This is how you write a race report!

[ODB]

I was sent this by someone in The Beast of The East race. Very well written!

The Beast In Me

"The beast in me has had to learn to live with pain
And how to shelter from the rain"

- Johnny Cash


There is no truth in adventure racing. Your stories become tainted
with your teammates' experiences during the eternity of an
expedition race. Vague nighttime recollections are riddled with
hallucinations and false memories. Miles warp, most unremembered,
others taking days to complete. My race has been distilled down to
less than a dozen distinct miles that I still carry with me. The
remaining miles were sweat out of me, melting into the ground
behind. Those memories became one with the trail, just as I did for
those three days. Here are the miles that I still carry with me,
the ones that will be with me forever. This is the true story of my
first attempt to finish an expedition length adventure race.

The Beast of the East is a grueling test of one's stamina and
determination but to describe the ordeal would be to only give you
half of the story. Einstein has shown us that the motion of a body
cannot be measured unless there is another body to gauge the motion
against. It is only from the perspective of this other body that
there is motion. The same is true of the race ahead of me. Without
a perspective against which to gauge my trials and tribulations, you
may fail to comprehend my joy, my pain and ultimately, my
accomplishments. To measure a man's journey, you must know where he
began.

I begin in the plains states, where the world is flat. There are no
mountains outside my window, I don't drive past trailheads on the
way to work, and the only rapids on our rivers are called dams. I'm
a flatlander from the Midwest. Adventure racers do not live here
and I am not an adventure racer. I'm an accountant who is past his
prime. I'm on the downhill side of life and I've lost control of
the reins. My life is speeding downward and I'm frightened by the
certainty that awaits me at the bottom of the hill. I must stop the
relentless progression of time, if only for a moment, and racing
does this for me.

When I race, I become the living, breathing incarnation of my
childhood dreams. Before I strode off my parents' doorstep into the
swampy morass of responsibility, this is how I wanted to live my
life. Racing is my alternate reality where I become a primitive
nomad, a crusading knight and Marco Polo, all wrapped into one. My
journey will take me through the empty portions of maps where
cartographers disguise ignorance with sea monsters, walls of fire
and cities of gold. Once I dip off the map into uncharted
territory, time ceases to have meaning.

When the starting gun sounds, time stops, the race begins and we
take our first steps into the unknown. The first night blurs past
like an impressionistic video on MTV accompanied by the steady beat
of pounding feet. With dawn comes Proud Rock. It has a nondescript
formal name, which I forgot as soon as I heard it, but I have given
it a moniker more befitting its stature. Proud Rock is a hulking,
brute of a rock that pushes up four thousand feet above the
vegetation. It wears a crown of trees pushed back on its head to
expose its mighty face. It is that face which we will soon be
rappelling down. Fear becomes palpable as we peer through the
trees at this freakishly oversized boulder.

Our fear is dulled by the brutal hike up Proud Rock. We drive up
the rock relentlessly, trying to stay ahead of our fear. The four
of us march in grim silence for over two hours to reach the crown of
trees. At the top, our plan is to have Anna descend first. She is
the most skilled and bravest climber on our team and we hope that
seeing her successfully descend will raise our spirits. The plan
doesn't have a chance. When Anna's small frame dips out of view,
her confidence goes with her.

The rock face itself stretches down nearly 500 feet into the fog but
the crown of Proud Rock commands a view of the entire valley. It is
breathtaking. Literally. I have to force air in and out of my
lungs. Anna descends with grace and poise but the fear that chased
us up the mountain catches us before Anna clears the rope. In my
mind I know that Anna has made it down and that I will too, but the
cowardly critters churning my stomach cannot be quelled by reason.

When it's my turn to take the rope, time stands still. I begin
chanting my climbing mantra:

"Don't look down.
Breathe.
Don't look down.
Breathe."

Climbers on either side of me speed by as I inch downward. I
celebrate their passage by pancaking against the rock face in front
of me. Sounds half way between grunts and curses involuntarily
escape my lips as I struggle to ensure the rest of my descent is not
one long scream.

By the time I reach the base of Proud Rock, the rest of the team has
done a quick map check. They have decided we can make the cutoff
time at the river if we push hard. Buoyed by the adrenaline from
the rappel, our pace is strong. We know that we are going to the
river. Going `to the river' means going downhill and it's downhill
all the way. We break into a jog. We pass people. With each team
that we reel in, we feel stronger. It's as good as we will feel the
entire race.

