As hard as it was to admit, a part of me missed something about those addict days—not the drugs themselves, but the pulse-jacking danger of that life, knowing that every day I could be teetering on the edge of a rusted blade. I felt happiest and most alive when I was in peril.
- - - -
Before we boarded the flight for Quito, I’d spent a few days with my team in San Francisco, going over official checklists and sorting through our gear. Right away, I was alarmed by how disorganized and stressed-out Tony seemed to be. He’d get everything packed, then pull it all out looking for something he’d “lost”—only to realize the thing had been sitting in front of him the entire time. When we offered to help, he snapped at us. At the airport, he came unglued when we were charged $1,500 in excess-baggage fees. Scott and I moved some things around and quietly talked the airline representative down to $500. As I boarded the plane, I wondered just who I was following into the wilderness.
- - - -
“Do we have everything?” Tony shouted. We’d landed and Tony had to raise his voice to be heard above the airport din.
We all said yes. He looked down at a crumpled piece of paper in his hand.
“Our driver is . . . Alejandro. He should be outside waiting for us. White truck, blue tarp. Got everything, right?”
“Yes,” we said again, and started for the exit.
“Wait.” Tony stopped short. “I’m missing a bag. Damnit. They better not have lost it. It’s all my mountain gear.”
Nancy pointed to an overstuffed duffel gliding by on the carousel. “Isn’t that yours?”
Dozens of white trucks, all with blue tarps, lined the curb. We found four Alejandros before we found ours. Our Alejandro hugged us all like old friends and started helping us load our gear. In only a few minutes we saw that we had too much stuff and too many people to fit in the truck. After much discussion Scott, Nancy, and I decided to hang on to the back of the truck, with our feet on the bumper and our hands on the frame over the truck bed; Rolf and Kurt would sit on top of the gear. Tony and Steve would cram into the cab with Alejandro.
Whooping like kids on a carnival ride, we headed north on the Pan-American Highway. The novelty of hanging on to the back of the truck began to wear off as the temperature dropped and the roads narrowed. We finally arrived in Ibarra and checked in to the Hosteria Chorlavi, an old hacienda that had been converted into a hotel. That evening, along with the other Raid teams, we dined on cauliflower soup, grilled trout, pastries filled with rice, and helados de paila, the ice cream the waiter said the town was famous for.
Finally, we could hit the sack. I was with Nancy, in what I hoped would be a nonsnoring room. As I closed the door, I heard Tony saying, “I can’t find my room key. Has anyone seen my key?”
Early the next morning, I got a cup of coffee and stepped out into the cobblestone courtyard. The air was clear and cool and scented with cedar and roses. Before me, a massive mountain, green and brown and cut with deep, shadowed clefts, loomed above the wide valley. A kite tail of clouds streamed off its broad conical summit. I’d read about this mountain: Volcán Imbabura. The Incas considered it a god, and the locals thought of it as a sacred protector: Taita—“Papa”—Imbabura. I could see why: it emanated great power. I stood completely still, as if movement might make the mountain disappear. I inhaled and exhaled slowly and deliberately. This is what I had come for. This was why I had worked so hard to be sober: to be able to breathe this air and stand before this mountain.
“Charlie,” someone said in a loud whisper. I looked up. Rolf was sitting on the tile roof.
“Hey,” I said.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Amazing.”
I waited for Rolf to climb down, and together we went to find Team Schwab. Raid organizers required all competitors to do three days of progressively more difficult acclimatization hikes; today would be our first, a seven-hour trek to eleven thousand feet. Besides getting us used to climbing at altitude, the hikes were meant to wear us out—the idea being that if we were fatigued when we started the race, we would be less likely to go out too fast and risk altitude sickness or injury. I thought that theory was flawed—wouldn’t being tired increase our chances of getting hurt?—but was not in a position to question it.
After a morning gear check, we headed out. I was so excited. I was about to compete in the Raid Gauloises against the best adventure racers in the world—guys I’d seen on TV when I first dreamed of doing something like this. I couldn’t wait to attack this first hike.
A little before ten that night, I staggered, half-dead, back into the hotel. The hike had been brutal, partly because I’d behaved like an idiot. I’d been so anxious to show my teammates that I was not the weakest link that I had rushed to the front of the group and stayed there—even when I got so light-headed I started seeing black spots. Michael Lucero, I was certain, would not have been seeing black spots. Thankfully, just when I thought I might collapse, Scott had spoken up from the back and asked the group to slow down.
All I wanted to do now was fall into bed. I turned toward my room—then spotted my mother by the lobby fireplace. She was wearing a knit hat, the black fleece top I had sent her for her birthday, jeans, and black Converse high-tops. I had to laugh. There was no doubt who the fifty-five-year-old chain-smoking playwright was in the group. I hugged her hard. She felt so small in my arms. I had a deep pang of regret. What had I been thinking suggesting she come? I helped bring her bags into my room, trying not to let on how exhausted I was. I offered her my bed, but she insisted on sleeping on the floor.
“You two need to get a good rest,” she said. “I’m fine.”
