It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time
Reader Todd Strickland learns that ticks and poison oak aren’t the only things to deal with at the Ozark Greenways Adventure Race.
Reader Todd Strickland tells about battling the elements and his own emotions.
I entered my first adventure race in 2005 with my sister, her husband and my dad. Dad died six weeks prior to the race, but the rest of us competed anyway. It was maybe the most physically and emotionally demanding thing I’d ever done. Last year, my second race, the group I competed with did well. The emotional toll was minimal, although Dad’s memory was always in the background. To be expected, some tears came out at inappropriate times, but it doesn’t bother me to cry about it. I expected this year to be free from the surprise emotional outburst.
My team met for lunch the day before we left Springfield for the 2007 race. On my way to the restaurant, traffic forced my car to stop in front of a hospital. I watched a small SUV cut in front of traffic from the freeway. The driver had no regard for other vehicles or traffic laws, cutting across a no-turn zone and speeding up the emergency entrance to the hospital, clearly trying to get to a loved one inside. I remembered making a drive just like that about this time a couple of years ago, and I burst into tears. I made it through the next stop light, pulled into the restaurant parking lot and sobbed in my vehicle. It took a couple of minutes, but I finally got it under control.
Every year when I complete the race I tell myself it’ll probably be the last one I do. It’s so grueling. But I sign up again—even knowing the kind of punishment I’ll put myself through—and I think part of the reason I do it is because I know Dad would have pushed himself at least as hard as I do, and all in the name of fun.
Start of the Race
Race day begins at 5 a.m. with the race packet pick up. In the packet are jersey numbers, a vague map and slightly detailed instructions for the course. Groans and much head-shaking are accompanying the description portions of the course, which detail river crossings and bike trails. Everybody gears up with Camelbaks and bike equipment. Note: water stops are provided at several points on the course, but all food stuffs have to be carried, including many power bars and “Gu," a high-calorie, high-carb gel that has the consistency of snot and about the same taste. They do, however, act like go-juice, providing much needed energy and fuel. The nutritional content is crap, and the digestive byproduct is not pretty. All teams gather at the finish line for pre-race instructions: “Don’t litter, be careful, have fun.” Then the teams move to the adjacent road to wait for the 7 a.m. start.Two hundred seventy-six cyclists in various uniforms crowd the gravel road, trying to stay warm while waiting on the horn to blow. My team is milling about close to our companion teams, trading jokes and insults, excited and ready to begin. That translates to nervousness for the first-timers and an overwhelming urge to pee. Personally, I’m fighting the first stages of hypothermia. Spandex shorts and a form-fitting sleeveless jersey do little to contain the body heat seeping from me in the 45-degree shade. I keep moving to stay in the sun in a feeble attempt to stay warm. It’s about to get worse.
Bike: 2.9 Miles
The horn finally blows and everybody takes off. The pace is quick, as we ride downhill for three miles to the Niangua River. Forty-five degrees and a 25 mile-per-hour pace is literally bone chilling. I can’t feel my fingers, my nose is running, my eyes are watering, and I’m shivering uncontrollably, which makes steering my bike in the pack of riders difficult. Anne is doing well, as is Vee, but Mel is also cold. Fortunately the ride only lasts about 10 minutes. It’s 10 minutes in a blast freezer, but still only 10 minutes. I survive with all my fingers. We reach the parking area next to the river, drop the bikes and helmets, and take off running back up the road.Run: 9.1 Miles
This is a team event, so naturally the first thing that happens is my team stretches out over 100 yards, with Vanessa leading the pack, Mel wandering about the middle, and Anne shuffling her feet in the back. I actually ask Anne if she stubbed her toe, the shuffling is so pronounced. No stubbing—this is her actual gait. The farther we go, the larger the gap becomes between the fastest and slowest members of my team. The “team concept” has yet to be fully absorbed by the individual members of the team. I spend a portion of the first four miles running back and forth, encouraging the slow to speed up and the fast to slow down, until finally we’re all running in fairly close proximity.After 4.1 miles, the run brings us back around to the Niangua at a different section than where we began. As we near the river, each team member is given tokens that we are to carry with us through the rest of the run. Like we’re going to cheat. (Actually they’re golf tees, but I don’t think the organizers really play golf. I think they just like the little pointy sticks.) My stomach is in knots, as we walk up to the river. It’s easily 30 yards across, the water is high, and the current is strong. A climbing rope has been strung across the water, and racers are side-by-side crossing the river, hanging onto the rope. At the far side, I see a single-file line of people moving up a sheer bluff wall, scrambling up a muddy slope. We all wade into the water, me last, and begin crossing. It’s slow, only as fast as the line can climb the bluff, so we spend what seems like 10 minutes standing, moving and then standing again in the middle of the Niangua. At one point the water is waist-deep, and it’s a struggle simply to stand while hanging on to the rope. Portions of my anatomy have now shrunk and retracted back into my body. I’m cold.
