I attended today's Death Race in Pittsfield, Vermont as a spectator. This event is the only one of its kind: designed to push people to their mental, physical, and psychological limits. I have to say, however, that Race participants maintained their composure incredibly well in the midst of the physically grueling, mentally frustrating, sleep-deprived event. For example, picture this: you get no sleep the night before, because the 10pm pre-race "meeting" lasts 12 hours and has you and your fellow competitors hauling gravel and bridges in order to maintain the trail over which you'd eventually run back-and-forth at least four times during the race. You're literally pulling yourself on your stomach through mud and muck under barbed wire and dragging your 50-pound backpack (filled with such required "equipment" as $50 in pennies and 10 pounds of onions) and a post-hole digger. A yellow dog (me!) approaches you, sticks his nose right in your face, and licks you. Do you freak out? Throw a tantrum? Holler at someone to get this #@%^&*! mutt away from you? Most mortals would. The Death Racers didn't. They reached through the barbed wire, careful not to add to the cuts already covering their bodies, pet me on the nose, and -- get this -- smiled. Amazing! The most notable example of cruel mind games and graceful composure came after Neil Preston finished his wood-splitting task. Each competitor who deciphered the email sent in Greek (as in, the language) to all competitors advising them to bring an axe to the event had to split 25 to 30 green hardwood rounds (those less fortunate who didn't get the email had to cart countless loads of sheep manure from a stable to a distant manure pile). Neil was gathering himself before stacking his split wood and moving onto the next stage with a turkey sandwich and a Gatorade. I noticed half of his sandwich within reach and inhaled it in a single gulp. It happened so fast, I didn't even taste it going down (it looked good...). Neil had been racing for 16 hours and probably had at least 10 to go. "That half had too much mayonase anyway," was all he said when he realized what I had done.
My owner departed the Race scene shortly after this incident. Sleep deprivation, exhaustion, axes and other sharp tools... I think he read the writing on the walls. Racers (and race organizers, who had been awake as long as the racers) were getting punchy and annoyed, and since I didn't seem too apologetic, he got us out of there. I don't know why; that was a good sandwich.
Congratulations to all Death Racers -- even those who dropped out. That race is one of a kind -- as are its participants. And Neil... anytime you get overloaded with mayo in the future, just give me a call.
