The Road to Reality

by Dianne Burnett

  As the Raid drew near, we made our final preparations. Each of us had to get costly shots to guard against tetanus, hepatitis A and B, malaria, rabies, cholera, encephalitis, and dengue fever. The Raid rules required that we send letters to family members, telling them what we were about to undertake and exactly where we would be. We also had to sign our lives away in a lengthy 50-page document that released organizers from all liability.

  At the airport, we met up with Brian Terkelsen, the team’s logistics man, who was busy organizing the camping supplies, cooking stoves, Ziploc bags, dry food, and hiking shoes. We’d already shipped over our bikes, paying thousands of dollars in fees. It was a massive undertaking.

  En route to Oman, we stopped in Egypt. Our first night in Cairo we took in the pyramids at sunset, a wondrous hour to marvel at the creations of the ancients. There we stood, in utter awe at the giant formations built thousands of years ago. It was impossible not to wonder, How did they design these? How did they build them? What was their purpose? Nothing I’d ever seen in my life compared to the magnificence in front of me.

  When the laser show started, Mark pulled me close, whispering the words of “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You” in my ear. We slow-danced in the moonlight, gazing into one another’s eyes. In the midst of a hundred other tourists, we were alone in our bubble as a spectacular light show was projected onto the monuments.

  As the crowd was dispersing, a man approached us.

  “Are you Americans?”

  We nodded.

  “Would you like to go for a climb?” (And let me take advantage of some dumb tourists!)

  “Sure!” Mark said.

  The guide escorted Brian, Mark, and me to the base of the pyramid, where we met two men with machine guns! For a young woman from Long Island on her first night in the Middle East, this was terrifying, but exciting nonetheless. Here I was, in an unfamiliar land, already breaking the law, trespassing on an international historic preservation site, and being escorted by men with automatic weapons.

  “More money for them,” said our guide, gesturing in the direction of the two men. How could we refuse? Mark paid both of the armed men, and we were given the okay to scale the Great Pyramid of Giza. After this adventure, I felt like I was ready to hang out with Ali Baba and the 40 thieves.

  It was night, and everything was pitch black. We climbed one block at a time, and I couldn’t bear to look down as we ascended. Since I hadn’t anticipated climbing that night, I wasn’t dressed for the occasion. My jacket kept getting caught in the cracks, my scarf was making me trip, and my loafers kept slipping on the aged stone. I kept reminding myself, This might be the only time you’ll have the opportunity to scale a pyramid!

  We reached the top of the pyramid against the backdrop of a billion stars glowing in the night sky. How did I get here?

  We carefully made our way back to the ground, with me slipping down almost every step. Upon completing our descent, the guide asked if we wanted to crawl underneath the pyramids to the tombs where the pharaohs were buried.

  “You guys go ahead,” I said. “I’ll stay here. Somebody needs to know you’re down there.”

  “Why don’t you go with them?” asked the so-called tour guide.

  Because you’re probably going to trap my husband and his friend in the bowels of the pyramid, I thought. Having watched a few too many movies, I was convinced that he’d lure them down the narrow tunnel, promising they would see buried pharaohs, only to slam shut the three-foot-thick cement secret door, closing them in forever, enabling him to steal their passports and Discover cards.

  At the entryway, I held the flashlight as the two thrill seekers slithered along the floor of the tombs in the dark of night. Fortunately, they survived to tell the tale. But I didn’t regret missing the experience. The next day, I wrote in my journal:

  November 29, 1992

  It’s our five-month wedding anniversary, and we’re really getting places: specifically, we are lying in bed in Cairo, Egypt. Mark has been training for the Raid Gauloises for almost a year, and today we’re flying to Oman, where the race will begin in a week. Looking back on the past few months, I am very proud of Mark. When he’s motivated, nothing can stop him! Being married to him certainly isn’t boring!