I lay there, wide-eyed, head pounding, worrying about my mother and wondering how the hell I would ever get through the race if I was this wasted from a practice hike. Maybe I wasn’t ready for this. Maybe Michael had been right.
Things improved over the next two days. I calmed down about trying to impress my teammates. My mother made friends with some of the other teams’ crews. My headache faded. We found a pace that worked for us all and took turns carrying one another’s pack in case one of us faltered during the race. We even managed to laugh. We kidded Tony about his habit of losing things. I was teased about having to bring my mom with me.
In between the hikes and inventorying of gear, I found a quiet time to take a walk with my mother through the whitewashed colonial town. We were trailed by several mangy, emaciated dogs.
“Poor things. I wish I could bring them home with me,” my mother said, holding out her hand to one particularly pathetic-looking mutt.
She had always been a rescuer of strays. She was afraid of heights and going to the dentist, but she would try to pet any dog, no matter how big or fierce. And the dogs would invariably give in and allow themselves to be loved.
“I think I’m going to write a play about the Raid,” she said to me. “It’s all so inspiring!”
“That would be great. But we should probably survive it first.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter. Most of my plays are tragedies.”
I laughed. We walked past an ancient-looking gray-stone church and into a manicured green park.
“Want to sit?” I pointed at a green slat bench under a tree heavy with bright pink flowers.
“I’m so proud of you. The way you go after what you want. You have such an adventurous spirit.”
“I get that from you.”
“I don’t know.” She looked pleased. “Maybe a little.”
We sat in silence looking up at the peaks visible in the distance beyond the red tile roofs of the town.
“It’s strange,” she said. “I had such vivid dreams about you right before I left to come here . . . about that night you put your hand through the shower door and you were bleeding and crying. . . .”
I looked at my feet. “That was bad,” I said quietly
.
“I was so scared for you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to say you’re sorry.”
“But I am sorry. I’m sorry I put you through that. And . . . I’m . . . I’m also sorry I moved in with Dad.” I couldn’t believe I had finally said those words.
“What? No.”
“I was so excited about California, you know? And I thought you would be happier without me; you’d have your freedom.”
“Let’s face it. I wasn’t exactly mother of the year.”
“You were, though.”
“I understood.”
“But it must have been really hard.”
She leaned into me and put her head against my shoulder. I put my arm around her. “It was. It was hard. Thank you.” She looked up at me and smiled.
We were both in tears.
“I’m just so happy,” she said. “I’m here with you now. I get to witness this.”
- - - -
Later that day, all forty-nine teams and their crews crowded into a stuffy school gymnasium in town where stone-faced race officials sat at a long table on the gym floor. Some of us were given headphones so we could hear a rough English translation of what was being said by the French-speaking organizers. When Patrick Brignoli, the race director, began to speak, the PA system squealed with feedback.
“Welcome to lovely and exciting Ecuador. This is the most difficult and the most beautiful course in Raid history. You will have a wonderful adventure, but it will be hard. You will suffer. You will have pain, but you will see beauty. You will give up on your body and then it will come back for you.”
He pointed at a map on an easel. The unmarked 593-kilometer—368-mile—course would trace a semicircle around Quito from the northern Andes to the Pacific. We would start at 13,100 feet and navigate our way on foot for two hundred kilometers, bushwhacking south through the páramo—high-altitude grassy plains just below the snow line. Then we would ride horses and run to snowcapped Mount Cotopaxi. After climbing the peak using ropes and ice axes, we’d head west through the cloud forest on mountain bikes. The final 151 kilometers would be on water—in rafts, canoes, and finally sea kayaks—through the tropical lowlands to the ocean.
Forty checkpoints would be along the way. At each one, we would have our team “passport” stamped. Miss a checkpoint and you were out of the race. Have one team member drop out and your whole team would be disqualified. Arrive at a transition point after the designated cutoff time and your team would be bumped from the official race. You would have the option to continue—but it would be purely for the experience.
“You will love this course as much as you hate it,” he said. “Now we must talk about the dangers. They are very real.”
A French doctor stood up to tell us what we might encounter. Through the static in the headphones, I heard “snakes, rabid dogs, alligators, pulmonary edema, leptospirosis, avalanches, currents, helicopter rescue, possible death . . .”
I looked at my mother and smiled. She smiled back. She hadn’t been given headphones.
Brignoli took the microphone again and began introducing each team by number. We were team #7, and when he got to us, he raised his hand for quiet. “This team from America would have been Michael Lucero’s team. Many of you knew and admired Michael. He was a good man; a strong competitor. He lost his life recently in a tragic auto accident. We would like to dedicate this race to him.”
The audience applauded and got to their feet. I felt all eyes upon me, straining to see who had replaced Michael. I knew that even if I had the best race possible, I could not begin to fill his shoes. But I would give it my best. More than a thousand AA meetings and dozens of marathons had taught me that I could control my effort but not the outcome. I would try to remember that when things got dicey.
- - - -
“Where’s my headlamp?” Tony said, alarmed. “Did someone take my headlamp?”
