LITMIR.BIZ

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not taking advantage of free McDonald’s food.

      Only a few bites in, I was already almost done the burger. Grease is helpful—once your throat is raw, it coaxes the food down.

      “Ruth, do you think you could pour the milkshake into a water bottle?” I asked her. “I’m going to head to the washroom.” I stood up from the table and went towards the restaurant. The air conditioning would be a good respite for just a minute. The large McDonald’s sign dominated my view for a moment, and I saw what was written underneath: “Welcome Race Across America riders and crew!”

      For 13 years, Race Across America (RAAM) had stood out in my mind as the pinnacle of ultra-marathon cycling. It was the Tour de France of the ultra world, though without all the doping and off-bike rest. No teams, no drafting, no sleep. And here I was, right in the middle of RAAM. For years I had secretly dreamed about it, told no one, and aimed for participating in the world’s toughest bike race.

      And here I was.

      As I stepped into the cold of the restaurant I shivered, not because of the temperature change but because of where I was. Because of what I was doing. A pain shot through my neck, and I clapped my hand to the back of it. There was nothing there. Nothing wrong with it. I took my helmet off—all of a sudden it felt really heavy.

      I went to the washroom and questioned what I was feeling. Everything seemed to be normal. I looked at myself in the mirror. Since the beginning of the ride it looked like I had aged five years, if I was being generous. Maybe it was more like ten. My skin was hanging a little looser on my face, the wrinkles pronounced from the heat of the sun constantly beating down on it. My eyes were surrounded by bags, sleep deprivation taking effect.

      I blinked my eyes and snapped out of it, then strapped my helmet back on. A little bit of pain wasn’t about to slow me down.

      I walked back out, adjusting to the bright light of the day. Another rider had arrived in the time I was inside, and I tried to assess who was hurting more. Cyclists have a habit of looking at each other’s calves, thighs, butts and midsections. You can size each other up pretty quickly with a quick glance. But the farther you go in the ride, the less those matter and the more the face matters. You can train your body to cycle fast and hard, but eventually it becomes a mental exercise. Judging by his face and what I had just seen in the mirror, he was hurting even more than I was.

      Ruth rolled the bike up to me, and I clambered on. “The milkshake is in the bottle,” she pointed, giving me a peck on the cheek. “Still 51 percent, eh?” she asked.

      “That 1 percent makes all the difference.” I forced a smile, forgetting why, exactly, I was doing what I was doing.

      Little did I know that percentage was about to drop—dramatically.

      * * *

      The sun was starting to set, disappearing behind the Kansas horizon. Fear climbed into my throat and lodged itself there. The nights are always the worst. It’s no wonder that people experience more depression when the days are shorter—the dark surrounds you and saps you of energy. But we didn’t get breaks and took them only when absolutely necessary, driven by the wobble of our tires as we struggled to keep our eyes open and our heads up.

      My head dropped, but it wasn’t sleep that was the problem.

      I pulled it back up, feeling some tension in the back of my neck.

      Is my head getting heavier? I thought. But that was ridiculous. It couldn’t just get heavier. Then why is it so hard to hold up? There was only one answer to the question, but I wasn’t prepared to accept it.

      I heard the surge of the van engine behind me, and it pulled even with me. “You okay?” Ruth leaned out the side window. My son, Paul, was driving, his wife, Jeanette, in the front seat. They had switched with Josh and Stephanie, who were sleeping in a hotel. In the morning Steph and Josh would have to drive to catch up.

      “Why?” I asked, my voice hardly a croak.

      “It looks like you’re falling asleep,” she responded. The crew, forced to drive directly behind me at night, had nothing to look at other than my slow, meticulous form in front of them. I should have known it wouldn’t be easy to get anything past them.

      “It’s my neck,” I said, diagnosing the problem more accurately than a heavy head.

      “Is it sore?” Ruth asked.

      “Yes. But that’s not the problem. I can deal with pain. But it’s getting weak—I can’t hold my own head up.” The words sounded strange as they came out of my mouth. Holding up our own head isn’t something we usually worry about. It’s not something we even think about. But here I was, struggling to lift my own head because it weighed too much for my neck muscles.

      “Can you hold it up?” Paul asked, leaning towards the window while still watching the road. “You know, rest it for a while?” I propped my elbow into the aero bar pads, then plopped my chin in my hand and let it rest. Awkward, yes. Functional, I suppose so.

      “I don’t think much can make it better than taking a break,” I admitted. “I just can’t afford to stop.” The clock was ticking. Mercilessly. Relentlessly. I sat up straighter, thinking that if I kept my head in alignment with my spine instead of leaning forward and having to tip my head backwards to look at the road, it might be easier. But it still felt heavy.

      “Let us know if it gets worse,” Ruth said, and the vehicle dropped back. According to the rules they could only drive beside me for a minute four times an hour. And I could never, ever, touch the vehicle.

      Alone with my thoughts again, I fought the heaviness of my head. I tried shifting to different positions, but nothing seemed to work. No matter which way I sat, turned, twisted or stood, my head was simply too heavy for my neck. Though I was completely conscious and awake, it lolled down to my chest like someone asleep. If I hadn’t been questioning my finishing the ride, it would have been a comical situation. Unfortunately, when an integral part of your body starts to collapse on you, things don’t feel comical.

      I propped my head up with my right hand. It worked, but the back of my neck still hurt. It forced me to constantly lean forward, an uncomfortable position for too long of a time. It also forced me to steer, shift and brake with only one hand. This put added strain on my other arm, as well as my wrist. After a few minutes I switched hands, fighting to get comfortable.

      This continued for 24 hours. And it only got worse.

      My wrists were swollen from the pressure of holding my head. The “rest” I was giving my neck wasn’t helping. If something didn’t change, my ride was over. Finished. Another Did Not Finish (DNF) in a career riddled with a mixture of successes and failures. I had come to the conclusion that my percentage had dropped from 51 to 10, maybe 5. There was no way I could ride this way for five more days—I had reached the end.

      My RAAM was over.

      Consuming milkshake before getting back on the road

      Through the mountains and into the Prairies

      Looking bored as neck problems begin to set in

      2. Determined to Succeed: Paraguay

      We made our way through the trees in our bare feet, trying our best to be silent. Small steps and watchful eyes would hopefully keep us a few steps ahead of our quarry. The afternoon was bright and harsh—as always—and beat down on our bare backs. My older brother, Art, was holding the slingshot taut, aimed down at the ground. With only a split-second’s notice he could have it up and at the ready. Our prey was small but dangerous. Thankfully we could hear them far in advance.

      The

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