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twenty percent grade) had been designed by two-time Tour de France champion Laurent Fignon. In my darker moments I swore the design was an act of arrogance-Fignon's way of showing Raid Gauloises athletes that their race was hardly comparable to his. There's nothing that could have made that course feel easy, but it would have been easier alongside Lestra Sport. Without them to motivate me and make stupid 'okes and share food, I felt like-and the befuddled locals emerging from their thatched-roof huts looked at me like-a sol itary fool halfway around the world from home, pedaling a moun . no r just t ree ours we rose, zipped e jackets up around chins and noses to cheat the wind, then turned on our headlamps and wordlessly sta lked up the side of the valley again. Our lights bobbed in the darkness and it felt like progress. At dawn we came upon a shepherd wrapped in a wool blanket. It's worth noting that due to he lack of roads, Raid officials access checkpoints by hel icopter. Unable to speak Basotho, the lan uage of Lesotho, we communicated our needs to the shepherd by miming helicopters. Where there ere helicopters, we reasoned, there were checkpoints. We looked more than a little silly standing efore the lon.e man, spinning our hands above our heads and making eggbeater noises, which is probably why he revealed a sly grin when he yelled instructions in our faces. Checkpoint 15 was discovered by dawn. Our frustration was immediately replaced by light heartedness. We ate a lunch of Powerbars and dried fru it by yet another clear mountain stream. This one tumbled down into South Africa, eventually meeting the Indian Ocean as, we hoped, would we. The alternating misery and joy continued as the race swung back into S.outh Africa . We fin ished the mountains in less than two days. We rafted the Cl ass IV rapids of the Umkomas River, got out and hiked a day through jungle to circumvent monstrous Deepdale Falls. We got lost again, but an entire village walked with us until they were sure we were on the right trail, then we got back in the boats for a fi nal day of rafting. From there it was "just" (physical challenges have a way of becoming minimized during the Raid) 100 miles of mountain biking before a final short canoe paddle to Port Edward. Morale was good. Our stomachs were full. The Umkomas River was running high. Every square inch of our raft was fi lled with gear as we paddled, legs straddling the pontoons. I was on the left, up front, as we came around a bend and dropped almost immediately into a frothing wall of water and boulders. Bruno was ca ll ing instructions from the back, alternating French and English. "Back paddle" and "al lez" were soon incomprehensi ble as the rapid's roar rose to something approximating a fu lly laden jumbo jet approaching takeoff. We paddled hard left to miss a house-size boulder, then dropped down a th ree-foot waterfall. The boat was halfway down the face when gravity folded the back end over the front like a taco, and I was in headfirst. The water was- n't cold, but the sudden immersion was shocking. I opened my eyes onto the surreal sensation of a world of very loud bubbles, then felt the pain of bouncing from rock to rock like a human pinball. My left knee was dragged along the coarse surface of a boulder, and while I couldn't see it I knew it was probably bleeding. But mostly there was the fear that I'd never see the su rface again. Just as swiftly as it consumed me, the rapid spit me out. Everyone was fine except Juliette, who'd been trapped beneath the over turned raft as it bounced from rock to rock. I can only imagine her claus trophobia and panic as she fought for air with several hundred pounds of raft and gear pushing her under. She wept when we finally nudged it to the bank. She wept for her children and begged to see them again, slip ping into delirium and shock before our eyes. And while she bravely got back in, Jul iette was never the same after our journey through the spin cycle. At midnight, when we ran the final rapid in the dark, came ashore 'and switched into mountain bike gear, she was mumbling incoherently. By dawn she was passed out along the side of the road, a victim of dehydra tion and fatigue. The rest of the team abandoned the Raid with her. "This is my passion," Francois told me, describing why he chose to stop while encouraging me to go on. "I 'll be back to finish some other year. " And so it was that I found out how much I had come to need tai n bike up and down mountain after mountain. Worst thing was I was mentally already at the fi nish line. We were ten days in when the team abandoned. Close enough that fin ishing was no longer a matter of "if" but "when." My heart was no longer in the race, but a hundred miles dis- tant in Port Edward. Exhaustion and dehy dration and the heat hit me hard then, cal!sing that low emotional state endurance athletes refer to as "bonking." It's when the body turns inward as a surviva l mechanism. Anger becomes the only emotion, taking on a very rational hue. I had decided to quit, and then the cam era crew refused me a ride. The best thing for me right now, I thought, is to rest and eat and drink-but it feels a whole lot better to be mad. So, feeling petulant and angry and altogether screwed, I pedaled onward. Raiding alone is hard. Especially when you want so desperately to quit but can't. Especia lly when the temperature is 120 degrees and your legs haven't an ounce of energy left. Especially when you've tried taking your mind off the sol itude by singing every song you can remember, including all of Side Four of The River, even the instrumental riffs. But since I had no choice, I kept going. The sardines and cheese actually made the situation more bearable. I made it to the Indian Ocean. I walked under the black and white Raid Gauloises fi nish banner .on the beach. I found /rancois, Bruno and a recovering Juliette to swap hugs. I even found that imperious cameraman to thank him for not giving me a ride because it felt so damn good to finish. The discov ery that the defending champs, Ertips, had again crossed the finish line first did little to alter my spirits. I sat down on the bed in my air-conditioned hotel room, peeled off the filthy clothes I'd been wearing for the past twelve days, and felt a calming swell of relaxation. The little voice was gone. ra Sport. The near-impossible mountain bike stage (fo r mple, the course opened with a seven-mile climb up a