St. Augustine, Florida

Roughly a year ago, I sat in the lobby of Southern Oaks Hotel, impatiently waiting for my room to become available so I could rest my tortured body after a grueling 72 hour race across Florida. I was 100% confident that I would never EVER subject myself to such foolishness again. Less than 2 months later I found myself signed up for the exact same “foolishness”, but this time with my husband as my teammate. It’s amazing what a little time and memory fading can do to one’s resolve.

When Chris said he would be willing to give the 2025 Sea to Sea expedition race a shot, I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to race with my husband. And in my defense of going back on my decision to never do the race again, I had said the only way I would consider doing it again would be if my husband or children wanted to do it. So there was my excuse for subjecting my body, mind, and bank account for a second year in a row.

Fast forward to the drive down to Florida. We left precisely on time after a full day at our homeschool co op. We were just too excited to get down to the sweet AirBnB we had reserved to wait until morning to make the drive down. So with the van pulling a U-haul trailer packed to the gills with race gear, 8 bikes, all the vacation paraphernalia , and loaded down with all eight of us, we headed south on an adventure of adventures.

Thankfully, we chose to break up the trip with an overnight stay in a cheap hotel off route 95 in South Carolina. It was a no nonsense stop, arriving around midnight, sleeping for a few hours, taking advantage of a free continental breakfast, and hitting the road again before 9 am.

We were nearly to our destination when the draw of Buc-ees was too strong and we chose to acquaint the kids to the Mecca of all gas stations. $250 dollars later we walked out with what all seemed to be totally necessary purchases. A few minutes later we arrived to the most perfect little home away from home. The kids flurried around the property oooo-ing and ahhhhh-ing over the pool, swings, catwalks, and play house. Within a few hours we were unpacked and sitting down to a late homemade dinner. The kids all took a dip in the pool, a few games of cards were played, and race gear was resorted and double (if not triple) checked.

On Wednesday we took our time and had a slow, easy morning around the house. We arrived to Southern Oaks just before noon for the gear drop off and team check in. The massive red Warrior tent was up and ready, but the race staff was still having their organizational meeting. Fellow racers were trickling in, and we (I) took the opportunity to catch up with some of my favorites. I recognized a handful from last year, but there were plenty more racers I had never seen before. We waited patiently until things were in order and then proceeded with signing waivers, receiving swag, bibs, and finally having our team photo snapped. Waiting in line for the photos, we chatted with a solo female racer. She was so familiar but I couldn’t remember her name until a few hours later. She was all set to tackle the course independently. Wild woman. As much as I think my navigation has improved, I need a lot of teammate reassurance at times.

The photographer wanted a goofy picture as well as a standard team photo. If you know Chris, you know he’s not usually up for anything overly silly. But he humored me, and he at least smiled for the picture when I put my “dukes up.” Afterwards we dropped off our gear bins, paddle bags, and bikes. Everything was set. We loaded back into the van and headed back to the house for a little more relaxation before the pre race dinner and meeting.

Chris and I arrived back to the hotel just before the meal and claimed some coveted front seats for the evening. They had a large TV set up with pictures from last year’s race scrolling. I saw a few of Dennis and myself and smiled at the memories. Last year was a tough race that stretched my abilities and resolve. We had had the goal of placing as high as we could, totally willing to sacrifice any joy or comfort. This year my goals were different. I didn’t want to break Chris, or myself, and I had the mindset that we had spent a dumb amount of money on this endeavor, and I was going to actually ENJOY the experience, in the present, and not just looking back after it was over. We (I) had decided on the objectives of a) going totally unassisted, and b) obtaining roughly half the check points. Chris’s goals may have been as simple as staying married and not dying, but he had said “we’ll see” to my goals.

We filed into the food line, received heaping plates of salad and pasta and returned to our seats. A couple had set up shop right next to us, so naturally, I had to chat them up a bit. They were also a 2 person coed team with an unbelievable amount of things in common with us. They also had a whole brood of kiddos, they were mid-pack racers who were getting better with each race but definitely not planning to podium, and most importantly, they were just really fun people! We chatted, laughed, speculated, and commiserated until the meeting began.