Huge, pregnant drops of rain begin to hammer us as the next
checkpoint comes into view. Dozens of people are huddled under a
park shelter. All we have to do is pick up our bikes and race down
the final hill to the river. It's going to be close and there is a
chance we will make the cutoff. I don't know it at the time, but
this is the turning point. Even as I dare to dream of finishing in
the `Pro' class, the seeds of our destruction are being planted.

The faces that peer out of the shelter look oddly out of place…too
young, too clean. They stare at us as if we've just invaded their
planet. I know this look. I had the same expression the first time
I saw adventure racers. Like a puzzle, the logic slowly pieces
together in my mind: "These people have never seen adventure racers
before. Ergo: this can't be the checkpoint." We have fallen in
with a high school field trip and based on the sideways glances and
hushed conversations, it is obvious that we are much more
interesting than whatever it is they have come to see.

We are not at the checkpoint nor is there any hope of us making the
river cutoff. On the way to the actual checkpoint, the rain beats
any remaining joy out of my body. Upon arrival, we celebrate
missing the cutoff by giving our bodies some badly needed sleep.
The checkpoint proves to be a horrible location for a power nap.
There is a constant din of support personnel greeting their arriving
teams, adventure racers calling for gear and, worst of all, vehicles
pulling in and out…frighteningly close to the nylon tent wall that
separates their tires from my head.

I sleep fitfully but it is sleep and I am refreshed by it. Mark
rouses us with a hearty, "Ride Beer Nuts, Ride!" and we steer our
bikes onto the course. Anna was unable to sleep but she and David
are physically stronger than Mark and I. Our team seems to have
found a balance and we pedal with renewed vigor. Mark and David
navigate confidently and we pass several teams. Only tired
batteries and dimming lights slow our pace.

When Mark's bike light fades to black, I ride in front of him so
that he can leech off the beam from the powerful headlamp I've been
conserving. Suddenly I hear unprintable words spew from Mark like
machinegun fire. He catapults over his handlebars and I hear the
dull thud of flesh on rock. His cursing resumes, a mix of anger and
fear. I hurry to him and when his face catches the beam from my
headlamp, I let out an audible gasp. Half of his face is oozing
fresh blood. I look away.

Blood weakens me but I know that Mark is scared and needs to know if
he's hurt. I look again. His teeth are bloody but intact. His
flesh is ragged but not torn. To our mutual amazement, Mark is not
seriously hurt. Later, the details of the crash will reveal
themselves to us in the form of large greenish black bruises that
develop on Mark's arms and legs. Mark will never complain about his
wounds. By the time their pain begins to surface, it will have been
buried under the layers of more urgent suffering.

With this second dawn we trade our biking shoes for hiking shoes and
set off down the trail. Within minutes, Anna begins pinballing off
of the rest of us as we walk. We debate Anna's need for sleep
versus the senseless waste of daylight hours that sleeping entails.
The sound of Anna's head smacking into a sturdy tree branch resolves
the issue. As much as we hate to burn daylight, Anna needs sleep
and she needs it now.

Several more teams pass us, as we lie curled up by the side of the
trail. We discovered a wormhole through time and space when we
missed the river cutoff and were driven to the next checkpoint. Now
there are dozens of fast teams behind us, but it feels good to be in
the company of other racers.

The trek ahead of us has been aptly labeled the "Death March" by
race organizers. Oddly enough, I have very pleasant memories of
this section. With some sleep under our belt, conversation blooms.
We talk about literature, aspirations, and memories from our youth.
There is an undercurrent of humor and my affection for my teammates
grows with every step.

We are unanimous in our appreciation of the trail. It is steep and
challenging but as an appetizer it is very enjoyable. It would make
for a very agreeable day hike but as with any meal, the first bite
is always the most appealing. By this time tomorrow, we will have
had more than our fill of the Death March.

We have taken to betting foodstuffs on the exact time the next rain
shower will arrive. While these games bring flashes of joy to our
dreary trudging, the rain begins to take its toll on our bodies.
Our support vehicle blew a tire the night before and Mark was not
able to get a dry change of clothes. His feet have been exposed to
constant moisture since the rainfall on the first day. The steep
descent begins to tear at the saturated soles of his feet.

