I shuffled to the front door with my arms full of dusty, stale items, with some leftover Mexican flies trailing behind me. I found my cats greeting us with their angry meows for abandoning them for so many days. But it was clear from the guts of various yard rodents on our front door mat that even the cats know our routine and knew to fend for themselves while we were gone. I attempted to open the screen door while some white paper stuck in the mesh caught my eye and I clumsily dropped my pillow right in the pile of guts. As my aching body told me to not get too worked up about this I decided to read the paper before picking the pillow back up again. The words floated off the page "PAYMENT NOT RECEIVED; PROPANE SHUT OFF." “Oh rats, one of the many things I neglected and forgot to do in the pre-race hysteria.”

“Oh well, cold showers don’t scare me. In fact they don’t even scare my kids. Don’t they know what kind of people we are and the torture we already willingly put ourselves through?” I picked up my pillow and shuffled into the house. I dropped everything on the floor and headed for the kitchen for a glass of water. While reaching for the faucet I noticed the pile of dirty dishes we left in the sink was black and moving. At first I thought I wasn't seeing straight from the contacts still stuck in my eyes since the race, but then I noticed the trail of ants across the length of the kitchen counter leading to the sink. “Oh, I see the first of the summer visitors have arrived while we were away!”

Forgetting about the water, I declared to my family I was going to bed early and I would deal with everything in the next few evenings after work. The pain in my knees made me feel 20 years older. I had to climb the stairs to my bedroom one by one instead of doing the usual two stair leaps to the top. I hobbled across the bedroom floor, fell onto the unmade bed and scrambled for anything within reach that would serve as a new pillow. With only 10 hours of sleep to account for the past 3 nights, I told myself that now was the time to forget about everything and just let myself fall into a deep, peaceful sleep in my own bed.

But, instead, I lied there thinking. “What in the hell did I just come back from that causes me to willingly put up with all these inconveniences?” I closed my eyes and began to think back to the beginning of the long weekend, just to see if I could remember it all, just to see if it was something more than a mere dream…

I remember the alarm going off at 4:30 a.m., only 4 hours after I laid down for the night in the suburban. As I scrambled to shut the cell phone alarm off, Tim laying next to me and Roli stretched out on the seat by my head both begin to stir. I knew since I had turned the alarm off, it was my job to wake everyone else up, but I was so sleepy I could barely open my eyes. I looked around in camp to see if Craig or Steve, a couple of other buddies who were racing together on another quad team, were up yet. When I saw they weren’t, I put my head back down on the pillow to try to steal another 10 minutes of rest. But my brain was on autopilot and began to think about what I needed to do to get ready for the race, and with that, my stomach started churning. Wow, I was nervous! I hadn’t felt nervous for the previous races, but this race was going to be different and I knew it right away. The churning of my stomach forced me to get up sooner than I wanted to. I had to make a trip to the restroom which was a walk down the camp. I bumped into Tim as I struggled to get out of my sleeping bag and landed on Roli’s legs as I climbed over the seat to get out the door. Now that they were awake, I knew that I could count on them for some comic relief to distract me from the awful feeling of apprehension.

I headed down the path for what quickly became one of four trips to the bathroom. Each time I had to walk the path, the sky grew brighter, more fellow racers in the camp awoke, and the more busy my camp became with two quad teams frantically completing the final race prep of all the chase teams who were about to embark for the day's adventures. Only an hour later we were nearing the time to depart for the start line and I had so much going through my mind I wasn’t sure anymore I could think of everything I needed to before it was too late. At one point as I was walking around the truck looking for something I was wishing I could remember, I looked up and saw my own reflection of misery in Craig’s face. Craig, who was going to be starting the race for his team, and I let out a nervous laugh when we both saw through each other's eyes how rushed and anxious we were both feeling and that we weren’t alone in this madness.

We soon said goodbye to Chase 2, Tom and Chris, which was heading out to our first pit stop at race mile 30. We shared some quick hugs with my daughter, Jovana, her cousin, Christian, and their grandparents, who would be holding the fort while they listened to Weatherman throughout the race. Then I jumped into the Chase 1 vehicle to be delivered to the start line by my husband Tim, Roli, Tomas, and my son Zack. Because it was so important to Tim to see me off at the start line, our chase team strategy had to account for Chase 1 being assigned to the second pit stop at race mile 99 so that they would be able to arrive in time.

After driving several laps around the convention center and finding every road blocked off to the start line, I was dropped off with my Honda to find my own way to the start line. While chase 1 went to go find a parking spot, I drove some more laps around the convention center getting shooed away by every Mexican Police officer standing in any intersection. I was getting frustrated because I was feeling stupid about the fact that I knew where the staging area was but I couldn't figure out how to drive there. While I was cutting through a parking lot to get back out to a street that might take me around the other side of the convention center I saw an agitated officer running out to me waving his arms. I had the choice to keep going or to go back a little and explain what I was doing. Because I believe in being very respectful with the locals, especially when they are hosting our races, I decided to turn back a little and give an explanation.

"Estoy buscando donde empieza la carrera" I said as loud as I could through my helmet without sounding like I was shouting. Thinking I would get the usual impressed reaction I normally get from the officers when I speak Spanish to them, I was instead surprised to discover this officer was angry at me. He screamed at me "That's not my problem, that's your problem!" as he continued to wave his hands at me. Startled, I desperately looked around for some clues that might indicate what I did wrong. I saw I was in a parking lot where many police cars were parked. Maybe I offended him for driving through the parking lot of a police station? I wasn't breaking any laws, I wasn't even driving that fast, and it was obvious I was dressed for that race that had already begun just on the other side of the convention center. What the hell? There wasn't anything else to do other than slowly turn away and head back where I came from. All I could think to myself was "Buddy, believe me, I know this race is my problem and it is all up to me to do what I can with it, including finding the stupid start line! But did you have to be so rude about it?!!" Since that was the first time in my life I ever had a problem with a Mexican police officer, I wondered if that was a sign I needed to pay attention to.

Just in time, Chase 1 radioed in to me and told me they figured out how I was to get to the staging area. As they guided me in, I cussed at the mean old officer on the radio, and my chase crew knew already to assume their chase responsibilities by listening patiently as I vented. When I rode up to the bikes in the staging area, I was relieved to find out that I arrived before the race began for my class.

But as soon as I saw the sea of quads staging for the race, I remembered how nervous I was again and felt like I needed to throw up. I kept telling myself that once I got going in the race I wouldn't feel this way anymore. I just had to get past the waiting. To keep my mind off things I studied the guys around me. These were the people I considered to be the most hard core SCORE racers. The air was tense with guys on motorcycles and quads waiting for their solo turn with the green flag. I was the only one of two girls in the staging area, but I still felt honored to be part of the group because these were the people who took the biggest risk to be part of this racing experience. And these were the people who understood that the biggest challenge of all in their race would be themselves as they struggle to overcome their own mechanical and physical hurdles, stay mentally focused on the terrain, and to stay ahead of the four wheel vehicles.