The race director went through all the usual points, followed by the course designer. As soon as he mentioned “A/B points” I knew we would be skipping that section. I can still get worked up about the SINGLE A/B point we went for last year and how much of a waste of time it felt like when we couldn’t find the B point after flawlessly locating the A point. I wasn’t going to make that mistake this year. One thing that Jeff really emphasized was the weather. While the forecast was beautifully clear, it was also predicted to be unusually cold. Lows at night were projected to be in the low 30’s, possibly even below freezing. As long as you’re moving, it’s not a problem, but good luck staying warm enough to catch some sleep out there. We had already planned to skip sleep the first night and go for a good chunk on the following 2 nights, if possible. Since the coldest night was forecasted to be night 1, we weren’t too worried about our strategy.

After the meeting we headed back to the house and spent a few hours getting our bodies as clean as they would be for the next few days, as well as loving on our little brood of kiddos before saying “Adios” and heading back to the hotel for a challenging night’s sleep. Mom and Annika drove us over to drop us off. After some tight, squeezy hugs, and promises to not die out there, we waved them off and headed into our room.

There wasn’t much to do other than sleep since we had already showered, ate, and our gear was all at the ready. We enjoyed the ever so rare evening alone in a hotel room, and curled up into bed willing a decent night sleep to wash over us. Nope. But really, who is actually able to have a good nights sleep before a race. Even if my Garmin said I had a decent sleep score, I’m positive I spent more time awake that night than asleep. Naturally, once I did finally fall asleep, I was soon awoken by Chris puttering around the room preparing for the day(s) ahead. We shared a few cups of sad hotel room coffee and applied all the lubes and creams we could before dressing and heading out into the brisk morning.

We had been informed at the prerace meeting that the buses would be picking us up infront of the building this year, so we headed out to the office area and set up waiting in some cozy rocking chairs. A few fellow racers joined us. One of them blessedly offered us a scrap of his cardboard box for writing on in the bus, being as I had forgotten mine in the van when we were dropped off the night before. Slowly we heard mumblings that the map hand out line was actually in the center parking lot next to the pool area, so we jumped up and headed back to that area. I hopped in line, relatively toward the front, and Chris stood to the side looking calm as all get out. I was bubbling with anticipation by now, super excited to lay eyes on our upcoming endeavors. The busses pulled in as we were waiting in line, so Chris headed to the closest one to claim us a seat toward the front in an attempt to help my unavoidable motion sickness.

Eventually the line began to move and within a few seconds I was handed a thick set of maps by a bubbly volunteer who stated how much she loved our team name. “Bushwacking and Tush Smacking” always seems to make people giggle. I scurried over to the bus, quickly located my hubby, and plopped down to pour over all those beautiful maps. The sheer amount of maps was overwhelming, but taking them on one at a time was manageable. We set to work writing in clues and planning our routes. Before I was ready, the busses began to move. I said a little prayer asking for help with nausea and kept on working as we merged onto what I was hoping were larger and larger roads. Nope. We stayed on smaller secondary roads for nearly the entire route, slowing and speeding up, twisting and turning. The ick was unavoidable. I would work for a few minutes then have to stop and stare out the window taking deep breaths to settle my rolling belly. I got through to map 14 before I had to call it and say the rest of the planning would have to be done on course.

Looking around, everyone was taking on different approaches to the time on the bus. Some people were sleeping, others were eating, many were fortuitously still planning their routes, but everyone was ready to get the race started. We could overhear other teams talking strategy and I began to second guess a few of my route choices. I forced down the vertigo and looked over our maps again, but ultimately decided to go with our original plans. This was our race and our goals.

Eventually we turned onto a long bumpy dirt road that was sure to be our final leg of the bus ride. Chris and I were taking in all the landmarks and land features we could to help us out on our return trek across the area. The busses came to a stop at a parking area that was literally just a parking area. No bathrooms or shelters. Climbing down off the bus I thanked our driver for the smooth(ish) ride, disposed of my cardboard desk, and quickly realized I needed another layer on. The brisk wind whipping off the canal was sharp and demanded respect. I dropped my pack and dawned my puffy jacket, thankful to have decided to add it to my gear just the night before. The immediate comfort I felt just adding that layer calmed my nerves.