  Flying into Oman, we gazed down over vast expanses of desert broken up with dramatic mountains, dotted with palm-fringed oases, and edged by cliffs. The terrain looked so foreign that it might as well have been a different planet. The capital, Muscat, where we landed, still retained a medieval air; the cannons that until the 1970s guarded it in front, dated back centuries to the days when it was a Portuguese port. Nomadic Bedouins camped out in the arid interior, racing camels for fun, and the ruler—Sultan Qaboos—is famous for his annual trek across the land to meet his people.

  Upon arrival, we spotted Gerard and Nelly Fusil amid the crowds of men in white robes and turbans. They greeted us with the traditional Omani greeting: “Tasharrafna”—meaning “Nice to meet you.” All eyes were on Team American Pride, since we were the first all-U.S. team—and reporters from back home had flown in to cover the event.

  We spent the first few days living in the army barracks with the rest of the teams, acclimating to the environment, wandering the souk (the market), and taking in the old-style wood boats that had once hauled trunks of frankincense, dates, and pearls to the Far East. We sampled balaleet—a popular breakfast dish of sweet vermicelli with egg, onion, and cinnamon; along with macboos—slow-cooked meat and rice with onion, spices, and dried limes—as well as cardamon-infused yogurt drinks. We also practiced riding on camels through ancient villages.

  Even though we tried to relax, Mark and the team were anxious. All their hard training was going to be put to the test.

  The day before the event began, we moved from the army barracks to our race quarters—tents pitched in the desert. Seventy-five teams, each with five people, were milling about with their assistants. Camping out under the stars with a few hundred people may sound exciting, but one important thing was missing: toilets. The absence of that luxury had a very unsightly consequence: there were piles of poop everywhere, littering the beautiful landscape.

  As the race approached, Mark was tense, carefully studying the maps. The evening before the race, he stayed behind to study the topography, while I went with the rest of the team to visit a 15th-century fort high up in the mountains. Afterward, we ate couscous and listened to Omani music.

  That night, Mark and I slept together in a two-man tent. However, Owen, the tough New Zealander, crawled right in between and cuddled up with us. All night, I was restless, looking over at Mark, and praying that he and the team made it through the ordeal before them without getting hurt. The next morning, we were up before dawn, piling onto a bus at 4 o’clock.

  The opening ceremonies that morning were grand in scale, with rose petals everywhere, and musicians played indigenous music against the backdrop of a stone castle as old as Jesus. All the teams gathered in a field as local women appeared, bearing huge baskets of fruit on their heads. Hordes of international media gathered at the starting line, where horses were running wild. For the beginning of the race, you actually had to catch your own horse!

  At 7 A.M., the gunshot went off. The competitors raced across the sand toward the wild horses. I was looking for a big horse among the bucking broncos, but Mark had other ideas. “I’ll take that one!” he said, pointing at a miniature baby horse. Mark reasoned that if something happened and he fell off, at least he would be low to the ground. It was hilarious, if disconcerting, to see Mark, clad in hot-pink shorts, atop this tiny horse. Owen couldn’t believe it, and kept saying, “Oh jeez, give me a break!”

  The team shot off on the first leg of their two-week adventure—a 20-mile horse race, which would be followed by a 50-mile trek through the mountains. They would later kayak along the Persian Gulf, then climb up mountains, rappel down cliffs, and finish with a camel race across the broiling desert sands. Two assistants
in a Land Cruiser followed behind Team American Pride: logistics man Brian, in charge of supplies, and counselor Leslie Pam, whom we’d asked along to help keep the team’s morale high. Spouses of the competitors could also follow along and meet up with the racers at various spots along the way.

  When the team took off, I felt uneasy, and not just because Mark was already lagging behind on his midget horse, which a race official told me had not yet been “broken.” I was the only Western woman left at the camp, except for Leslie’s wife, Ann.

  Despite all their training, the team didn’t get off to great start—particularly as one horse refused to be ridden and had to be dragged along. Team American Pride took seven hours to make it 20 miles, coming in among the last of the competitors. From that rough beginning, they faced a roped ascent up waterfalls.