As my stomach churned some more, my head began to spin too. I wasn't sure I could bare any more of this intense nervousness. What an awful feeling! It's times like this I start using breathing techniques I learned from bearing children. I looked at Tim and found myself wanting to ask him to start counting for me like the doctor asked him to do 10 years ago with my second child. The thought of the possibility of me getting seriously hurt crept back into my head and I began to ask myself all those same questions I have asked myself before. What if I get hurt? what if I die? How would my kids do without me? How would Tim do as a single father? These were thoughts I could not speak but I was starting to wonder more and more with each SCORE race. But I remembered my promise to Tim a couple of months prior due to the stress I was causing him with this plight; this was the last season I would try to solo the Baja 1000 and all races leading up to the race in November 2006 would only serve as necessary training and experience needed for that race. Even though racing quads is always a dangerous sport, racing as a sportsmen quad racer with SCORE in Mexico is an extreme health risk due to the increasingly larger and more advanced field of four wheel vehicles. After taking time since the last race to really study this issue, this was the first race where I was completely understanding and accepting of that reality. This would be my second to last SCORE race as a solo quad racer and my most important goal was to not get hurt and spare my family the agony of making the necessary decisions if I did. "Just get through this race safely," I told myself over and over again. Because this is not even the big race it is not worth getting hurt today. I realized right then and there that I may not finish this race. If I lucked out and no problems came up, I would easily finish because I know this course and I was ready for the distance. But if I had some problems that would take up time in my race schedule, I accepted that it would be more important to me to acquire race experience than to finish.

"And just think...no one is making me do this!" I managed to crack half a smile to myself as I remembered that I was willingly putting myself through this misery as I have done with every other self imposed challenge in my life. I don't know why I do this to myself but I have come to understand it has something to do with who I am.

And with that I was ready to line up behind 63A and in front of 65A in the starting lineup for my class.

Receiving the Good Luck Handshake From Sal

Tim walked along side me as I inched towards the start line and spoke encouraging words as I attempted to hold back whatever wanted to come up in a projectile manner.

When it was my turn with George and the 30 second wait for the green flag launch, he studied me for a few seconds and then asked me "are you ready for this one?" I said "yes, and I even have a new bike." I still couldn't believe that I was going to race on a bike that I had only bought 6 days prior with the factory warning stickers still attached, but this was the bike that my months of research concluded would be the one to get me to the finish line in the 1000. And so I wasn't even worried about the fact that I had only just learned to kick start the bike the day before, or that I wasn't sure how the narrow and hard seat was going to work for me for a long distance race. I knew from my first ride on it the day before, this bike was truly amazing and I finally had the right bike for me. I thought it was funny that in the SCORE souveneir program book for this race they still had me listed as riding on my Bombardier.

When it was time to go, the last thing I remember telling myself was "just have a good time with this." As soon as I made it around the first bend after the start line, I could feel that awful nervous feeling dissipating already and suddenly I felt as free as a caged animal that was just released into the wild. I took it easy as the course wrapped through the wash and down the streets of town because I still don't trust driving fast where there are large numbers of people. Besides, with the number of photographers around, this would be the worst place for anything stupid to happen.

It is always a challenge for sight once the course turns onto the dirt roads and into the silty hills that lead you out of the town of Ensenada. I never look forward to the silt and dust mixed in with fog that lingers in the morning and gets especially thick in the valleys. But with every silty steep climb out of the valleys, my 450R handled it beautifully and gave me such a feeling of exhiliration. When I hit a hill in an awkward angle to avoid a large rock and found myself in the wrong gear, I squinted, thinking for sure I was risking a stall or a fall or both. It was a feeling I was trained to have after a year of training on my Bombardier and never feeling quite right with the size and height of the bike and forever stalling the bike on steep hills. But when I twisted the throttle, my Honda straightened out and the torque got me right on up over the hill with such ease that I didn't have time to really think about it. I was so impressed I radioed in to my chase crews, "I LOVE THIS BIKE!"

Little pleasant surprises like that continued to occur and I grew more and more confident that this was going to be a really fun race. On the last silty hill climb I began to realize that this quad really liked silt and it didn't care what gear it was in when it tackled the hills. I felt so agile on the bike because it was 200 pounds lighter than what I was used to and just the slightest little lean was all it needed to cut corners and make sharp turns. I radioed in just before hitting the highway "Did I tell you? I LOOOOOOOVE THIS BIKE!!!! It turns out that both chase teams heard me as well as my crew back at camp. It was then announced to me that my average speed at that point was exactly 25 mph. I was purposely taking it easy as I bonded with the bike and got myself safely out of town. I realized that because I felt like I was going much slower, I could easily pick up the pace and beat my race schedule which was based on a steady 25 mph average speed for the whole race.

So I decided to pick up some speed and start racing. As Chase 1 was stuck in the usual race traffic out of town behind me, I mingled with the stew of local traffic and chase cars all moving too slowly on the 2 lane highway. It was impossible to get the pace up if I stayed in the traffic, so I started taking some risks. I found myself passing a local truck on the left going into a blind turn to the left around a hillside, all the while thinking "this is crazy, but I gotta race!" At race mile 30 Chase 2 was waiting for me on foot at the side of the dirt road. They had to park their truck in the traffic jam at that pit and carry with them what I needed for that stop. For endurance riding it is extremely important for me to maintain energy levels by eating and drinking quality fuel in the right quantities. Chris handed me a pre-pealed banana and some turkey meat as Tom duct taped a gel pack to my fuel tank. Within seconds I was moving again. I hadn't practiced eating on the go but I declared to my team before the race that was the way I was going to have to eat my meals because I cannot lose time in the pits. While pulling out of the pits, I managed to get half of the banana into my mouth and the rest slipped out of my hand and fell to the ground. I shoved the turkey meat in my mouth as soon as I swallowed the banana and then both hands were free again for driving. Thanks to a well prepared pit crew, no time was lost in my first pit stop.

I started to really push it. I came into some powdery dirt and then a wash and I remembered from pre-running there were some rocks up ahead to avoid. But I was going so fast, I never even saw the rocks. Just as I thought to myself "well at least I didn't puncture a tire on those rocks" I started to hear a funny sound from my rear tires. I slowed down to listen some more and take a look at each rear tire. I knew right away what I was dealing with because the night before the race we were having problems keeping the ITP tires on the bead of the stock Honda wheels. And so of course, my rear left tire was off the bead. Immediately I announced on the radio "Shit, a tire is off the bead!!!" Both Chase vehicles could hear me and started debating about what I should do. Tom said I could go back to their pit and they could try to work on the tire, Tim said he needed to change out the wheels and tires and wondered if he should come in to get me. The thought of having to waste time going back to the last pit stop, finding chase 2, spending time finding air, and then messing around with the tire or sitting in a wash waiting endlessly for Tim to find me made me say "Forget it, I am going to keep going!" Tim concluded the same and his last words were "just go, just get the hell out of there!" and I knew that my next stop would be a Baja Pits about 25 miles ahead. This Honda had so much power, it didn't seem to care that it was crippled anyway. So I continued on with one back tire completely flat, hoping that I wouldn't destroy anything by doing so.

