2001 Mojave Deathrace

2001 Mojave Deathrace

JUNE 9/10 2001

Welcome to our Millennium Race, we hope you survive it!  This is not another pretty 5 or 10 K race on Sunday morning at the beach.   If you and your team-mates are not up to an Adventurous & Hazardous Endurance Team Challenge then go to the beach and collect seashells.

Most athletes that take on this challenging event will have more war stories and adventures to talk about than they have friends who will listen!

We’re gonna test you to see if you’re a challenger or a wannabe!
If you enter the race and don’t survive, don’t expect us to come looking for you.

We’ve heard about a lone telephone booth in the desert someplace.
Find it and call your mommy to come get you!

Heck, if you go out in some spectacular fashion you might get an honorable mention here on the web page…… maybe.

Warning!

Cramps, Needles, IV’s, Ambulance rides, Helicopters rides and BIG Medical bills,
More Bills, Bruised egos, Terrible record times, and even Death!!!!

These can be yours if you do not drink enough WATER. The desert is as magnificent as it is brutal. Each person should be drinking water hours before you participate. Drink 1 quart of water each 1/2 hour, 5 hours before you receive tap-off. Any less and you might be drinking it through a needle!

This is not a nice friendly 5K or 10K early some Sunday morning at 8:00 o’clock. Also the idea that you are not competing until late in the evening or early morning at 2:30 am doesn’t exempt anyone. The desert doesn’t care. The air is dry 24 hours a day. Ever heard of freeze dried bodies laying along a lonely desert road?

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Looking to exorcise demons from a recent and dramatic run across Vietnam, the urge for an adrenaline fix has once again come a-knocking. Recognizing cold as my nemesis, I’ve been scouring the globe for an adventure race in a country that packs heat; the above ad is the magnet grabbing my attention!

The Mojave Death Race is the brain-child of Ron Cooke, a California Federal Marshall with a somewhat twisted sense of humour. Ron devised this unique and challenging race of 12 person teams for a tortuous run and bike relay across the Mojave Desert. Oh yes; and it takes place in the middle of summer!

The course used to be 402 kilometers, but as if that wasn’t difficult enough, this year devilish Ron decided to increase the total race distance to a brutal 455 kilometers, perhaps attempting to have the race live up to its name. The course begins in Primm Nevada and continues on through Southern California.

Twenty seven teams are entered in the race, and ours is a mixed team with most members accomplished endurance athletes including marathon and ultra-marathon runners, Ironman Triathletes, ex-pro cycling champion, etcetera. In order to sort out the logistics of this demanding race three vehicles are required; a motor-home, a van, and a four-wheel drive for support and gear (SAG) for the off-road areas.

At the frailest light of day the crack of a starting pistol punctures the still air. Pitter patter let’s get at ‘er!  Exuberant runners unleash pent up vim and vigor and lope off into the expanse of nothingness as onlookers simply shake their heads like we’re all collectively insane; a not unreasonable diagnosis under the circumstances, I have to admit!

Our slowest runner is the first to go and puts us far behind the other teams. The second stage of the race is run by Ivan Steber; a National Disabled Cycling champion, marathoner, and Ironman finisher. Not too shabby considering he has only one leg! Half way through Ivan’s run his prosthetic leg is bothering him, so he removes it and throws it to me, while another team-mate finds his replacement leg in the van. Yikes, what an odd sensation to be holding onto a person’s leg while he runs away to finish his ‘leg’ of the race!

During stage four, cyclist Carl has a wipeout on his bike, but fortunately he bounces up off the dirt with everything intact except his pride. Riding his guts out through the rest of the stage to make up for lost (and found) ground, he then treats us to a show of projectile vomiting at the finish. Good ride amigo!

On the next stage Dave Molinaro, another Ironman, is cycling at break neck speed when he hits a sandy patch on the dirt road and launches himself over the handlebars into the desert air. Picking himself up, he spots a lizard pulling a wheelie by fleeing away from him with extreme urgency on only its hind legs.  The dusty desert dweller is obviously scared to death, having never before been exposed to the intrusion of a flying human in his bleak and barren surroundings.

Dave’s encounter reminds me of the early eighties, when Christine and I spooked an appropriately named ‘Jesus Christ’ lizard while canoeing in Costa Rica. Looking like a bright green alien, the lizard launched from a bank into the river and literally ran on its hind legs across the surface of the water. To me, lizards with an aptitude to turn biped and run upright on only their back legs look spectacularly hilarious!

It’s now 12:35 pm, and with the sun suffocating like a python on prey, it’s time for me to get my fit together! This isolated 17 km stretch of the Devil’s back yard is acknowledged as one of the most formidable stages of the race due to pedestrian-hostile terrain resembling a gargantuan litter box. With only the occasional cactus or tumbleweed the surrounds are anything but exotic, and I’m convinced that being the only Canadian on the team has something to do with me getting assigned this stage of the race!