  While they were slogging it out, Brian and I ventured off on our own expedition. Hidden inside a beautiful grotto was a lagoon of startlingly blue water. The dome was 100 feet overhead, and a thin ray of sunlight shined through, glistening on the water. It was gorgeous. What Brian had failed to mention was that to explore the cave, you needed to swim underwater through a narrow passageway between two rocks. When I was a kid, my sisters and I used to have contests in the pool to see who could hold our breath the longest. I could swim one length of the pool without coming up for air. That was about 40 feet. The length of this passageway was much longer. Maybe I could do this?

  “Dianne,” Brian said, assessing my outfit—a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. “You’d better take off those jeans or they’ll weigh you down. You’ll need all your energy to swim underwater.” I stripped off the Levi’s, and Brian led the way. I took a deep breath, and began pushing along underwater, breaststroke by breaststroke, thinking, When the hell is this going to end?! I felt like Shelley Winters in The Poseidon Adventure (minus 100 pounds). Unfortunately, in the movie, she drowns. If I’d been wearing my jeans, I might have met a similar fate.

  On the second day of the race, the team came in for a rest before heading out on kayaks. At this point, we were able to meet up with them.

  Mark was getting together the kayaks just before dawn, already feeling exhausted, sick with a fever and a sore throat, and delirious from fatigue. I snuck up from behind and embraced him.

  That was the moment I was at my lowest low, he later wrote in a letter to me. Then you came up and gave me a hug, and it gave me the will to want to go on. He had no idea we’d be there at the checkpoint, so my appearance was a big morale booster. Unfortunately, things only got worse for Mark and the team during the kayaking leg.

  Just after the team set off in the kayaks, the skies grew black, the winds whipped fiercely, and an ominous storm blew up. Ann and I, worried that the team was kayaking in those conditions, found a driver to take us to meet them at the next checkpoint. We drove for what seemed like hours, only to find ourselves outside of a little village of straw-and-clay huts in the middle of the desert. The inhabitants appeared to be only men; we didn’t see any women or children. The driver stopped the car abruptly.

  “You two, out here!” he said.

  “What do you mean, ‘out here’!?” shrieked Ann, echoing my sentiments exactly.

  “Stay here. I go, find someone.”

  Ann and I looked at each other. “I come back,” continued the driver. “You stay.”

  We stepped out of the car and onto the deserted road. The car took off.

  “Great,” I said, looking around at our desolate surroundings. “Now we’re going to be abducted and sold as slaves.”

  Ann looked at me, panicked. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I wasn’t. I’d seen the Harrison Ford movie Frantic and on the movie screen in my mind, we were starring in the sequel.

  Eventually, the driver returned and drove us along the shore, where we uncovered the latest saga of the race and actually rescued one of the victims. The teams had traveled along the Persian Gulf under dangerous conditions, their kayaks being knocked around like toothpicks in 20-foot waves. The others were teamed up, but Owen was in a kayak by himself. Owen had a strong, athletic build; however, mentally, emotionally, and physically, he had reached his limits. As the winds grew stronger, he refused to paddle farther. He insisted that the entire team head for shore to wait out the storm. Mark, however, believed that going to shore would be equally dangerous. Even though Team American Pride was far behind, Mark wanted to keep the team together and at least finish the race. Owen disagreed, and paddled alone to the shore, thus disqualifying the entire team, since the most important rule was that the competitors had to stay united and conquer their challenges as a group.

  What’s more, Owen had disappeared. When Ann and I finally found him, sleeping by a rock on the shore, he was delirious. We pulled him into the car; at the main camp, all the journalists ran over to us when we arrived with the MIA competitor. Hours later, the rest of the team came in. Everyone was visibly upset and screaming at Owen.

  “We could have finished!” Mark lamented. I’d never seen him look more morose. But Team American Pride wasn’t finished: Mark vowed that he’d return with a new team the following year.

  Mark was still glum when we left Oman and headed off to see his parents in England. Our plan was to then celebrate the new year in Paris. But we’d learned something valuable that would become a key component in Survivor. Being fit wasn’t enough to succeed in endurance races. You had to put together compatible teams that could work together as one. It was something that Mark and I did extraordinarily well.