I knew that the next section was going to be a potential problem. I had pre-run it the very first weekend the course opened up, and didn't have any issues with it, but all the guys I know who pre-ran this section since then said that there was now one really bad silty hill to watch out for. I made sure I kept an eye out for race mile 40 where the troubles were supposed to begin. I came into a dip and noticed to my left there was a quad sitting there with a couple of guys desperately trouble shooting. After a double take I realized it was Steve. He had his helmet off, which meant that he had to have been sitting there for a while already. I stopped and asked what was wrong, and with such a look of disappointment he said it was something electrical and he couldn't figure out what it was. Knowing I didn't know jack about electrical issues nor did I have any tools to help in that area, the only way I could help was to radio it in. With my regular size 2 meter radio wired into my bike, I had the best radio reception than any other quad or bike out on the track. So I told him I would take care of communicating to his team what was going on as I continued. I took one last look at Steve and felt his frustration from the look on his face, but I had to keep going because I was losing precious time and at least there was a spectator there with him trying to help.

I called into Chase 1 and asked them to relay to Craig and Steve's chase teams their status. I had just finished explaining Steve's predicament when I turned a corner and saw a quad sitting in the middle of the road just ahead of me. I scanned the road and realized he was stuck in silt. This must be the silty hill everyone was talking about. I gunned the throttle and plowed into the thick white powdery silt. But the silt was so deep and thick that I was not able to steer where I wanted to go to avoid the quad. While the guy on the quad worried about me hitting him, my tires slid into a deep groove made by trucks and buggies and steered my bike right into the stuck quad. For a real good grand finale, I stalled the bike and then starting cursing. The guy stood by his bike looking bewildered as I yelled out a few more obscenities. Then I remembered that I was just wasting time again. So I got off my bike and said "All right, I guess we can help each other out of this, why don't we get you out of the way first?" Without saying anything, we both starting digging the powder away from his tires and lifting his bike to get the tires on top of the silt again. As we lifted his bike, my boots were sinking and the silt was rising to my knees. This was actually the thickest silt I had ever been in, how come I didn't see this in my pre-running? With his bike on top of the silt again, I started telling him the best line to take and how to get the bike plaining through it. As he struggled to kick start the bike, I noticed he was on a Banshee and I told him that because I tried to do the 1000 on a Banshee and didn't finish, I really wanted to see him get this Banshee to the finish line. But then I looked down and saw he was leaking all kinds of oil and even was carrying spare oil with him. I thought to myself, "yup that's why I am on my Honda now!" The guy seemed like a young rookie and was relieved he had the help to get him out of this situation. His Banshee screamed and kicked up all kinds of powder in my face, as I pushed him forward. He made it about 10 feet, buried his tires again and then stalled the bike. I ran ahead and helped him lift his bike again and gave him a new line to take out of the silt. Seeing that he finally made it out, I clomped back through the silt to my bike and starting working on mine. Only now I was left alone and I was tired!

I sat on my bike for just a second to catch my breath. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw a man on a horse climbing down the mountain side towards me. I didn't think much of it until he raised his lasso and pointed at my bike. "Huh?" I didn't know what he was offering and my instinct reaction was to say "no gracias!" But he knew better and he came closer and pointed at my bike again and threw his rope at me. Shit, I didn't even think of that, he was trying to offer to tow me out of the silt! We got the rope around the front bumper and he immediately started kicking his horse to move forward. I was moving fast enough to ride on top of the silt and jump start my bike. As soon as we got to the other side of the silt, I got the rope off my bumper and waved to the horsemen. As I drove off I smiled to myself as I thought about how only in Mexico a cowboy would come out of nowhere to rescue me.

While I was helping the Banshee clear the Silt Hill from Hell, I saw 99A pass us. I knew 99A belonged to a buddy from Texas, Jason. Jason was the last quad off the start line because he requested the last rear start. When I saw him go by, I knew I was now in trouble for time and that I was now going to have to do something to get back on schedule. I rode as hard as I could until I finally saw the Baja Pits. When I pulled in I announced that I needed gas and I forgot to tell them about the tire because I thought Chase 1 had already warned them about it on the radio. They started to put gas in the tank and then somebody saw the tire and announced I had a flat. I said "oh yeah, the tire came off the bead, do you have a strong air pump to pop it back on?" They rushed to power up the generator and connect a long air hose over to the tire. I got off the bike and let them work on the tire. Within 8 minutes I was back on the road again and feeling relieved that I didn't have to worry anymore about putting all my weight on the front of the bike.

On the radio, Chase 1 announced that they would try to meet me at race mile 60 to change out my rear wheels and tires. They didn't want to take any more risks with the tires coming off the bead and decided it was necessary to change out the complete rear set to a pair of Douglas wheels. We didn't use that set of wheels from the start because the spare set of tires we had on them was a smaller size of Hole Shots. I knew that race mile 60 was not far away and I just hoped the tire change would not take up too much more time. I raced on looking for race mile 60. I came up on a large gathering of people and chase vehicles. I wasn't sure if this was race mile 60 or not because there were no course markers. I rode slowly through that crowd looking for either one of my chase teams, just in case this was the spot to meet up. I didn't find anybody affiliated with McCreary Racing and so I rode on. After about 10 miles I realized I had to have passed RM 60 already. I called in to Chase 1 and asked what was going on. I was then told that they were not able to make it to RM 60 because they were not letting any more traffic through and so they would have to meet me at RM 99 instead. I was disappointed but I didn't know why. I made a conscious attempt to log in my long term memory that in the 1000 the popular pits in the first 300 miles need to be staked out at least a day before for my team. I was just going to have to venture into the pine forest and hope that I did not lose another tire before meeting up with chase 1 next.

After I made it past the crowds of pit crews, I picked up some speed and tried to remind myself of the sharps turns up ahead in the pine forest. I enjoyed this part of the course during the pre-running because it was a fresh new course cut right through the middle of the pine forest for the first time ever, but I knew that certain sections could be pretty dangerous in race mode. It didn't take long before I began to see evidence of that very conclusion. Motorcycles and quads were down everywhere. One motorcycle was shattered to pieces all over the the place and there was a guy in the middle of it trying to fix his wheel to keep going. The destruction looked like the wreck had to of hurt bad, but the guy looked fine and very intent on fixing whatever he needed to in order to keep going; I admired that.