We make it across and begin our 200-foot vertical climb. There are no ropes but enough small trees and scrub to provide grip. We finally reach the top, muddy and wet, and continue our run. All of us suck down some Gu, drink from our Camelbaks and finish running the rest of the nine miles, sans mishap. As we approach the river, we see a team walking up and down the road and frantically searching the ground. Apparently one of the teammates dropped a token (Remember? The golf tees…), and you can’t proceed without it. We pass them on the way to the water.
Three Miles of River
The course description had read, in bold letters, that we were to get our paddles and one vessel per team. What the hell is a vessel? We speculated that the idea of four people in a canoe wasn’t feasible, and we were right. Lined by the waters edge were a number of inflated rafts. We handed over our tokens, grabbed our paddles, drug the raft into the water and promptly headed down the river. Sideways. We finally got a semblance of a paddling rhythm going and began to make progress. Anne turned to me and said: “You know, I’m really glad I’m doing this. I’m really having a great time.” It was pretty much a downhill slide from there.The river was a brief moment to catch our breath except for, you know, the whole paddling thing. Fifty-six minutes of constant stroking gave us the opportunity to bring a whole new set of muscles into the pain equation. Neck, shoulders and arms: They all got to join in on the fun.
A little after 10 a.m., the first hints of frustration are beginning to creep in. The paddling is not going overly smoothly, and Anne and I, in the rear, are mildly annoyed with the antics of Vee and Mel. An inordinate amount of time seems to be spent looking for turtles, and Vanessa has a penchant for carrying her paddle stroke too far resulting in Anne and I getting repeatedly splashed. But nobody flips their lids, goes postal or loses their cool. Of course, the day is still young.
Mystery Event
The past two years have had “mystery events” that consisted of throwing a Frisbee through a target, carrying a teammate through an obstacle course and all team members together carrying a single ping-pong ball with straws. The funny thing about Mystery Events is that you can’t train for them. For a team like ours, it’s not that big a deal. For the super competitive teams, mystery events can be hell. A sponsored team that trains year-round all of sudden finds themselves at the mercy of a fickle wind and a Dollar Store Frisbee. I’ve seen more than one team break down into tears. This year, it’s not so tough. One racer dribbles a soccer ball up and back through traffic cones, then two teammates dribble the ball back and forth, up and back. Finally, the fourth teammate weaves through the cones and kicks the ball through a goal. We complete the task with minimal confusion.Orienteering
There are three flags labeled A, B and C hung at different, hidden points in the forest. The officials provide us a topographical map with the flags marked on the map. Our job is the figure out where we are on the map, plot a course towards the flags in a specific order, and collect a sticker hanging beneath each flag which we then place on the back of our map in the designated order.Following a compass heading is not our strong point, but we know how it’s supposed to work. In theory, that is. Anne and I study the map, make a good guess and take off with the other two in tow.
Another side note: Injuries were beginning to take their toll. Both Vanessa and Mel had knees that were acting up, and Mel’s knee was complaining about the climbing and sliding through the woods. Vanessa was wearing a knee brace. She took it off and gave it to Mel, providing a small amount of relief.
Traveling through the woods consisted of scrambling over fallen trees, sliding down ravines and climbing back up, literally on hands and knees. Okay, not so much for me, the monkey boy, but I’m an exception to the rule. Everybody else spent a large portion of their time on their behinds, trying not to fall to the bottom of the hill. This was aggravated by the poison oak and ticks, which by this time had become superfluous. We’d applied heavy duty bug repellent early in the morning, but wading across the river and our time in the raft may have washed it off. It was supposed to be water-resistant, but who knows. And the poison stuff was so thick that we stopped looking for it and just trudged on in, trusting in our cleansing stuff to take it off afterwards. We finally finish and walk the last mile to our check-in station. Whatever momentum and good spirits we had started the day with have diminished significantly.