We filed into line to get our trackers and passport. I had my phone out to drop it into a sealed bag like last year, but when I got to the front of the line the staff stated they weren’t doing that this year and we were responsible for keeping the phone safe and dry. Again, Chris had come through for me, insisting that I bring a sealable waterproof sack just for the phone. The man just has more sense than me too often for me to be willing to admit. While I had been in line, Chris had taken the opportunity to use the bathroom on the bus one last time. I looked around and didn’t see him in the crowd, so I walked toward the start line figuring he would be milling about there. Doug Silk approached me and gave me a warm, encouraging hug. He kindly pointed out what we had already devised about being able to circumnavigate the dreaded bone-chilling swim planned for the first trekking leg. I’m not a big fan of ice baths, or cold water in general, and the idea of stripping down and swimming across 50m of 50 degree water only to be faced with a below freezing night on the horizon wasn’t anything I wanted any parts of. Chris had agreed. I thanked Doug for the advice and chattted for a few more minutes before wiggling my way over to the start area. I bumped into 2 women I recognized from last year. We talked for a few minutes until Chris popped out of no where. I introduced them and then Chris and I meandered our way toward the back of the herd of racers. We knew we wouldn’t pull out of the gate doing anything faster than a brisk walk so we figured we would let all those who had an unrelenting urge to run be toward the front.

Jeff got on the speaker to make a few last minute announcements and answer any final questions. We could hear nothing, so hopefully it wasn’t anything too important! Suddenly there was a shot and we were off! I don’t know if we missed the countdown or if he just jumped the gun, but the race had officially begun! We started our garmins and set off one of the very few times we would be heading west on this race.

We had about a half mile walk on a paved trail down to a small pavilion and clearing where a few bags of Lowe’s filler sand had been poured out as a substitute for the west coast beach sand we had to halfway fill our bottles with. Chris had the honors while I looked around at the other teams we were already lining up with. All the elite and most of the midpack teams had passed us in the opposite direction at various speeds of running while we had been walking. It’s hard not to feel like you’re an imposter at moments like that, but I again had to remind myself that this wasn’t a sprint race and our goals were not their goals. Everything was cool.

We got back on the trail and began our adventure eastward. Within a mile I had to strip out of that cozy puffy jacket. We were still walking, but our pace was picking up and the sun was coming out. We came to the first decision of the race. While we knew we were going for the first 2 checkpoints to the south, we weren’t sure if we would be able to take the power lines trail and shave off about a mile of distance. I’ve been hurt by power line trails in the past, but Florida wasn’t Maine, and maybe this would work out better. We had made our way to the front of a cackle of racers and were the first in the group to turn off the paved trail, but we weren’t the only ones. I didn’t want to look back to see who was staying on the trail, but I think a majority of the group followed.

The “trail” started out dry enough but quickly became marshy, reedy, and muddy. Front of the pack teams had smashed down the easiest routes so we were able to follow their paths without much thought. After only about half a mile of questionable slop we came to a hard packed trail. We followed this trail for a while, me thumbing the map to try to keep an eye on where the next turn off should be. After a while we came to an intersection where I had planned to turn off to the right and dive into the woods, but all the other teams in-front of us had headed straight further down the power line trail. Pack syndrome kicked in and we chose to follow the group. Within a few minutes I regretted the decision. Following this route was going to add on extra distance that wasn’t necessary and wouldn’t give us as convenient of an attack point for the CP. As we kept walking I figured out a third option and we took it. Another team was lollygagging at the turn off where we popped into the woods. I’m not sure what decision they went with, but ours worked out. As we hiked down this small trail I saw team ThisAbility come to a stop at the intersection ahead of us and turn back the direction they had been coming from. We were in the right area, and they were reattacking the CP. I pace counted from the intersection where we spotted them, popped into the woods, rummaged around through thick palms and cedars and spotted our first CP! That initial endorphin hit is always so thrilling! The race really starts at that point. We made our way back to the trail, me coming out a little muddier than Chris. I then tried to take a bushwack approach to the next CP but quickly realized Florida’s open spaces are more often open marshlands than dry fields. We stuck to the trails for the next CP and hit it straight on. 2 down, 70 to go!