I turned the next corner or two and noticed two guys in the middle of the narrow road. I thought this can't be good if they are not on their bikes and they are standing in the middle of the road. I slowed down and then noticed that one guy's shin was wrapped in ace bandage with carefully selected sticks, compliments of the pine forest. He was sitting on the hillside and could barely get his legs off the road for me to get by. When I stopped next to them, I read on the serious faces of both men that they were thinking "whoa, that was a close one!" I asked if they were O.K., not knowing anything about what happened. They said that the one guy had broken his leg and they were going to try to figure out how to get him to the next pit stop. Again I asked if they needed help with radio contact and the obvious answer was "yes" since their handheld radios did not transmit far enough. I contacted my team and asked them to relay a message to the other team about the injury. I'm not sure these guys had processed that I had a regular 2 meter radio wired into my bike, until they heard the response back from my team. Before I took off again, I looked at the crippled fellow quad racer and said all I could think of at the time "hang in there." It wasn't until I got going again that I realized that I never saw the quad the guy said he was on and that I actually had some Advil on me I could have given to him. But when you are in race mode, it is hard enough to stop, let alone think of all things you can do to help someone else out. I was beginning to understand why others never stopped for me when I needed it in previous races. Just when I realized this, Chase 1 radio'd me and lectured me about how I needed to worry about my own race for now on. As much as I understood the reason behind this statement, I decided at that moment that I was a SCORE sportsmen in Baja and I will always be a sportsmen for this very reason. I just can't live with the idea of racing by someone in need in the middle of nowhere in Baja and not offer help, however little the help is I can provide.

The pine forest had more victims up ahead and each time I saw one, I stuck my thumb up as I went by to make sure the guys were O.K. When they answered back with their upright thumbs, I continued on. There were just so many broken down quads and motorcycles on the side of the road, that I kept telling myself that I can still stay in my race, but that I should atleast check on their safety needs because it would be difficult for them to get help for a long time. I thought it was funny that sometimes I would notice two different broken down bikes that were very close together but they didn't know it because a turn or bend was in the way of their visual access of each other. And I wondered how lonely or frustrated each guy had to have felt as they struggled to figure out how to get out of each of their predicaments, when it was possible that they each would have what the other needed to help each other out.

I pushed hard through the pine forest and took advantage of one good stretch of a smooth road to pick up some speed and get caught back up on my planned race schedule. When I came around a bend and went over some whoops a little faster than I wanted to I attempted to shift down. "That felt weird" I told myself, without slwoing down. When I shifted back up, I realized something was definately wrong with the lever because it felt lose when I squeezed it. I continued struggling to shift up and down through the forest terrain and eventually looked down to see what was going on. I saw that two screws holding the clutch lever in place on the handlebars were lose and one was about to fall out. I decided to just keep going until the next pit stop before I would bother with this problem because I didn't want to lose anymore time. So I continued on through the maze of dips and turns around the trees and I glanced at the screws each time I had to squeeze the clutch lever. I was keeping a good pace and I just did not want to stop for anything so I kept riding while I literally watched one screw jolt out and fall to the ground. It wasn't until I saw the second screw about to come completely out and realized I couldn't shift anymore at all that I decided I better stop to fix this problem. Forced to slow down, I looked around for a couple of miles until I saw one pit crew of two guys sitting in the middle of nowhere on some lawn chairs waiting to gas a race truck. I rode up to them and asked if they had a screw driver that would help screw in a small bolt holding in my clutch lever. They fumbled around in their tool boxes until they found a match and tightened it up for me. I thanked them, asked them how far back they thought the trophy trucks were (because I knew they would probably be catching me somewhere in the pine forest), glanced at my watch, and sped back onto the course.

My scheduled time for race mile 99 pit stop was 11:00 a.m. I had to increase my average speed even more to arrive at that pit on time. I went as fast as I could go without losing control and running into the magestic pine trees that shaded the course. I saw more disasters along the way involving other guys who didn't make it through the pine forest traps and made them drop out of the race so disappointingly soon. I remembered the areas of the race course I had lost when I was pre-running and this time followed the course correctly. I also noticed how the course had widened considerably from all the pre-running and had created a now more permanent trail that non-racers would be able to enjoy in the future. Finally I saw the course mile marker 95 and knew I was close to the pit where chase 1 would be. I called in my race mile and prepared them for my "space re-entry." When I came around the bend of the last mile I was told it was 11:01. I happily declared into the radio I was "back on schedule!"

When I skid into the pit stop, Tim and bunch of other guys from the pit ran over to the quad to change out the tires as I hopped off the bike. Having accomplished a quarter of the race distance already, this was a key stop. I needed to refuel the bike as well as myself and make sure that I did all that I could to physically prepare myself for the future challenges of the race course, which were only going to get worse. This was also my favorite pit stop because it was the Locos Mocos pit. I usually plan to take my longer pit stops with them because they are the best race motivaters you can find in the middle of the Baja.

A Locos Mocos cameraman took advantage of the pause I was going to have at that stop as my tires were being changed and asked me questions about the race. Breathlessly, I tried to explain the carnage I had just witnessed. Meanwhile, I was lead over to my team's cooler of food and was told to eat. But something I didn't notice was starting to happen. After a period of perfect weather for the pre-running days, the temperatures were starting to soar on race day. I had just climbed some major feet in elevation, I was heated up from trying to make up some time in the last leg, and the sun was starting to burn. I couldn't eat. Tomas' and Zack's job was to make sure I consumed the right amount of food to keep up my strength in the next long segment of the race. But each time I took a bite, I felt like I was on Fear Factor trying to swallow disgusting animal parts while attempting to use all my mental powers to not throw it all up. I managed to get the banana down, but the turkey meat made me hesitate. Still out of breath, I chewed one bite forever trying to talk myself into swallowing it. I looked down the course and started to think about whether I can just forfeit the food and make up for it at the next pit stop in another 3 hours. My camel back was still full, if I just drank alot...my thoughts were interrupted by Tomas pounding on my helmet yelling at me to eat.

The Locos Mocos Pit in the Pine Forest

"I can't!" I yelled back as I continued chewing with my mouth open. Then I heard this voice ask me "are you wearing your patches?" Not knowing who that voice was, my mind started racing anyway to figure out whether I was or not. "Wait, no, I don't have them on...shit, I was supposed to put them on at this pit!...but where are they?" I looked around for chase 1's truck and realized it wasn't there. Baja Jones, a long time member of the Locos Mocos clan yelled out "get her some patches and some duct tape!" As more food was shoved in my face, I was told to raise both hands in the air so patches could be duct taped to my wrists. I had completely forgotten that I strategically planned to put the patches on at the Locos Mocos pit and that I had a set in my camelback for this purpose. The magnetic Lifewave patches, sponsored to me by Baja Jones, promised me increased energy, stamina, and performance to help my race. As they were intended to offer their best support through a period of 12 hours, I knew that if I put them on at the beginning of the race, I would not have the best effect when I needed them the most; at the end of the race. As if he knew the plan, Baja Jones' voice spoke up right on cue.