Mark's case of trench foot is a stark reminder that we aren't doing
minor league races anymore. We are in the major leagues now and the
injuries we are facing can only be acquired by extended exposure to
incredibly harsh conditions. The soles of Mark's feet have taken on
a pale white pallor and are ridiculously wrinkled. He has a blister
protruding from each foot that looks like a sixth digit. A poor
fitting shirt has chaffed his underarms raw and since he was unable
to change into a fresh pair of shorts, his rear end isn't any
better.

The ensuing night proves almost unbearable for Mark. His chaffing
turns bloody and his entire foot oozes puss when we change the
bandages. At some point during the night, the irritation from his
drenched shorts becomes excruciating and Mark strips them off. In a
half-hearted attempt at modesty, he ties a shirt around his waist.
When we encounter another team he ties on another shirt to cover the
view from the rear. The "Racing Kilt" is born.

Sleep is no longer determined by physical need. We bed down when we
become disoriented; we wake when another team blunders into us or
the rain comes. I have vague, half-remembered recollections of
Mark's face, lit by flame and framed in a veil of aluminum space
blanket. Mark would later confirm that he'd become frustrated by
the persistent cold and tried to create fire. He faced two
challenges, the soaking rain and his own fragile sanity.

Picture a grown man scrambling around on all fours, using his blast
furnace of a butane-lighter to make kindling out of anything lying
on the ground. Frustration mounts as his waterlogged environment
fails to combust until he finally falls upon his own gear. Digging
into his pack he frantically pulls out a plastic bag whose original
purpose is now forgotten. Flame slowly curls the bag until the
foul, unnatural odor of the smoldering plastic finally brings him to
his senses. This is how the scene plays out in my mind as I
struggle to my feet and step past the scorched remnants of a plastic
bag.

While I'm thankful that Mark was not carrying the maps during his
fevered attempts to create fire, the maps are not serving us well.
They indicate that we are to follow the blue trail but the map's
maker did not distinguish between the turquoise blue trail and the
sky blue trail. We choose the turquoise trail. We are wrong. We
follow the sky blue trail until it forks. We choose the left fork.
We are wrong.

We must certainly be in last place by now but still we run into
teams. A team of two comes down the trail towards us. Their
navigator has the crazed look of a prospector who has spent too much
time in the mountains. He has dedicated hours to searching this
trail and its tributaries. He insists that this is the wrong trail
and it goes on for ninety miles before reaching a trailhead. We put
our faith in David's navigation and push on. An hour later that
same team catches us from behind. Their navigator shrugs an apology
as they shoulder by.

By the end of the Death March, we are barely moving. Mark has the
look of a prizefighter caught against the ropes. He is battered and
bruised, or rather; his feet are blistered and torn. He is beyond
feeling the pain. It has stripped him of rational thought. He is
living on instinct and his instinct tells him to keep moving. I
can't bear to watch any more. I know that Mark's pride won't let
him stop fighting but for his sake, I throw in the towel.


I am no longer racing through a fantasyland filled with sea
monsters, walls of fire and cities of gold. I am not a nomad, a
knight or Marco Polo. I am a father who is a long way from his
family. I am tired and I miss my wife, my children, and my bed.
For the first time, this journey feels long.

Mark, Anna and I have moved on. We have mentally checked out of the
race and into the hotel room that waits for us. David decides to
ride on from the next checkpoint. I have read in physics books that
Mr. Newton and his apple demonstrated that gravity is constant and
measurable, but adventure racers know gravity is a constantly
fluctuating force. Gravity has a more tenuous hold on David and as
the rest of us succumb to gravity's pull, David's bike floats away
with each sinewy thrust of his powerful legs.

David's favorite memories of the race lay ahead of him but I'm not
envious. He has my respect but my race is over and I have reached
my finish line. There is no ribbon to break or cheering crowds but
that doesn't make it any less real.

For the past 72 hours I lived my life in the pursuit of a single
goal and I came up short. But there is no lingering disappointment
because I didn't come here to finish a race. I came to escape the
bonds of time and for three days I have lived my life gloriously
free of obligation and responsibility.

My clock does not begin ticking again until my car descends out of
the mountains and points toward the flatlands of home. As life
speeds up, I bask in its embrace. I came here seeking solace from
my everyday life but now I'm eager to return home. I'm excited by
the prospects of a life where the passage of time is measured, not
by checkpoints, but by birthday parties, summer vacations, and
Christmas dinners.

[Jean-Paul]

What're you tryin' to say? I promise to sit down and write out the race report this weekend. OKAY!?!?!

[sarah]

That was a fly report. Good read, thanks Joe.