the Adventure Lifestyle magazine

mountaineering, whitewater rafting, hi king, rafti ng, mountain biking, then canoeing again. While no American team has ever won the Raid, the race has a growing cult following in the United States. Not. l!:::!!= �� �� only has the number of U.S. entries grown from zero to seven in the � rr�=======i1last five years, but "aclventure racing, " a spOft featu ring Raid-style competition, has taken hold in America. There's even an adventure race in that bastion of all things sporting and hip, ESPN's X Games. But as the forty-six team Raid field lined up for the start atop Monk's Cowl, a tropical plateau in South Afri ca's Drakensburg region, the focus wasn't on keeping up with trends. Instead, we ..;:!!;":===:::� steeled fo r the chasm of self-doubt (how will I make it?) through which we would wander in the grueling days ahead. The finish would I am chafed in the most obscure plac'� s. What I re ally want is quit, I think as I push my mountain bike up yet another rut­ te(! South African tra il on the eleventh day of the Raid Gauloises. I've had enough of this fo olishness, this suffering. The temperature is 120 degrees. I've hiked, rafted, canoed and climbed over 350 miles. My feet resemble raw hamburger. A video crew in a dusty white Pathfinder pulls alongside me. They are French, imperious, smoking. Desperation sets in. "I'm a journalist, " I yell to the driver. "My team has quit. I have no maps, no food and no emergency beacon. I want cut of this race. How about a ride to the finish line?" Silence. He gives me the once over and grabs something off the seat next to him. "You wanted to de the Raid, " he says, thrusting two tins of sardines and a yel low circle of processed cheese out the window, "so do the Raid." And he speeds off. Feeling as if I've been kicked, I stuff the food in my backpack and ig a mouthfu l of muddy river. water from a liter bottle. I have def­ Iy lived the promise race organizer Gerard Fusil made when I ored him to let me compete. "You," he said, "will suffer. " The Raid Gauloises, in Fusi l's words, "is designed to push individuals to their mental, physical and emoti6nal limits ." It is a French stage race held in a different part of the world each year. Five-person teams, each with least one woman, race night and day from sta rt to finish by means appropri ate to the host country's ter­ rain: over mountai ns, down rivers, on horseback and on foot, by kayak and canoe. The ordeal lasts more than a week and teams rarely sleep more than an hour a day. Since its inception in 1989, the Raid has seen competitors race everywhere frgm Costa Rica to Oman in events ranging from skydiving to camel riding. For the 1997 South Africa/Lesoth o race, ciplines were selected that would take advantage of the region's itewater rivers, narrow mountain trails and jagged vertical terra in. would be the longest Raid ever, with teams traveling over 450 In order, the events were hiking, canoei g, horseback riding, be the resort town of Port Edward, on the Indian Ocean. For the best teams, like defending champs Ertips and up-and-coming Endeavour USA, that meant eight days of raci ng. I had no such ill usions. I just wanted to finish. I'd competed before, at the 1995 Raid in Pata gonia, and been forced out on the fourth day. I'd attached no special significance to the event before· hand, but the combination of the seven months I had allotted to training and my abrupt departure had haunted and humbled me. And while I tried to set the Raid aside as just another race, I chafed at the qu iet inner voice telling me I wasn't good enough or strong enough to gut it out. I didn't want to go back again, I'e! remind the voice Didn't want to be cold, tired, wet, hungry and miserable fo r days 0[;, end simply for the sake of an atliletic competition that meant noth·· ing whatsoever in the greater scheme of things. But the voice would­ n't stop. It only grew louder. So it was in November, with South Africa/Lesotho just two months off, that I gave in to that ca lling. I called race organizers and asked if there was room for me on a team. The answer: no, but I would be allowed to start as an indivi dual. Then, as the race progressed and attrition set in, I would be free to join any team down a member. At the third checkpoint, on the fi rst day, as the cOurse pre·' pared to snake sharply upward along marij uana smugglers' trails from South Africa into mystical Lesotho, I found that team. Lestra Sport had lost a key member to a separated shoulder. Checkpoint offi cials suggested in delicate, whispered tones that I adopt Lestrq Sport, if only for safe passage through the mountains. Truth be told, I didn't want to. Foisti ng myself upor strangers felt intrusive. My pack, I reasoned with the officials, con. tained the food (Powerbars, Powergel) and gear (fleece jacket, head·, lamp, compass, dagger, maps, sleeping bag, tent) I needed to make it from sta rt to fi nish. Only when the man in charge of all checkpoin t offi cials approached did I get the word that going on alone was def­ initely out of the question. "It is for safety, " he said, scrunching his shoulders into a Gallic shrug. "And besides, to get the proper fee for the Raid Gauloises, you must experience the team environment.

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