We were up before sunrise, getting set for the start. We all joined in the search for the missing light. Tony thought he might have left it in the truck, so we pulled everything out of it, but still no luck.
“Hey, Tony!” Scott called from the room the two had shared. “Come here. Does this look familiar?”
The headlamp was hanging from the doorknob in his room. Tony shook his head in disbelief.
We thought we were ready to go—until a button popped off my pants. I called my mother in from the courtyard and asked her if she could help. Then I sat on the bed in my underwear while she sewed the button back on.
“You know I’m not good at this.” She bit the thread in half with her teeth.
I laughed. “Just make it so my pants won’t fall down.”
She was almost finished when my entire team came through the door looking for me. They took in the scene and doubled over with laughter. I laughed, too, and knew they wouldn’t let me live this down.
We made it, at last, to the starting area on a grassy flank high on Cayambe, a cone-shaped peak topped with snow. Though the equatorial sun was bright, the morning air was frigid. I stamped my feet and blew on my hands, as much out of nervousness as cold. The French team next to us was laughing and smoking cigarettes and passing around a bottle of champagne. In the crowd of spectators—a mix of curious locals and team officials, media and crew members—I spotted my mother, with a camera hanging around her neck. Her pants were covered with mud. She must have fallen on the steep, slippery trail. I called to her but she didn’t hear me.
Two officials lifted flags—one for Ecuador and one for the Raid—to signal the start. We were off. Some of the teams took off at a full sprint as if they were running a 100-yard dash. Team Schwab fell in behind several groups moving at a saner pace. I tried to take in the scene so I would remember it forever; the high white peaks, the green farmland in the valley, the line of brightly clad runners moving through feathery yellow ichu grass. I was shoulder to shoulder with Scott and we looked at each other and grinned.
“We’re doing the Raid!” we said, and high-fived each other.
We made it to Checkpoint #1. It felt great to get that first passport stamp. Maybe this wouldn’t be so tough after all. Maybe Team Schwab would surprise everyone. We descended into ravines and then scrambled up the oddly spongy open scrublands.
Several teams were visible just ahead of us. Even so, Tony insisted we stop frequently so he could check the map. I felt slightly annoyed. Why stop when we had other teams in sight? We couldn’t all be going in the wrong direction, could we? Every time we stopped, the other teams got farther away—and I got more irritated.
By the time we got to CP #2, our beautiful day was gone. Clouds had rolled in, the temperature had dropped twenty degrees, and it had begun to rain. It was challenging enough to plot a course in fair weather; now, with visibility shot, we had real problems. Many hours—and many map-studying stops later—we stumbled into CP #3. While we were getting our passport stamped, an official told us that three racers had already dropped out—two with sprained ankles and the other with severe stomach problems. I could only imagine how bad it must feel for their race to end before it had even begun.
It was raining harder as we set off. We could see one team ahead of us on the ridgeline, but we would have to hustle if we wanted to keep them in sight. Tony called for another map check.
“Come on,” I snapped. “Let’s just catch up to the team in front of us and stick with them. It’s going to be dark soon.”
He glared at me. “I need to be sure that I know where we are so that I can make the right decisions.”
By the time we got moving again, the group ahead of us had disappeared. We were on our own. Fog rolled in as darkness fell. When we turned on our headlamps, the light bounced off white vapor.
“This way,” Tony said, and we followed him up a long rocky slope. We plodded along in silence, brea
thing hard in the thin air. Tony wanted to stop again. In the light of our headlamps, with rain pelting us, we watched him muttering to himself, turning the maps this way and that. I caught Steve’s eye. He knew what I knew, what I think we all knew—that less than twenty-four hours into the Raid Gauloises, we were freezing, we were wet, we were exhausted—and we were lost.
“That way.” Tony pointed into the swirling fog.
Over the next several hours, we passed the same rock formations three times—always from a different direction. We knew we had to be near CP #4 but had no idea how to find it. I imagined all of the other teams waltzing through the checkpoints and hearing about the American team who hadn’t even made it to CP #4. I thought about asking Michael Lucero for divine guidance, but then hoped he wasn’t watching.
According to the map, CP #4 was about five miles from CP #3; we’d probably already walked twenty trying to find it. After another hour of wandering in the cold rain, Nancy suggested that we set up the tent and try to get some rest until daylight. Tony grumbled a little, but finally agreed this was sensible.
We got out our lightweight and expensive “five-person” tent. It was the first time we’d set the thing up, and it looked laughably small. One by one, we crawled in. There was so little room by the time Scott squeezed in that his hips and legs were left sticking out of the tent. Of course, we hadn’t brought ground pads—no extra weight for the amazingly fleet Team Schwab!—so the floor was instantly wet and cold. Sleep was impossible. Steve couldn’t stop coughing. If one person needed to turn over, we all had to roll at the same time.
To see the first light of dawn was a relief. We wormed our way out of the tent, groaning and rubbing our necks. The fog had lifted a bit and we could actually see more than ten yards in front of us as we started walking again.
Nancy stopped abruptly and held up her hand. “Shhh.”
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