tailwind
by Yuri Hauswald
A shotgun blast signaled the beginning of the Dirt, Sweat and Gears 12-hour race in Fayetteville, Tenn., sending hundreds of eager racers dashing across an open field like a stampede of kids on an Easter egg hunt. I skittered across the grassy gap, frantically grabbed my bike, navigated through a few stragglers trying to find theirs and furiously pedaled to be sure I was in the top 15 before entering the woods. I had only ridden the course once, the day before, and it had been in perfect condition, but that was before the skies had opened up and dumped biblical amounts of water on the landscape, turning perfectly tacky trail dirt into peanut buttery slop that stuck to everything and brought wheels to a standstill. I entered the first singletrack section in about sixth place, thinking to myself that today was going to be my day, but my rear derailleur had other ideas. In a primal fight or flight moment, I shouldered my broken bike and began running, not realizing that since I was only two miles in on a 10-mile lap, the smart thing would have been to return to the pits and get my other bike. But like the hard-headed caveman who stuck his hand in the fire one too many times before he realized he’d get burned, I began clomping my way through the woods, pushing and coasting my bike, stopping periodically to clear both brake bosses so my wheels would roll. I was determined to salvage my lap by finishing the remaining eight miles and getting my spare bike. Demoralized, sweating profusely from the humidity and completely covered in mud, I hobbled across the finish line, hampered by the quarter-size sores that had worn into both of my heels from all the running and hounded by the daunting thought of heading back out for 10 more hours of racing. I hesitantly took my spare bike, grabbed a CamelBak and sputtered back out onto course to see if I could somehow claw 130
my way back into the race. During the ensuing laps, I reeled in many riders, working my way up from dead last in the Pro Solo field to seventh. The first lap mishap, however, had taken its toll and was Yuri Hauswald beginning to manifest itself in twitching leg cramps and a bodily disassociation closely resembling drunkenness, minus any feelings of joy. Not feeling right and with less than an hour’s worth of racing left, I stumbled into my pit for what I thought was the end of my race; my mechanic had other ideas. Before I could drop my “I’m dehydrated and I don’t think I can make the time cut” excuse on him, he rolled out a clean bike, told me that I was three minutes down on sixth—later found to be false—and gave me a firm push back out onto course. I knew I was in trouble when I started daydreaming. The flickering lights in the woods became fireflies ahead of me, dancing in the trees. It was around that time that my vomiting forced me to get off my bike and walk, my entire body rebelling until I crossed the finish line and found myself in the saving grace of The Rev. I can’t tell you where The Rev’s nickname came from, but it sure seemed fitting considering my current situation forced me to have complete and utter faith in this Dallas paramedic. I was at church confessional, but instead of talking through a screen in a cramped cubicle about my sins and road to redemption, I was mainlining saline salvation and contemplating why I would push myself so far. As I was slumped over trying to rehydrate my hollow body, I realized that the sense of accomplishment I felt was certainly not due to my results, but rather to the fact that I hadn’t quit when all odds were against me. The Rev’s sermon—the fluids he had saved me with—coursed through my body and brought me new life. Not everyone needs to see a Reverend to have an epiphany, but on this day I certainly did.
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