Doing its utmost to incinerate runners, the merciless sun is shining its ass off, with temperatures north of 100 degrees. A lungful of the parched desert air instantly sucks the moisture from my mouth, reminding me that running shade-less miles of cacti-cluttered desert with stamina-stealing sand stymying my stride, is simply further proof that sand should remain quarantined at a beach where it belongs!

Breathing is a chore. Sweating is not. It’s hot enough to fry a scorpion, but I refuse to be bullied into surrender by the jalapeño heat and try to recall my drastically contrasting Skagway to Whitehorse run; even though that was Alaska, and this is not! I’m jolted back to the present by the wailing siren of a four wheel drive ambulance up ahead, as the merciless Mojave has claimed another victim.

Running through the sand with eyes my slitted against the sun I’m undeniably out of my element and it feels as if I’m swimming against the tide. Finally my eyes find the team’s motor-home in the transition area and I am exhilarated to have my difficult first challenge over.

Our team has climbed up from last place after stage one to the middle of the field, and at 8 p.m. it’s still hot as Hades, with the thermometer reading 101 degrees! One of our riders named Carlos is literally going batty in the dark. A strong light on his cycling helmet attracts a multitude of bugs, which in turn provide dinner for the clouds of bats continually dive-bombing him. The hunt for the front continues.

Race director Ron drops by, informing us that so far four competitors have been taken to hospital, three with heatstroke and one with a broken collar bone. He also tells us that many others are in the hurt locker, suffering from the mighty Mojave’s mugging. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but I swear I can hear shreds of demented glee in his voice!

My second run of the day is a 10 km stretch, and though feeling mentally limp from all the day’s activities, the run must go on. As the SAG vehicle follows to illuminate the road ahead for me, it feels like I’m shackled in invisible leg irons due to the numbers. In my mind I’m still 29, but my back is 53, my knees are 62, and my left hip turns 74 next week!

Thirty meters from the transition area I hear Rob scream ‘SNAKE’ from the SAG vehicle. At the same time I too see it, belly-slithering across the road in front of me. With an adrenaline-fueled effort that would shame a Maasai tribesman, I leap over it and sprint to the finish like a cheetah on the chase; grateful not to require the services of a toxicologist! Teammates all enjoy a good chuckle at my hiss-terical encounter.

It seems I am not the only one with snake issues. Dave, who crashed during an earlier stage, acquires a flat tire in the thorny terrain, and while repairing it he spots a rattlesnake loitering with ill intentions. Eager to avoid venom in his veins Dave heeds its warning rattle and hastily relocates to finish up the repair of his punctured tire.

There are no major problems for the team, and things seem to be under control; that is until we get within the last two stages of the race. The driver of the motor-home (don’t worry Dave I won’t mention any names) makes a wrong turn on one of the barren dirt roads.

Dissolving into sand, the road turns into nothing more than a narrow nowhere and leaves us no choice but to go back. However, in trying to turn the 29 foot rig around it gets badly stuck in soft sand. All six of us begin scooping sand from beneath the tires and replacing it with rocks, but unfortunately this is to no avail and only buries the rig further.

Teammate Tom Reid (the ‘Tominator’), is a hulking California Sheriff who knows his way around cars, and suggests we try placing a blanket under the wheels for traction. This sounds like a good plan, except for one important thing; we’re in the Mojave Desert in the middle of summer, and we don’t have any damn blankets! Grabbing all the bedsheets from the motorhome we wedge them under the tires, but this attempt is also thwarted because the wimpy sheets are too thin to do the job.

We spread out keeping our eyes peeled for anything we may be able to use; not knowing when, or if, anybody else will venture down this lonesome road. Someone spots some old 6 x 6 fence posts, so we use rocks to dislodge the barb-wire and carry them back to the vehicle. After more excavating we lay the posts down, and Tom suggests grabbing the rubber floor mats from the vehicle to provide even more traction.

He jumps inside the motorhome and revs up the motor until it sound like a jet engine, then simultaneously pops the clutch and floors the gas. With shattered wood and sand flying through the air, the big rig precariously sways back and forth and nearly rolls over as it lurches out onto the road. Joyfully whooping it up and slapping each other high-fives, we acknowledge the ‘Tominator’ as the hero of the day. Thanks to his suggestions we are now in a position to finally desert the desert!

Unfortunately we miss the end of the race because of the escapade, but a couple of hours later we arrive back for a reunion with the rest of our teammates. Having all raced to the end of our strength, we are elated to learn that our time for the race was 25 hours 2 minutes, placing our team second in our category.

The Mojave’s insufferable heat has sucked the life out of the entire team, and the only exercise any of us are now interested in is diddley-squats. Twinkle, twinkle, little star – point us to the nearest bar! Courtesy of the Corona Brewery we soon find ourselves chugging down beer as if Prohibition may be reinstated tomorrow!

The physical and mental challenge of traversing hundreds of pitiless miles of inhospitable terrain is balanced by the satisfaction of personal achievement. The ravenous hunger for challenge, adventure, and an adrenaline rush has again been satiated. At least until the next time!

Mark Colegrave       2001