Tim shouted "you're ready to go!" As I ran over to the bike, I saw Craig from the corner of my eye standing with his arms crossed quietly watching the whole McCreary Racing pit stop circus. Looking as sad as a kid told by his mother he couldn't play while everyone else got to, I scrambled to find something comforting to say. "I don't know what the problem was but he said it was electrical and there was a guy helping him." He nodded and said "The bike was fine when we started, I don't know what it could be." I took one last look at him, tossed the turkey meat to the ground and mounted my bike. As I sped out of there I noticed immediately there was a difference in speed because the new tires were a smaller size. "Hot damn!" I yelled aloud.

I raced through the forest as the shadows bounced off me from underneath the pines. Now it was time to start worrying about the trophy trucks. I looked up to see if I would be able to spot any helicopters through the trees when they began to come around. If I could keep a good pace I should be able to clear the pine forest before they catch me and I wouldn't have to worry about that. But then again, I wasn't sure I preferred that they catch me in the forest or in the next section I called "the Mike's Loop" because neither area offered much room to pull over when I needed to. I started to get into a groove with the whoops and turns on the trail and came down off of a jump into the path along side a swampy river. I did a routine check over my shoulder for any oncoming traffic and noticed another quad coming over the same jump. I looked again and saw that it was Craig. Delighted, I raised my left fist and cheered him on. He rode up next to me as I rode to the side to let him by. We rode side by side as he looked at me with a big smile on his face to make sure I knew it was him. He looked as happy as an unleashed dog whose owner finally released in the park to play. When I looked at him I could even imagine his floppy dog ears flapping in the wind as he galloped along the trail with his tongue hanging out. As Craig pulled away, I stuck my left thumb up and said "go get 'em Craig!" even though I knew he couldn't hear me.

I was tempted to race along with Craig, but then I remembered that I needed to keep a steady pace or else I would use up some of the energy I needed to conserve for later. I had to remind myself "Jess, you're racing a different race," which was something I frequently have to tell myself. Just when I got in the groove again, I tried to follow the trail to the left and realized I couldn't steer that way. However, when I steered to the right around the next bend, there were no problems. I waited until I had to turn to the left again to try to decipher the problem. I went over a hill and down a dip and attempted to turn left to avoid a rock when all of sudden I couldn't steer at all. I squinted as I rammed right over the rock and then tested the steering again. I could turn to the right again but not to the left; it felt as though something was blocking the steering but I couldn't see anything that could be causing the problem.

Frustrated, I pulled over to the side of the road to take a look at the bike. I told myself that I was going to figure this out on my own and get going again as fast as I could. I carefully looked over the quad and then laid on the ground to analyze the front spindles, A-arms, steering stem, tie rods, etc. But nothing looked abnormal. I stood up to try to look at the steering stem from another angle and suddenly I felt a wave of dizziness. I leaned onto the bike to prevent fainting and then realized I had another problem to deal with. My heart was beating so hard, I could hear it in my ears. I realized I was very hot from the rising temperatures and very thirsty; I wasn't really taking care of myself. I was still carrying a full camelback from the beginning of the race. So I sat down and forced myself to drink more and get over what felt like heat exhaustion in very high elevation, all the while, trying to solve the mystery of my steering problem.

I called in to my chase teams...no reply. I called again...no reply. I drank some more from my camelback and then called again......still no reply. I hadn't gone too far from the last pit, but it was just enough to be out of range. Chase 1 was probably making it down the mountain anyway to head for the next pit stop. Shit, what was I going to do? My mechanical knowledge sucks, but I have to figure this out! I looked around some more and even pulled my tools out to check that all the bolts and screws were tight. Since I already had my camelback off, I took my radio channel reference sheet out and decided to switch over to Craig and Steve's racing team channel to see if one of their chase crews could hear me. But to my surprise Craig answered. I didn't think about how he would still be in range since he had only just passed me and would obviously be the first to respond. I explained why I was calling on his race channel and expected him to focus back on his race so I could continue to ask his team for help. But instead he offered to come back and help. "What a guy!" I thought, he was finally back in his race and making some headway and, inspite of that, he was actually offering to come all the way back for a loser who can't figure out her own mechanical problems! I told him to keep going and that I didn't mean to interrupt him and that I just wanted to borrow his chase help.

I called his team again. They answered right away. I stated that I had a problem and while I was explaining what the problem was I realized that what I was doing was stupid. There was no way anybody could help me without looking at the bike and there was no way anybody could come in to the course where I was because the Trophy Trucks were approaching. But I explained the problem anyway and they asked where I was. I said I was at race mile 115. "Click 115, copy that, we'll be right there!"

"Huh? They'll be right here? That's not possible!" But I didn't have any time to waste wondering how. I thought about the bike some more, trying to figure out what else could have anything to do with the steering problems. The echo of something yelled at me earlier in the day seeped back into my head "that's not my problem, that's your problem!" I knew I had to figure this out, there was no other way around this. I called Craig and Steve's team back on the radio and told them not to bother because there is now way they could help me. But they were now out of range and could not copy anymore. It was then I realized they thought I said I was at kilometer marker 115 on the highway when they said "click 115" and now I just sent one of Craig and Steve's chase vehicles to a phantom pit stop!

Just then, another quad came along and turned off the course to pull up next to me. I couldn't believe it, somebody in the race actually wanted to stop and offer help. When he pulled up and said "remember me?" I knew immediately that it was John Padgett from the 250 race. Without hesitation he pulled his helmet off and asked what was wrong. I stood up and sat on my bike and pointed to the handlebars and said "I don't know, it's just that suddenly I couldn't steer anymore." I looked down to where I was pointing and then I saw it. The damn communication box to which my radio was wired had slipped loose from its zipties and slid down into the area where the steering stem was. I could see that it slipped down on the left side, thus causing me not to be able to push the handlebars to the left. "What an idiot I am!" I declared.

With the mystery solved, John could have chosen to continue on in his race at that point, but he didn't. He stayed with me until I had the thing ziptied back into place again. This was a good thing because my hands were shaking so much from my blood sugars being down that I didn't have the fine motor skills to get the spare zip ties out of my camelback and wrap them around the communication box again to fasten it back in place. While we worked on the zip ties I asked about his wife, who was the third of the three women I knew that would be racing any portion of this race on a quad. He said she was doing well and had already done a short section of the race. I knew that John understood what I was going through since his wife was racing with him and he traveled all the way from Canada to race the 250 solo. The comraderie was comforting and gave me some strength to forage on and deal with the trophy trucks, which I now knew would be passing me in the forest very soon.

As I swore to myself I would never again use cheap zip ties for anything on my race bike, I pulled out onto the race course behind John and hoped for better luck for now on. But now worrying about all the time I just wasted, my trophy truck paranoia started to set in. My plan in this race was to get as far as I could before they caught me and then pull off to let the first most competitive set go by and get out of my way. A helicopter flew by John and I just when there was a clearing of trees to see it. Knowing that when a helicopter swoops down in front of you it usually is to warn you that a trophy truck is right behind you, I immediately pulled off the course. I saw John look back at me but he continued on. I remembered how I probably embarrassed him in the 250 when he found me trying to pee behind some bushes and figured he didn't want to risk that embarrassment again. But then when I saw the helicopter turn back, I noticed it had a camera on it and realized it probably did not belong to a particular trophy truck. Not willing to second guess myself because of the promise I made to myself at the beginning of the race, I waited anyway, just in case there was a truck around the corner.

