I ate a cereal bar and an apple then headed back out on to the trail. It was about an hour later when I’d first noticed something strange and unsettling. There were no bike tracks on the trail. The two bikes ahead of me had the same knob shaped tread that my tires had and I could see my tread marks clearly. I should be able to see and follow theirs but after another mile of looking down at the dirt I still couldn’t see any sign that anyone had come this way. It also had occurred to me that I hadn’t seen a white trail marker in a while. I stopped and reached into my pocket for the map but it was more an act of desperation than anything I thought would actually help me. It was obvious that I was lost. Even though I had hiked and biked the desert hills for years, at that moment I’d never felt so isolated and alone.

By design the course was in a remote area so I wasn’t surprised that I couldn’t get a signal on my cellphone. I stood there straddling my bike and considering my options. I could keep on going and hope I’d find my way back to the course. I could turn around and go back down the trail to look for a white flag but that meant I’d risk running into the rider who was coming behind me. My only other choice was to stay there and hope that another rider followed the same awful map and would find me. Ten minutes of waiting and scanning the hills didn’t bring any more clarity to my thinking so I just took a breath, pushed off and kept going on the trail I’d been riding. Being lost in rough and strange terrain was scary enough but that, coupled with the realization my off-course route would disqualify me, made me wonder why I’d even tried the race.

As confusing and unclear as the map was I was certain that its directional coordinates were correct. I could read it and look at the mountains to determine where north was and then the other directions. The starting line had been set up on the south edge of the course and I knew I was heading west. I had to start heading south soon but the trail and the rocks made that impossible. Moving forward was all I could do until I could find an opening in the ridge on my left or another trail. I remembered one of the rider comments on the race website. A man named Brad had described the course as mostly uphill on the east and downhill on the west, and the last leg of the trail was a steep downhill run all the way to the road and the finish line. It seemed that if I could find some downhill terrain I’d have a better chance of getting out safely. My watch said it was five-thirty and it was the time of year when the sun set around six. Once darkness came the trail would be dangerous but since I had no idea of how far I still had to go I couldn’t just stop for the night. I would be at the mercy of the moonlight.

 I’d spent enough time in the Arizona outdoors to know that wherever I went I was never alone. The desert and foothills are full of wildlife including some that aren’t friendly. Seeing a rattlesnake or coyote or javelin in the daytime was always unnerving but at least I could see where they were and make a move to go in the opposite direction. In the dark they had the advantage. I pulled a small folding knife from the pouch on my bike. It wouldn’t be much help in a confrontation but it was better than nothing.

It was dark by seven o’clock and I’d decided to walk my bike along a trail I could barely make out, but I could see the moon rising in the southeast sky. By eight-thirty it was bright enough to light the trail to a level where I could risk getting back on to the bike. It was hard not to think of the rest of the riders moving along a smooth, well-lighted road. I rode slowly, my eyes constantly shifting from the trail to the brush and rocks around me and back to the trail. Every little sound sent a chill down my back. Twice when I looked toward a line of creosote bushes I saw a pair of eyes glowing in the dim light. There were no landmarks or natural features to give me a hint of my location or if I was just riding in a circle. Time was moving so slowly that I’d decided not to look at my watch for a while because it would just add to my frustration. Other than two quick breaks for a drink of water I never stopped until I saw the sky getting brighter in the east.

Daylight ended my fear of the animals that had been watching me but it didn’t offer any clues to my location. I stopped and pulled out the map, hoping that some hill or wash or mountain I could see would also be shown on it. It had been useless up to now but I had to keep trying. A small ridge that ran parallel with a rock-filled wash was a hundred yards ahead and when I found it on the map I’d felt a small sense of relief. It wasn’t much but it gave me a point of reference for getting back on to the right trail. I’d have to keep heading west even if the faint trail I was on didn’t go that way. For the next two hours I’d alternated between riding and walking my bike, at times leaving and then returning to the trail. I was feeling close to exhaustion. When I reached a small rise I walked up it and stopped in my tracks. There, about a quarter mile on my left, was the final stretch of the course and another quarter mile down it the tent and finish line. I stood there for a few minutes not sure how to feel. I was relieved to be back on familiar ground and have the ordeal of being lost in the desert behind me. But watching riders moving down the trail toward the finish line was like a punch in the stomach. All of my training and sacrifice couldn’t change the fact I had left the official course and would be disqualified.

The trail started to flatten out and widen so I’d picked up speed when I pulled on to the final stretch. I was surrounded by other riders who were straining to take every possible second off their time. One by one they passed me and I finally coasted over the finish line. By the time I parked my bike near the tent a dozen riders were crowded around the timer’s table getting the word on their times and placements. I stood there with mixed emotions; frustration over my upcoming disqualification and a huge sense of pride over what I’d been through and still made it to the finish.

When I reached the race marshal I tore off the rider number tag pinned to my shirt and handed it to him. My frustration was building again so I reached into my rear pocket, pulled out the map and tossed it on the table in front of him. “For the record,” I said, trying to contain my anger, “you need to find a new guy to draw your maps. This one was useless.”

The man looked up at me over the top of his glasses. “What do you mean? We haven’t had any other complaints about it.” He unfolded it, stared at it a moment and said, “Well no wonder you had problems, this is the map from last year’s race. We made some alterations to the course since then.”

It was hard to maintain my composure. “You’ve got to be kidding. This is the one that I got in the mail!”

“I’m sorry about that, sir. I don’t know how you got this one but we’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Of course you know that following this map means you left the official course and we’ll have to disqualify you.”

On Monday, still a little tired and sore, I sat at my desk finishing up my email messages when curiosity told me to go online to the Red Rock 24 website. A good night’s sleep had helped calm me down but I still couldn’t stop thinking about the map. I’d been working on a comment in my mind, something I could leave on the site to express my feelings but when the homepage popped up on my screen I knew that wouldn’t be necessary. I enjoyed watching a highlight video of the event which included a scene of what they referred to as a disgruntled rider, rider number 34, grabbing and overturning the timer’s table.