The bonkiest bonk I've ever bonked

Or the perverse irony when quitting and keeping going look exactly the same

The size of the smile is directly proportional to how long the race has been going on.

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Diary of a horrible bonk

Another year, another Castlewood 8-hour Adventure Race, another recovery period questioning my life’s decisions.

Held the first Saturday in December, the Castlewood 8-Hour Adventure Race comprises canoeing, road biking, mountain biking, and orienteering, which in this case means hiking in the woods and finding checkpoints on a map.

This was my fifth adventure race and by far the hardest (as you’ll see). I burned 1,000 more calories than I did in the others. I’ve written about previous races here and here and here. This year I kept a diary as our four-man team traversed the woods in and around Eureka, Missouri.

(Some times approximate.)

Saturday, 4 a.m.

I had classic race-day sleep: I woke up to go to the bathroom at 1 a.m. because I’m 53 and that’s what happens. I woke up again at 3, an hour before my alarm, and doze intermittently. I climb out of bed and make coffee. I fry two eggs and plop them on top of rice.

Saturday, 4:45 a.m.

I fire up the ol’ minivan and head out to meet my team. I wonder if every car I get behind is going to the race, too. Why else would you be on the road at this hour?

Saturday, 8 a.m.

The race starts! We quickly collect three checkpoints on foot then climb into our canoes for a 6.5-mile paddle on the Meramec River.

Saturday, 8:30 a.m.

We pass a team whose members are dressed like characters from the movie Shrek. I recognize the king and Gingerbread Man. I call one of them Shrek and she corrects me that she’s Fiona. We discuss the fact Fiona is a Shrek, too, well, technically an ogre … and that is the weirdest conversation I will ever have at an adventure race.

I’m grateful to I live in a world where people canoe 6.5 miles and hike and bike for 30 all while wearing costumes of characters from a movie.

The Gingerbread Man pulls his head off and dangles it in front of him. Though ice is forming on the sides and inside of his boat, he must be roasting in that outfit.

I, on the other hand, can’t feel my fingers.

Saturday, 10:15 a.m.

We’re biking up a hill in a subdivision and I notice with foreboding that my teammates’ pace is considerably faster than mine. If I try to keep up with them all day, I’m going to wear myself out.

Saturday, 12:30 p.m.

Mountain biking always wrecks me. I’m slow and inexperienced. The fear of crashing and the anxiety over being the team’s weak link combined with mounting exhaustion pushes me to the edge.

Every year I say I’m going to practice to get better. Every year I don’t.

Saturday, 1:30 p.m.

I always get to the edge of breaking – I want to get to the edge, it’s the whole reason I do adventures like this. I believe that if I can build endurance to keep going on a voluntary but challenging adventure when I can quit, then I’ll be more prepared to endure involuntary challenges in life when I can’t quit.

But I’m at the edge sooner, and it sucks more, than usual.

Just about every body part hurts (or did earlier) except my left arm. I have bruises up and down both shins. My left leg has cramped up, and my right hand and forearm ache from death-gripping the handlebars.

And my ego? PFFFT. That was ground into dust and blew away.

Bonking sucks.

Saturday, 1:32 p.m.

I eat peanut butter M and Ms and feel better.

Saturday, 2:05 p.m.

That didn’t last long.

Saturday, 2:30 p.m.

The trail isn’t as rocky. I’m not stopping to walk as much. Maybe I’m figuring this mountain bike thing out.

Saturday, 2:40 p.m.

Nope.

Saturday, 3 p.m.

I bend over and suck wind. It’s so dark inside my head I hesitate to write about it for fear of a) underselling it or b) telling the truth and exposing myself.

My rear tire is deflated.

My heart is even worse.

My teammate, Scott Hardeman, graciously reaches into his bag, pulls our a hand pump, and fills the tire for me. We hope it holds for the hour or so we have left.

Alas, he has nothing to pull from his bag with which he can refill my deflated heart.

There’s a big difference between wishing something was over and wanting to quit. I usually stay on the side of wishing something was over. This time I want to quit.