Bike: 8.4 Miles
We’re at river-level when we leave the orienteering section, and we’re riding to a shooting range eight-and-a-half miles away, also located in a valley. We’ve got to climb up to the top of the hill range and ride up and down before coming back down to the shooting area for our next section. We all start out together, but it’s obvious that Mel is not doing well. Anne isn’t either for that matter, but hers is more a matter of whining and complaining than injury, and Mel is having issues with hills. So at the first big hill we come to climbing out of the valley, I stop and tie our two bikes together with surgical tubing. It’s perfect for towing, strong enough not to break but with enough give to absorb any sudden stops. Off we go, me pedaling madly with Mel in tow, Anne and Vanessa somewhere behind me. It’s soon obvious that Mel is doing little to nothing, and probably enjoying it. She says she’s pedaling, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it. Anne and Vee are somewhere behind us, nowhere to be seen. Some time later, we all reach the top, and I send the three of them on while I catch my breath, chat, and stow the tubing.When I catch up, Anne and Mel are riding ahead with Vanessa a little behind. I pull up to Vanessa, who begins to make crying-face gestures and pointing at Anne. Geez, what now? It’s hard to whisper on bikes, so we drop back a little where Vanessa tells me that Anne has been crying since we left the orienteering. Is she hurt? Nope, just having a meltdown. She’s tired and ready to be done. I ride up and try to get her mind off of it, in my best cheery, supportive, encouraging manner. I fail miserably, so I fall back and let her ride by herself. We continue on in this manner until we reach the shooting range where our next two segments begin.
Technical Run: 3.78 Miles
We coast into the range parking lot to be greeted by a large number of teams and organizers. We start across a pasture surrounded by wooded hills and run into a number of teams returning from their run. One racer gives us a pointer on which path we should take that leads up and away from the beaten trail, and we take his advice. I again tie Mel to my Camelbak to provide some locomotion to her walk as she hobbles behind me. Vanessa is also limping, while Anne is complaining that she’s tired. Vanessa has resorted to towing Anne with the surgical tubing, and they are steadily falling behind Mel and me. Happy, happy, joy, joy.We’re now more than eight hours into this endeavor, somewhere about 3:30 in the afternoon. Mel seems to be doing mostly okay on level ground, but hills are killing her, and Vanessa isn’t much better. We’ve made our ascent, navigated the trails and are headed back down when Mel and Vee both begin to falter. They simply can’t walk downhill. Vanessa is using a walking stick, and Mel is hobbling along with one leg held out straight to the side. She’s worked her gait into a parody of a vaudeville stage act, and it’s funny as hell. Everybody is getting a little slap happy except for Anne, who continues to break into sporadic moments of sobbing. We make it back to the shooting range, ready for the final segment before heading back to the finish line. Overall spirits are still high despite Anne’s ongoing emotional instability.
Technical Bike: 12 Miles
We gear back up for our ride, thankful to be pedaling instead of walking. The path gets technical, but not too difficult. Tempers are beginning to run a little short, including mine. Vanessa has started questioning my directions, asking if we’ve passed a turn after every side path is passed. When I stop and turn to be angry about it, we all stop, and I hear Mel cry out. She tried to put her foot down and her knee gave way, dropping her to the ground. I run back to where she’s huddled on the ground, and we all gather around her as she cries. It makes me sick to my stomach to see her cry. My only goals were to finish the race, have a good time and have nobody get hurt, and this is killing me. We wait a good 10 minutes discussing our options. After a mildly snappish debate, Mel insists that she can make it back to the shooting range under her own power. If we lose only one team member we can still qualify as a Partial Finish, and our times will be recorded. If one of us goes back with her, then we might as well all go back. We watched Mel head back to the range, and after a couple of slightly heated words between Vanessa and I regarding directions, we took off.Farther down the trail, I heard a crash behind me and turned to see Vanessa hit the ground with her bike on top of her. We’ve ridden together enough that I don’t run back unless she asks for it, so I watch her climb back up, wipe the grime off her legs and take off again. I can see open wounds and some blood on her legs, but she doesn’t complain. As the ride progresses we refer to her crash as the “stop, drop and roll” maneuver.