The wait was agonizing; I just didn't know whether to take the risk to go on or to wait it out. I eventually decided to continue on. Seeing that John was way ahead of me now, I realized that I had just lost the opportunity to ride with a fellow quadsmen through what I considered to be the most dangerous part of the whole race. It was comical that John seemed to be developing a pattern of appearing and disappearing in the most heated part of the races. Only a few minutes after I pulled back out onto the course, I began to see more signs of the pending trophy trucks. A white helicopter circled above, loud engine noises began to ricochet off the trees in the forest, and spectators began to wave and point. There was my sign that it was now truly time to turn off.

It was perfect timing because I was on a flat open area with plenty of space to pull off and look back at the oncoming traffic. I relaxed at the thought of not having to outrun the oncoming tidal wave. Some spectators down the path walked over to me to see if I was alright. I laughed and said, "yeah, I am just trying not to be stupid in this race!" One of the guys was wearing a blue T-shirt that said "RDC" on the front. Hearing a female voice coming out of the helmet to answer their question, he pointed to his shirt and asked "are you La Chica Loca from race-deZert.com?" I said "yeah that's me." And right there, as if we were on commercial break, the conversation began. "So you decided to pull off and wait for the trophy trucks to pass, huh?" Yes, from the most popular on-line off road racing forum, he remembered the controversy I had recently caused by raising the question about the class starting order of the SCORE races. I was embarrassed that I couldn't escape that conversation even in the middle of the race and that I was reflecting the dangerous problem of the sportsmen quads being caught by these bad ass trophy trucks right in front of their very own eyes.

As the lead trophy truck emerged from the trees behind me I was startled at how abnormally slow the truck appeared to be traveling, even as fast as it was going. I was used to these trucks passing me at 120 mph; this speed was nothing close to that. Immediately after the first truck, the second and then the third swooshed by. The conversation continued even through the loud roars passing by within inches of us and the dust devils that swirled around us after each pass. I smiled as I thought to myself that on the side of the race course is where you can tell the difference between a veteran and a novice, who would have flinched, stopped breathing, or even run away with each oncoming trophy beast.

A little further down the path they had some friends standing by a very large boulder. After there was a pause in the trucks, they yelled over to them to climb the boulder and look out over the trees to let me know when would be a safe time to get back on the course. My original plan was to wait for about 20 or so trucks to pass because I usually see that many right on top of each other when they first catch me. But the pauses in between each pass, made me think that I was going to have a little easier time with the trucks in this race. The new difficult course at the beginning of the race had to be causing even more problems for the trucks than originally expected. I also was delighted to see that my three least favorite trucks, due to their history with known ATV accidents, had already passed in the first set. I now knew that commercial break was over.

I waited for the green light from the boulder scouts and joined the course again. I followed the trail out of the forest and onto the famous goat trail that takes you back to highway 3 just before Valle de Trinidad. I called into Chase 2 which was supposed to be waiting for me there to feed me and escort me along the 30 mile section on the highway to the Mike's Sky Ranch loop entrance. They were anxiously waiting for their assignment and responded back immediately. Chris guided me on the radio as I located the truck. When I arrived, a peeled banana and a small portion of turkey meat was handed to me. Chris then jumped into the back of the truck to sit facing me and Tom drove off as I followed them down the highway. This time, I was determined to get all of the food into my mouth. I wedged the turkey meat in my chest protector while I held onto the banana with my left hand. I told them to drive at about 45 mph until I finished my food because any faster than that my helmet starts sliding off my head. With the smooth road, I was able to keep the banana from sliding out of my hand and really concentrate on swallowing the turkey meat even though it was still making me gag. As soon as I had the last bite in my mouth, I told Tom to pick up the pace. With no hesitation whatsoever, he pushed the needle to about 75 mph. Only having to worry about following the truck ahead of me was a nice break from constantly negotiating with the many elements of the off road terrain. I was able to sit in different positions on the bike to stretch out different parts of my body and give them a break before stepping up the demands on my body in the next section.

When we came around a turn, some chick in a bikini top and shorts jumped out into the road with her arms up in the air and hips to the side, hollering at Chris. Chris happily waved back to her, while I struggled to resist temptation to run her over. I thought about how there is no way that girl would have done that if she knew Chris was helping to escort a fellow woman who was actually racing. I don't think she even understood the possibility of better ways to be part of the race. Some day things will change, but for now, us women are either sex symbols for the race or underdogs struggling to keep up with the strength, competitiveness, and mechanical knowledge that testosterone seems to support more successfully. I wished right then that I had started this at a much younger age and hoped that other women would soon follow to take on this challenge.

Too quickly we arrived at the Baja Pits stop at the entrance of the Mike's loop. Chris tried to feed me more turkey meat but that's when I officially declared I was "done with that crap." Instead I ate another banana, knowing that I was failing on my protein intake. Baja pits gave me a Gatoraide and gassed up the bike. I wanted to have more reasons to hang around that pit stop, because I was not looking forward to the challenges of the lonely Mike's loop, but I was fresh out of them. I said my goodbyes as if I was about to take a trip to the moon, and asked that Tom and Chris monitor the radio until they couldn't hear me anymore. I wanted them to tell me about every truck or buggy that went by them so that I would know the rhythm of what was coming up behind me and so that I could hear when I lost radio contact through their faded out voices.

The fast, graded out road at the entrance to the Mike's Sky Ranch loop is very misleading. I was now at least an hour behind my schedule and I knew that I only had a short while to enjoy that road before it would gradually turn into a technical challenge for me, especially with trucks and buggies now passing every so often. While I was quite familiar with the Mike's Sky Ranch area and had raced through there before, I was still a little worried. I was not able to pre-run this section for this race due to the lack of resources to be able to fund a couple more weekends traveling to Mexico and planning the logistics of pre-running the area with chase help. I was very familiar by now with how much the terrain can change with hundreds of people prerunning right before a race. But I was confident that with my smaller and lighter quad, that I should be able to maneuver through this area a little easier than that DS650 I had used to ride through there before.

Now having drank enough out of my camelback, I had a full bladder to worry about. My original plan was to use the planned pit stops to go when I needed to so I wouldn't waste more time trying to find places to stop and go out on the course as well. But when I drove into each pit, and saw large numbers of guys standing around, with no bush to hide behind, I just couldn't make myself do it that way. I figured that I could just find a remote place in the Mike's loop and time it in between passing trucks. I came upon a narrow trail that seemed secluded and decided I was going to take advantage of the opportunity and just duck down by my bike. I tried to put my bike into neutral to keep it running in the mean time, but I accidentally kicked it back in gear and stalled it when I was getting off. After I had already started peeing, I noticed three men walking by on the opposite side of the course. As I cursed at my predicament, I also worried that because my bike was not running I didn't have a quick getaway in case I were to be harrassed by these guys. I remembered a comment made by a friend long ago; "carry a knife with you because if you get stuck in the middle of nowhere, as a woman you may need to use it." I had always thought he was talking out of paranoia and swore that I would never have to worry about that. But in this vulnerable moment, I have to admit it went through my mind. I quickly finished and hopped back on the bike and prayed that my first kick would start it. After three kicks, I was back on the course as fast as I could get there. In times like this, it sucked being a girl.