I keep going but not because of some deep well of determination or catching a second wind or defeating the demons who deflated my heart and my tire.

I don’t quit only because quitting and keeping going are exactly the same thing.

We are way out in the middle of the (expletive deleted) woods. To quit means riding my bike along trails to get to my minivan. To keep going means riding my bike along trails to get to my minivan. I draw a tiny bit of motivation from laughing at that perverse irony.

I’m sure there is some profound lesson to learn when you’re in situations in which quitting and keeping going are exactly the same —freelance writing is like that sometimes, and so is raising teen-agers and so is life.

But I’m in no position to learn anything. I’d rather just bang my left arm into a tree to make my full-body destruction complete.

I am positive I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever do this again.

Saturday, 3:50 p.m.

We pedal along a trail on top of a wooded hill. My tires are caked with mud and leaves. I feel like I’m riding through wet cement. Our plan is to follow this trail to a subdivision and take streets in the subdivision to the finish line. But if we do that, we’ll miss the 4 p.m. deadline and be penalized.

I look down to my left. Through thick woods, I can see the finish line—it’s not far, just a few hundred yards. But there’s no way to get there.

No good way, I mean.

Two of my teammates—Hardeman and Paul Quindry—have already bushwhack-ridden halfway down the hill. A third teammate, Ryan Roe, nods toward them and says that’s where we’re going.

I suck bad enough at mountain biking when I’m on a trail. Now I’m going to go straight downhill through the woods.

This won’t end well.

Or begin well.

Or have a good middle.

Saturday, 3:53 p.m.

My front tire hits something.

The bike stops, and I keep going.

The back tire picks up off the ground, my feet come off the pedals, my fingers let go of the handlebars, and I tumble to the ground in front of the bike.

Ryan helps me up.

Saturday, 3:54 p.m.

I get back on the bike.

I go over the handlebars again.

Ryan helps me up again.

God bless him for not laughing.

I walk it the rest of the way down.

Saturday, 3:58:37 p.m.

We cross the finish line.

I feel no joy, no sense of accomplishment, only relief that it’s over.

I am positive I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever do this again.

Saturday, 4:05 p.m.

I drink three small cans of Coke and eat two baked potatoes.

Saturday, 4:27 p.m.

My team gathers for a photo at the finish line. My smile is broad, toothy and fake.

I load my bike, whose rear tire is completely flat.

One of my teammates crams it into the back of my van, and I am positive I will never, ever, ever, ever do this again.

Saturday, 5:02 p.m.

I call my wife, tell her I am alive, and explain that I am positive I will never ever, ever do this again.

Sunday, 6:30 a.m.

I am delighted to report that only my hip and back hurt.

Sunday, 3 p.m.

I’m covering a bull-riding event in downtown St. Louis. It’s a strange juxtaposition to spend one day on an 8-hour adventure and the next watching 8-second adventures. After one ride, a bull plants his horns in the back of a bullfighter’s legs. He gets thrown up in the air, spins, and lands on his back.

He picks himself up, brushes off the dust, and walks back into the arena.

As bad as the race adventure was, at least a bull didn’t hit me with his horns and toss me around like a rag doll in front of thousands of people.

Monday, 10:24 a.m.

Results trickle in. Only five of 91 teams got all 47 checkpoints, proof that this race was brutal. I take some solace in that.

We collected 42 of 47, and we finished 17^th overall and 2^nd in the four-man division, both by far the best we’ve ever done.

A friend texts me to say he wants to do the race with me next year. I refuse to commit because I am positive I will never, ever do this again.

Monday, 8:42 p.m.

After listening to me whine, a friend describes bonking while running a 30-miler this summer and the strength she gained from enduring that. Might you have a similar experience, she asks? Hell to the no, I think but don’t say because I am positive I will never do this again.

Tuesday, 4:30 p.m.

The pain in my back and hip subsides.

I work out for the first time since the race.

Wednesday, 10 a.m.

I should probably get that back tire fixed and start practicing mountain biking.