We made our way back out to the original paved trail we had veered off from and started looking for CP3. We caught up with Team ARDotWatch and our friends from the pre race dinner. Everyone was still chipper, energized, and excited. Coming up to the next CP I decided to pace count to be sure to head up the rock ledge right where the CP would be. I counted out what I had calculated and headed up. Doug saw us head in and asked if I was popping in to the woods to pee. Obviously, he wasn’t as clever as me and was going to miss the CP. Ha. ‘‘Twas I who was below average navigationally inclined at the time. That was the only time on the race where i miscalculated 500m for 50m. A delicious slice of humble pie.

When I finally realized the error of my ways, we easily found the CP and headed on. We didn’t see any other teams in sight at this point. Enjoying the sunny day, the fantastic company, and the prospect of such fun for the next 3 days I had the first wave of gratefulness sweep over me. I am one blessed lady to have a husband willing to do crazy things, a body capable of doing hard things, and a group of family and friends who support me in these awesome endeavors.

We came to the intersection of “to swim or not to swim.” By this point the weather had warmed up beautifully and the prospect of a swim didn’t seem quite as ridiculous. In fact, judging by the sweaty brow of my husband, it might have been a good call. I tested the waters of Chris’s willingness and was quickly brought back to the reality that he had ABSOLUTELY no intention of doing the swim, sweaty brow or no. So we forged ahead on our plotted route and eventually made our way to the first on course transition. We made record time (for us) and were in and out of that transition in less than 15 minutes. We both peed, I filled our waters, swapped maps, changed shoes and prepared to paddle like a well oiled machine. We chose to paddle with strong man Chris in the front and me in the back navigating. It had worked so well in our last race we figured it would be our standard plan from here forward.

The paddle started out on an open body of water that narrowed down into a maze of small reedy, marshy islands. We grabbed the first CP out there without a hitch and moved into the more narrow waterways. We were sharing the beautiful afternoon on the water with a handful of local boaters. Their opinion of our presence was a mixed bag. While many were friendly, waving to us as they casted their fishing rods and sipped their beers, others kept their motors on full throttle and seemingly intentionally spread their menacing wake across the paths of dozens of us racers. I became curious as to who has the right of way on narrow waterways; man powered vessels or motor boats. Whatever was the legal answer, I can tell you some of those local Floridians had their own set of laws they abide by, regardless of what is written.

On the narrow streams that snaked through the small islands I became slightly nervous about taking wrong turns and ending up in dead ends. I eventually realized all I had to do was follow the channel markers and mindlessly paddle along enjoying the views. We passed other teams and we passed some. Many of the 3 person teams were taking full advantage of having an additional outboard motor. Still, we kept a pace I was proud of. After a few hours we finally came to our second on course transition at the boat ramp in Dunnellon.

The sun was beginning its descent and we were beginning to feel the same chill of the start line. We helped haul our canoe up to the waiting trucks, located our paddle bag, and began preparing for the next trekking section. The boat ramp had a permanent indoor bathroom that, in my AR world, gave me excitement. I’m not the most modest person, but I try not to show my tush more often than necessary, and changing behind a door is a welcome opportunity. However, that opportunity didn’t actually exist. The bathrooms were locked. I decided the next best option would be to change behind said building. Forget the fact there was a ramp on a major roadway just across from the boat ramp. Whatever, if someone is that hard up for a peek at a tattered racer changing her clothes, more power to them. I started to strip out of my wet clothes and suddenly noticed I was surrounded by old needles. Gah!!! And as I simultaneously noticed these terrifying vehicles of disease I was treated to a few hoots, hollers, and honks from the highway. For the love. I finished my task at hand as fast (and carefully) as I could and returned to our paddle bag. After filling up our waters, shlathering our feet and bodies with lube, and refilling our food bags, we started repacking our paddle bag. Our friends from team Irrational Fortitude (dinner friends) appeared at our side just as we were finishing up. We exchanged a few stories of our race up to that point and bid each other “Adieu”.