We made it out of the woods and pulled into a parking area where we were supposed to meet a race official and get more tokens (golf tees). We found the parking lot and saw an old Honda Accord, but no race official. By this time, we’re about 10 hours in and aren’t taking “no” for an answer. I whistle and yell, thinking the guy is taking a leak in the woods somewhere. No answer. Finally I catch somebody peeking around a tree down the path we’re about to take. I yell at him and take off, much like a guy stranded on a desert island that finally spots the rescue plane. It’s the race official. I ask extremely politely for our tokens, which he hands out.
We’re now getting short on time. The cutoff for the technical bike portion is 6 p.m., and we’re cutting it close. It doesn’t help that my trip computer on my bike has somehow been reset, and my mileage is off. The directions on the course description are vague and slightly misleading at best, and the six of us are now riding down a gravel road with no idea which direction to go. Vanessa spots a pickup coming towards us and flags it down, asking for directions to the shooting range. They couldn’t provide specifics, put did point in the general direction that we’d just come from. I make a command decision, and we head back the way we came. I tell the girls that I’m either all right, or all wrong, but there isn’t going to be a second chance to get this one right. We’re down to 15 minutes before the cutoff, and I’m not optimistic.
We crest the hill, and I recognize where we are. It’s less than two miles from the checkpoint. We rolled into camp with four minutes to spare.
Mel is still at the shooting range when we get there, nursing her knee and enjoying a cold drink. I don’t see it, but Vanessa is crying as we pull into the parking lot, and Mel catches up to her. I’m over giving Anne a hug and chatting with our Confucius-speaking trail advisor. I walk back over to give Vanessa a hug, and she starts sobbing on my shoulder. She’s in pain, but not her knee. We’ve been wet for the past 7 hours, and our shoes and bike shorts were also still wet, including the chamois pad in the shorts. A 2-mile sprint had severely chapped her already raw backside, and it was excruciatingly painful to walk, much less sit in the saddle. She was afraid her butt cheeks were blistered, and asked me to go behind the port-a-potty and look. I’ve done a lot of things for a lot of people in the name of competition, but squatting there in the gravel examining Vanessa’s butt pretty much sets the standard. Whatever. I’m here for the team. We determine that there’s no blistering, just horribly chapped skin, rubbed raw by the wet chamois and terrain we’d covered so quickly
Bike To Finish: 8.5 Miles
We leave the shooting range and immediately have a hellish hill to climb. I could climb it, but Anne couldn’t. So everybody, including a dozen other racers around us, climbed off their bikes. I took my bike and Vanessa’s bike, she and Anne took turns with hers, and we pushed bikes uphill. The ride back was non-eventful, other than Vanessa occasionally crying out in pain, Anne breaking out in tears, and me telling Anne to suck it up and pedal. It took us an hour-and-a-half to ride 8.5 miles, which on any other day would have been done in well less than an hour.As we neared the finish line we could hear music and people. We actually had to ride past the finish line, then turn around and come back. Our team is announced as we turn the corner: “Team Good Odds is showing good form as they round the horn.” We lay our bikes down and trot across the finish line. Anne has two friends waiting for her, and she falls into their arms and bursts into tears: “It was the most horrible experience of my life,” she sobs.
I pull her away from her friends, and we stand in front of the banner long enough to get our pictures taken. The before- and after-photos show a dramatic difference. Before: Pumped, hyped and smiling. After: Vanessa looks to be in pain, I look emaciated and Anne is obviously crying. We drag Mel over for a second photo with all four of us. She looks great, rested and holding a beer.
We checked with race officials to see how other teams were doing, and there were a number of injuries and accidents, most minor. There were two, however, that were a little more serious. One woman fell on the Technical Ride and fractured her arm, but she completed the ride nonetheless. Another woman took a bad spill on a downhill run, breaking a hip, and had to be Life-Flighted out to the hospital. So in the grand scheme of things we finished relatively unscathed. Even with all of the pain, we had a fantastic time working together and seeing how hard we could push ourselves.
Todd Strickland, 40, has worked for Carol Jones Realtors for seven years. He lives in Springfield and considers himself a cyclist, competing in several 100-mile races a year.
