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FIRST PERSON
When your muscles can’t spare oxygen
for your brain, the answer isn’t as obvious
as it should be. Still, Sergio came through
with the correct answer (you’ll get it even-
tually), and we hopped back on our bikes.
An hour later, after riding miles of rain-
slick dirt past a hard-to-find turnoff, Chip
stepped into the hero’s role by persuading
us to backtrack, locating the likely turnoff,
and imploring us to follow him in lifting
our bikes over a rail fence. Voila! A downhill
singletrack trail opened up before us. It led
us to the checkpoint and then back to the
staging area for the race’s paddling phase.
By then, Sergio’s knee was bleeding after
an extravagant bike crash, and we were
moving like drunks on a bender. We cap-
sized our canoe just offshore before righting
ourselves and racing the clock to the final
two island checkpoints. After about a half-
mile, we made a strategic decision to turn
around and finish on time rather than be
penalized for being late, even if it meant
losing credit for the final checkpoints. We
finished with two minutes to spare.
When the points were tallied, the Lisa
Wren Racers finished second in the three-
and four-person open division—never mind
that there were only three teams competing
in that demo. We declared victory and, over
post-race beers, began making plans for next
year. We were beat and bloody, but really, age
is just a number. Right?EVERYONE ACHIEVES SELF-AWARENESS in his
or her own way. For me, it came during
the second stage of the 2017 race, which
included almost three dozen more compet-
itors compared with the year before.
We had trained hard that summer,
and we started the race with confidence,
thanks to our 2016 showing. But hubris
and humility are cousins. At one point, we
decided to pad our point total by biking to
an optional checkpoint. We found ourselves
following a singletrack trail to the bottom
of what felt like the Grand Canyon. It took
us forever to get out, and by then we were
frustrated and far behind schedule.
We struggled through a short orien-
teering exercise and began the long bike
ride toward one of the final challenges,
which involved rafting down the Fraser
River. Our new raft was inflated and
waiting at the river’s edge. To get there,
though, we had to pedal past an inviting barnear the start/finish line. Discussion ensued
and, well, let’s just say our raft still awaits its
maiden voyage. Among the 34 teams com-
peting that year, we were one of nine whose
final race results included the inglorious
notation “did not paddle.”
From the bar, we watched many other
teams finish both the six-hour and the
24-hour races. I later stopped by to applaud
the winners at the post-race barbecue, where
I noticed that one of the dominant 24-hour
crews looked like SEAL Team Six. I could
have been mistaken for their grandfather.
Then and there seemed like the time to
embrace the obvious. I ended my two-year
racing career and conceded the adventures
to come to the generations behind me. The
2018 edition and this past June’s race took
place without the Lisa Wren Racers, and
I’m wistful about that. But I also cherish the
peace that comes with acceptance. No one
is immortal, and at a certain point in life a
participation medal feels like a victory. Of
course, when racing is no longer an option,
there’s always the bar. mMartin J. Smith is the author of five novels and four
nonfiction books. Email him at [email protected].74 |^5280 |^ AUGUST^2019