Chris and I headed out of the boat ramp and along a busy road way while shoveling handfuls of Cheetos into our faces. We walked past BBQ shops, weed shops, and tattoo parlors. Chris suggested we stop for some ink, but I figured he was already somehow delirious. He refused when I suggested the same on our honeymoon 18 years ago, and now wasn’t the time. We continued on through town and into the outskirts where the roads became dirt and the crack of baseballs on wooden bats rang though the air.

We made our way along the ball fields as the sun’s final ration of light disappeared. Following a fence, we reached a waypoint and then headed back along the opposite side of the fence. We saw other teams hop the fence, making us question how serious these dang waypoints really were. We remained on a loose sandy trail for a short distance before we arrived to CP 9. After scavenging around for a few minutes, Chris found the “distinct tree” among many distinct trees. We punched the CP and headed onward toward route 484 where we trudged along the busy road for what seemed like much longer than the map eluded to. It was on this road section that my right heel began to make itself known. I had the thought to stop and reapply some foot goo, but for whatever reason, I decided it wasn’t totally necessary. About 3/4 of the way down that road section I felt something give way and a sudden stabbing pain in the heel that had been just a whispering discomfort a few minutes before. I tried to “walk it off” but those stabs were undeniable. I told Chris I needed to stop to evaluate the extent of my heel’s ravaging.

I plopped down right in the grass and stripped off my gaiters, sock, and shoe to discover what I really, REALLY hadn’t wanted to see. The extent of the outer aspect of my right heel was a morbid shade of white with a slit and glistening serous fluid. This could be a game changer, if not a race crusher. I pulled out my “comfort” bag and peeked through my options. I found some moleskin and decided that was my best option. I asked Chris for his knife so I could cut out an appropriate shape only to discover both our packed knives were fuller than Santa Clause’s butt. (A Dutch expression.) Out of options, I slapped the whole dang bandage on my heel, carefully pulled my sock back on, gritted my teeth and slid my foot back in my shoe, tied the laces and stood up, praying for a miracle. It didn’t feel great, but I was going to pull the whole mind over matter card and make it work. After another mile or so,I had myself convinced it didn’t hurt all THAT bad, and the 800mg of Motrin helped, too.

We turned off the busy road and headed into the woods and trails of the Cross Florida Greenway. Our plan was to drop CPs 10 and 11 in favor of the more direct route and less swampy appearance of CPs 12 and 13. Looking back, I regret not going for the opposite, which look to actually have been on trail and a straighter route. Hindsight, man. We were committed to our plan and turned off the the left to hunt down 12 and 13.

If you’ve been in Adventure Racing for any length of time, there are a few things you tend to learn rather quickly. Night time travel being one of them. You never, ever, EVER go as far as you think you’ve gone when traveling at night. Case in point: CP 12. I wish I could tell you exactly where we went wrong, but we were so wrong I don’t even know how to orient myself to our disorientation that night. We took trails that I’m starting to believe were magically made and then erased as we traversed them. We gained elevation, lost elevation, shot bearings, and followed “intuition” to absolutely no avail. Finally we began to see the twinkling of headlamps from racers who avoided the vortex of confusion we found ourselves in and we were able to ask the standard “where do YOU think we are on the map” question to someone. We were reoriented to a near unbelievable reality. Deep down we believed we had gone so far that we were nearly to route 200 when in actuality we were almost on top of CP 12. As discouraged as I was in my navigational snafu, we decided we had to go for CP 12 if we were really that close. We oriented the map to the world and for some reason that eludes me now, decided to just plow right into the woods looking for the CP without shooting a bearing or thinking anything through. Can you guess how that worked out for us? It didn’t. We pointlessly wondered the woods for about 20 minutes before I was discouraged enough to call it and move on. Unfortunately, CP 13 was pretty much the same, just without the preceding wondering off course. We trudged on and on for a while longer until we actually arrived to route 200, walked along the zooming middle of the night drivers, and found our way into TA 1 at midnight.