It wasn't long before I was climbing steep hills. Each hill kept getting worse because of the lose rocks and dirt being added to the steepness. But I felt good on my quad and found myself climbing them with ease. Until I hit one hill that had two guys crawling around on it. It definitely looked fishy from the bottom and I couldn't figure out what they were doing, so I made sure to hit the hill hard. When I turned a corner, I immediately saw what they were doing. They were placing large rocks about 2 feet apart from each other all the way up the hill. No rock was smaller than a bowling ball and there wasn't anywhere to go on the trail to avoid the rocks. All I could do was gun the throttle and go as fast as I could go up and over all these rocks. My quad bounced all over the course as I fought as hard as I could to stay on the bucking bronco. After what seemed like forever, I made it to the top and gave one of the guys standing there a scowling look. He stared back at me looking kind of bewildered. I wasn't sure if it was because he wasn't expecting anymore quads in the race at that point or if he wasn't expecting a quad to make it up that hill, or if it was because he just realized I was a girl. Whatever the case, I angrily declared he was an "asshole" and kicked up some dirt on him as I went by.

The challenging hills kept on coming and they were not getting any easier. At one point I finally realized that I had just conquered a major fear of mine. One particular hill much later in the course that I had not yet mastered (and had crashed pretty badly on during pre-running) was easier than many of the hills I had aleady climbed thus far in the race. I was no longer afraid of that hill and knew that I was going to be able to clear it easily. But working these hills and climbing more elevation and the temperatures rising even higher than those of the pine forest, I was feeling weak and starting to slow down.

And the higher I got, the more radio chatter I heard in my helmet. My radio was picking up the discussions of many race teams on either side of the mountains I was in. One particular conversation was just too comical. I heard a woman's voice from a pit trying to contact a guy in a race buggy in the race. I heard a man's voice, clearly a driver in the race, trying to contact his pits for help because he was broken down somewhere by Mike's Sky Ranch. After several unanswered calls that these two made, they began to use each other's names. When I heard the same two names being announced in each of their calls "Stephanie, this is Bob, do you read me?....Bob this is Stephanie do you read me?" I realized they were trying to contact each other but each could not hear the other.

Remembering the orders of Chase 1, I tried to concentrate on my own race and ignore all this chatter. But it was so loud and ongoing, it was starting to get annoying and I couldn't concentrate anymore. When I heard Bob's voice getting more and more distressed about not being able to contact his closest chase help, I eventually gave in. I thought maybe it would take my mind of things that were starting to hurt if I try to help these guys out anyway. Finally I broke in, "Bob, this is 64 alpha race do you read me?" Hearing a woman's voice, Bob assumed I was Stephanie but was confused about what I just said; I had to clear it up for him; "Bob, this is 64 alpha race, I am a woman racing on a quad. I am currently on top of the mountain and I can hear both you and Stephanie but I can see that you two can't reach each other." But then Stephanie was confused about another person speaking on the radio about "Bob and Stephanie" and begin to break in as I spoke to Bob; "Stephanie, stand by please, I am talking to Bob right now and I can transmit his communication to you if you stay off the airways." I started to smile to myself as I realized that neither of these two had any idea what I was dealing with as I was trying to help them communicate. Pushing on a button to talk on the radio was very difficult to do with the technical terrain I was now negotiating. I also knew that if I did not get their messages passed on to each other quickly, I would lose the ability of being a repeater for them when the course turned off the ridge I was currently on.

I repeated my lines to Bob and asked him to tell me what he wanted to tell Stephanie. I called back to Stephanie; "Stephanie do you read me? Bob says that he has a broken CV joint and he is about one mile from Mike's Sky Ranch on the south end of the loop and he needs you to send John in with a spare CV joint to fix it." Stephanie repeated what she heard and told me that she would get on it right away. I called back to Bob and told him the message was delivered and that Stephanie was now sending John in to his rescue. The words I heard back from Bob, to this day, continue to ring through my head; "Whoever you are, THAAAAANKYOUUUUUU! I owe you a beer at the finish line!" The tone of his voice made me realize that, to him, who was broken down in this lonely Mike's Loop with only one way in and one long way out and no radio reception, I was an angel that came down out of nowhere to help him get his message communicated and give him hope of staying in the race.

I started to think to myself "I could really use that beer right now because I don't feel so good." When I began to imagine the coldest beer at the bottom of an ice chest being handed to me, I realized the heat was now really getting to me. The fluids in my camelback were warm enough now to make it hard to drink and I craved something cold. I started looking for people who might have some cold water to give out. Every once in a while I would see a group of people camping out together and I would roll up and ask if they had any cold water. But everyone's ice was melted and I felt snobby when I had to turn down the warm water and gatoraide bottles people wanted to give me. At one camp, a kid ran up to me when I stopped by them and was so excited to be helping out a racer, that I felt obliged to take the bottle anyway. As soon as I got to where he couldn't see me, I threw it into the bushes.

Finally I arrived at the half way point of the Mike's Loop where my next Baja Pits stop was. As they gassed me up I massaged my left hand which was now losing sensation and I attempted to stretch a little. A guy in a racing suit was standing nearby watching. When he saw I was moving a little slowly, he walked up to me, leaned over and asked "are you all right?" I immediately responded by saying "yeah, I'm fine, that was just a tough section." With a look of concern he said "yeah but what's coming up is even tougher." He told me to look at him so he could analyze how I was doing. He cleaned my goggles and then took a bottle of water and poured it down my back. Instantly I felt like a whole new person. I had forgotten the trick of pouring water on me to cool down while riding. You can even pour warm water on you and when you start going the wind cools you down. What a dummy I was for turning down all those bottles of water people offered me!

This guy was still concerned though, and I realized then that this was not a good sign if I was not looking too good to him. He asked why my eyes were red and I explained that they always get red from the dust mixing in with my contacts while riding. He then patted me on the back and told me to be safe. I could tell he was wanting to do more to help me and was tempted to tell me to stop, but he didn't know me and didn't understand that even though I felt like crap, I was not at my limit yet. As I drove off, I wished I had asked for the guy's name because I knew my husband would appreciate the time he took to check me over.

This section is tougher, huh? Oh boy, I thought I had already climbed some pretty steep hills. But then I knew Simpson's Hill was coming up so maybe that is what he was talking about. The Mike's Loop was looking so different than the last time I had raced through here and I was already regretting the fact that I was not able to pre-run this section for this race so that I would already know where the new tough spots were. I just lost a lot of time in the last section and his words made me think that I was going to lose even more time before I got out of the Mike's Loop. This was not good.