  Chapter Seven

  SWEET BABY JAMES

  Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure.

  Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.

  —Helen Keller

  I KNEW SOMETHING WAS up when I almost projectile vomited on the Mona Lisa. The Da Vinci painting was the very reason Mark and I had waded through the throngs of tourists at the Louvre that day in early January 1993. Just as we approached the faintly-smiling lady, my stomach announced that it was going to erupt. Fearing I was about to add a personal touch to the masterpiece, I hastily bid adieu to the portrait I hadn’t had time to see, and ran to les toilettes.

  I’d been feeling dodgy off and on since we’d left Oman three weeks before; over the Christmas holidays in England with Mark’s family, I’d spent half my time in bed. By the time we landed in “The City of Light” to celebrate the new year, I thought I was fine, until that day at the Louvre, when my mystery ailment struck again. I was still feeling dicey back in our hotel room, so Mark rushed to a pharmacy.

  The good news was conveyed via two lines on a thin paper strip: I was with child. We snapped a picture of the pregnancy test to commemorate the moment. On the heels of our intense and wonderful journey to Oman, to be there in Paris with the man I adored, knowing that we would soon be three was one of the pinnacles of my life, and I’d never seen Mark so elated. “Are you a baby girl or a baby boy?” he asked my stomach.

  On the flight back to Los Angeles, Mark kept talking about putting together a new team to compete in next year’s Raid in Madagascar. I kept thinking of our family-on-the-way, and fell asleep musing about self-help guru Tony Robbins: his Law of Attraction theory apparently worked.

  Over the previous summer, while preparing for the Raid, we devoured reading material to get us psyched up for the Oman adventure. Joseph Campbell’s Transformations of Myth Through Time, M. Scott Peck’s The Road Less Traveled, and Claude M. Bristol’s The Magic of Believing were all quite motivational. Books by Tony Robbins, who’d turned positive thinking into a lifestyle, also provided great inspiration. Seeing that Tony Robbins was coming to Orange County to present a seminar called “Unleash the Power Within,” we signed right up.

  Tony quickly transformed a seminar in an auditorium into a primal gathering, with people shouting out loud. The climax was walking on hot coals—a metaphor for overcoming limiting fears and beliefs. In the hours leading up to the fire walk, which Tony alluded
to throughout his speech, we all felt anxious.

  “Are you really going to do it?” Mark asked, as drums began beating in the outer courtyard. I wasn’t sure, as my heart was pounding and I had butterflies in my stomach.

  Accompanied by the resonant tribal rhythms, Tony put everyone into a trance of sorts. As the drumming reached a crescendo, we all felt connected on a higher level of consciousness. When the moment came, I found the courage and walked across 1,000 degrees of skin-searing heat, as the crowd around me chanted, “Yes, yes, yes!”

  The fire walk—a symbol for conquering one’s fear of the unknown—was dramatic and empowering, but Tony’s ideas proved even more influential, particularly his concept “The Law of Attraction.” He said that the energy we put out into the world, positive or negative, attracted the same energy back to us—an idea later echoed in the bestseller The Secret, by Rhonda Byrne.

  Tony encouraged us to incorporate this concept into our daily lives by writing down the one thing that was most important for us to achieve, then posting these pieces of paper around the house as reminders of what we wanted to attract. Mark wrote “more money.” I wrote “family.” Six months later, we were on our way to manifesting both desires.

  By the time we returned to California, I was already three months pregnant. We moved out of our Santa Monica apartment into a quaint house in Topanga Canyon, just 15 miles from the city. A rustic, sparsely-populated community nestled in the mountains and enveloped by forests, Topanga became famous in the 1960s when city dwellers began getting back to nature: a nudist colony opened in the wooded hills, hippies set up communes, and well-known musicians—Jim Morrison, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Van Morrison, and Mick Fleetwood among them—flocked to the wilderness. Decades later, the community of 9,000 residents was still known for its bohemian flavor and hippie restaurants; the natural surroundings remained largely undisturbed.