When I say it was cold, I’m under exaggerating. While we were moving the temps weren’t an issue. We had dawned gloves and puffies, but we weren’t shivering or even uncomfortable. Stopping for even a few minutes at the TA changed all that. While waiting to check in, my knees started shivering. By the time we walked over to the food tent, my shoulders were starting to tremble. And by the time we got our gear bins situated and bikes located, I was full on convulsing. Unlike the boat ramp, this TA had an indoor bathroom that was actually unlocked. I gathered my clothes bag for TA 1 and headed over to the building. Walking in was like coming upon an infirmary tent in a war zone of women. Ladies were huddled up under hand dryers repeatedly tapping the button for the Luke warm air to wash over them in an attempt to regain body temps. A few women were curled up on the floor sleeping like REI clad homeless people. It was actually more comical than tragic, but still a little tragic. I made my way into a bathroom stall and stripped out of my clothes, used the bathroom, and started to redress into my clean attire. Holding up the bike shorts I had packed for this section I realized I hadn’t totally accounted for the freezing temps like I thought I had. There was no way I was going to survive a ride overnight in below freezing temps in bike SHORTS!! I looked at the fetid pile of clothes I had just changed out of and had to make a decision. Was I going to go back out in the cold to get my next clean pair of leggings lined up for later in the race, throwing off all my perfectly calculated packed clothing bags, or was I going to slid back into those gross, dirty, muddy caked leggings I had just changed out of? Dirty leggings for days, baby. And to top off the look, I put the bike shorts on over top of them. So classy. You may be wondering why I didn’t just put the shorts on first and wear them the way they are intended to be worn. Well, all I can say is being a woman with a uterus on a race, you have to make compromises and decisions about a lot of things. And sometimes those decisions only make sense to you at certain moments of time.

We shakingly completed all our TA tasks, dawned our helmets, turned on our bike lights, checked out of the TA and headed out on the next leg of the race. Coming out of the TA we were faced with a whole intersection of trails. Right looked unfavorable, left looked unfavorable, and, well, straight didn’t look great either. We went with straight since it was at least heading in the right direction. We came to a crossing with rutted sugar sand and I desperately tried to convince myself that was NOT the left hand turn we needed. Alas. It was the left hand turn we needed. We rode a fair amount more than I would have thought possible on that demonic surface and passed two additional left hand turn offs. I stopped for a moment to check our bearing and realized we needed to take one of those trails. Another racer, Dan, had fallen in with us and stopped, too. He assured me we were on the correct trail, but it didn’t make sense to me. We were heading East when we needed to be heading north to make it to a paved bike trail that would then take us East across the map. We talked it out and agreed we needed to take the trail to the left. We pushed, pedaled, and picked our way along various trails searching for this elusive paved trail of comfort. We came closer and closer to what we assumed was route 200 again, knowing that was NOT where we wanted to end up. We went north, East, north, at one point west, and eventually came to parallel route 200. I was totally confused and considered back tracking to the last place I was certain of when Dan threw out something that made us think “no, we just need to go a SMIDGE further, and the paved trail will be right there.” Thank the Lord for our friend Dan. Within 200 yards we were cruising back at top speed on a blessedly paved, and slightly downhill, trail. Dan insisted we go at our own pace, he wanted to celebrate the near miss with a little slow, easy biking. We thanked him for giving us the confidence to not turn back and we headed out for what should have been 23k of easy, mindless nighttime biking.