After about 10 hours of racing, my legs needed a good stretch. I pulled over to a flat spot I saw on the side of the course and let the bike idle while I attempted to use the bike to stretch out. I didn't notice that I had stopped right in front of a group of Mexican people drinking beer and watching the race. I heard them talking about me and figuring out I was a girl and that I had stopped for a stretch. Then one guy came over and asked if he could help while all the others behind him laughed. Just when I was about to say "Dejame en paz" I realized he was serious. Like a pro, he took my boot in his hands and pushed and pulled my leg in different positions to stretch out various parts of my leg. It felt so good, I didn't care how stupid it looked. The guys behind him continued to tease him while he grabbed my other boot and did the same. I hadn't realized how tight all my muscles had become and it really did take two people to stretch all the muscles in my legs. I thanked him for twisting me in a pretzel, waved at our audience and got back on the course again. When you get this deep into a race, you just don't care about modesty anymore.

The course began to narrow and wind around a tight bend. I could see that if a truck or buggy were to approach me here I was not going to be able to move out of the way. Up until now, the trucks and buggies had been passing me on a semi regular basis and I was able to move right out of the way to let them pass. I looked over my shoulder and then picked up the pace to try to get through the section as fast as possible. I remember passing some guys who were perched way high up on the mountain side to watch the race down below. They were exploring the hillside and excitedly announcing the oncoming racers in their walkies to each other just like little kids. They watched as I drove in to the trail that grew dark from the tall bushes and trees on each side, creating a canopy for the course. It was a nice break from the sun beating down on me. After about a couple of miles of riding further into the darkness, I began to see a line of bright red ribbons tied to the trees to my right. "That's not normal," I thought, "there must be something up ahead." The trail began to climb in elevation again and then took a sharp left turn up a hill. It felt natural to take the turn on the inside. I looked over my shoulder one last time before taking the turn, gunned the throttle to take the hill, leaned forward, and then I saw it. A huge crevice in the ground, at least 4 feet deep and 20 feet long, ran along the length of the hillside right on the inside of the turn. My eyes scanned up the hill to see if I could straddle the crack with two tires on each side of it, but it didn't take long to figure out that the crack was widening as it went up the hill. I was already into the turn; there was no choice but to keep going. Half of my tires fell into the crevice and swallowed the left side of the bike. I fell off and down the hill side with the radio chord trailing behind me.

"Shit!" was all I could think. But I got back up and climbed up to the bike to see how the hell I was going to get it out of this hole it was stuck in. I went to the front side and tried to lift it but it was stuck against some rocks in the crevice. I went to the back side and tried to jiggle it loose but then I started to hear the roaring of a buggy echoing through the dark trail below. There was nothing to do but get off the course and away from the quad because I was not visible by anyone else taking the turn and definitely ran the risk of getting hit if I stood by the bike.

I ran over to the side of the cliff as fast as I could and just when I stepped off the course, the buggy began to take the same line I did on the hill. All I could do was stand there and watch helplessly as the buggy attempted to swerve to the right, but not enough to completely avoid my bike. the next 5 second felt like the longest ones of my life. I watched as my quad was hit so hard that it was knocked spinning into the air and was made to land completely upside down back into the same crevice. The buggy took the collision like a champ and continued on up the hill without slowing down one bit.

My heart stopped. I listened to see if the buggy was going to pull over at the top of the hill to maybe check out the situation, but it's engine continued to roar up the mountain. I turned around and stared at the bike and for a fleeting second I felt like letting go of 34 years of emotional maturity and just sitting down and crying like a 2 year old. My brand new bike just got smacked into the air like a paddle ball. And what was worse, it landed in a way that was not going to be possible for me to get it out myself. As the buggy completely disappeared from the scene, I heard it again "That's not my problem, that's your problem!" And boy did I have a problem!

I took my camelback off and threw it to the side. I studied the bike intensively to see if there was some way I could use gravity to help me turn the bike back over. I knew I had to hurry because the bike was going to get flooded with gas from being upside down and then I would have to wait even longer to get it started and back on the road again. I turned the fuel off, hoping it would help. then I went up hill and started to push the bike from the top, hoping to roll it down hill, and just when it started to move a little, I could hear another buggy approaching. I stepped off the course and hoped that the next buggy was familiar with this section and knew to take the turn wide. But it took my same line up the hill and gave my bike another whack at that back side. I watched as that buggy continued on up the hill and waited for the possibility of that one stopping to help, but of course it didn't. I went back to the bike and pushed at it some more from the top of the hill again. After pushing with all my might, I found the quad on its side teetering on top of the crevice. I couldn't believe what I had just done all by myself. Getting it on its tires was now going to be easier, especially if I continued to push from the top of the hill. I attempted to use the same strategy of letting gravity do some of the work, but this time I slipped into the bike and while it landed back on its tires, I bumped it back into the crevice. So now I was back to where I started, only now another buggy was coming along. I tried to situate myself on the turn in a way so that I could maybe signal to the buggy to take the turn wide. But it was such a hard turn to find a way for any oncoming cars to see me. That buggy took the middle line of the turn, but still managed to hit my quad and knock it deeper into the crevice so that the tires were wedged against some rocks.

"This is such a bad joke!" I said aloud. I could hear a number of buggies approaching now on top of one another and I was not going to be able to do much more than just stay out of the way and watch the show. Buggy after buggy continued to smack my quad as they drove by. Buggy after buggy continued to drive up the hill after adding more scratches and nicks to the bike. I was furious. There was literally nothing I could do. I could no longer move the bike without some help and I was not going to get some help standing here waiting for it. I checked my radio to see if it was still working and tried to call in to my chase teams to let them know what was going on. I knew they needed to know something because now I was going to be extremely late to my next pit stop but my calls did not transmit. I wondered where MY radio angel was when I needed one!

I looked down the course and tried to guesstimate how far back those guys were on the hill side. On a bike, miles go by faster, and it is hard to figure out how much distance was covered, but after picturing the course in my head, I figured it was about 1-2 miles. "Do I really have to go walking for help?" I wondered. As if to answer the question, another buggy came along and smacked the bike again and didn't stop to help. I knew I couldn't watch this fiasco anymore. So I picked up my camel back, grabbed the key to the quad, and slid down the hill on my butt.

I cursed with every step I took. I used every cuss word I could think of with each stomp of my boots in the dirt. When I ran out of cuss words, I started to make some up. When I ran out of ideas for new words, I then tried to see if I could curse for each letter of the alphabet. I couldn't believe I was off my bike and walking backwards on this damn course. With each word of profanity and stomp in the dust, I was trying to push off the thoughts of doom that wanted to take over any sense of hope for finishing this race.

Still smiling after 16 hours of straight racing

Readers: I haven't finished this story; but I eventually will. Please be patient with me and keep checking back!