As I mentioned earlier, we had no intention of fiddling with any of the A/B points on this section of the race. Our plan was to just bike until we reached the paved bike trailhead and then start focusing again for CP 21. Everything went according to plan until we reached the trail intersection with 475A. We had caught up with another team who had made some sort of comment that lead me to believe they were familiar with the area. While I was trying to focus in on the map where multiple trails intersected to figure out exactly where we needed to go, they stormed off in confidence. Chris and I agreed “they must know what they’re doing” so we made the fatal mistake of following them blindly. Within 100 yards we all came to a stop again. We were at a 4 way trail intersection. We had the option to go 90 degrees to the left, 45 degrees to the left, or straight ahead, none of which were paved. We chose to go for the 90 degree trail, being as had the correct bearing. We pushed ahead and came upon 2 solo female racers who were more confused than we were. Talking with them for a few minutes only confused me more. They had their plan, and we had ours. We pedaled onward on a trail that was anything but paved. After a grueling 20 minutes of pedaling we came to road that I was hoping would be route 475 where I knew I would be able to pick back up on the paved trail. After a little back and forth, questioning and second guessing, I realized we were on route 475B. We shot due East and ended up hitting 475 just north of where the paved trail crossed over. We navigated down to the underpass and realized there was a fenced off drop off to the trail. Think that stopped Bushwacking and Tush Smacking?! Ha! I scaled the fence, hopped down the stone wall, reached up and guided down our bikes that Chris passed down to me. As we were doing all this, I saw the two solo females come up the road we had just come from. I guess they went with our plan instead of their own. Maybe theirs would have been better?

Once we were back on the paved trail we went relatively full throttle again and made some great time trudging on. As we approached the trailhead of the paved trail we slowed down to ensure the same type of mishap didn’t happen again. I made our way through a small section of town and came to another trail system. As I was pushing hard on my crack to get some speed up to make it up the hill into the trail my right pedal flew off and I somehow managed to not completely face-plant onto the asphalt. The director had requested that racers remove their bike pedals for transport this year to avoid damaging other bikes and facilitating more bikes being transported on less trucks. Makes sense, but it became a pain in the butt for us. Our friend Dan caught up with us here as Chris was reinstalling my pedal. He, apparently, did not have the navigational snafu we had encountered at 475.

Together we stormed into this trail system and picked off CP 21 relatively quickly. The next 3k were a series of fun, punchy single track that lead to another paved trail system we were afforded as the sun slowly began to return, promising us warming temps and renewed energy. We crossed paths with early morning runners and dog walkers, all friendly but obviously questioning our presence in their stomping grounds. I found the exit from these beautiful trails and we merged onto more fun single track. As we were getting into a good rhythm of biking, and I was again laying in hard on my pedals to gain some speed, my left pedal came flying off and I wasn’t as fortunate on my landing this time. My upper body flew off the handle bars, slammed down on my shifter and brakes while my pelvic floor was forcefully introduced to the top tube. Ughhh. Could have been worse, right? Chris set to reinstalling that pedal as I blankly stared at the map. He tinkered and toiled for what seemed like hours, but in reality was only a few minutes. He is a generally patient man, though he mutters many choice words under his breath as he works through things. This was one of the times his words didn’t match his effort. I assumed he was near his boiling point though he was calmly working. Sleep deprivation does strange things to all of us. With my pedal, and in turn my safety, reinstated, we moved forward. Coming to where I first thought CP 22 would be, another team flew past us and called out “you’re too early.” Ok, fine. Humph. But thanks for the heads up. When we arrived where I then thought it should be located there was a cackle of other racers also poking around in the woods for the “oddly shaped tree behind rootstock.” Comically, I found a tree that looked identical to the sorting hat on Harry Potter, and it was tucked in right behind a rootstock! Yet, totally unsurprisingly, it was not the correct oddly shaped tree. Collectively with the other teams, we searched the surrounding area for about 15 more minutes before we unanimously chose to move on CP-less. As luck would have it, within 5 minutes of riding further we all came around a bend in the trail and were nearly smacked in the face with the CP within view of the trail. At least I wasn’t alone in the mis-miscalculation.

We continued on a short distance further to TA 2 where hot fried bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches made the day even brighter and more beautiful than it felt. When we arrived we saw on the tracking screen that only 2 tams were already on the paddle section that lay ahead of us. We had made it to the front of the pack (but obviously with far less points than the true front of the pack teams.) At the TA we had to turn our bikes back over so they could be transported up river to the next TA. Like I said, the plan was for everyone to remove their pedals from their bikes to help with transport. Our good friend Mark was manning the bike trucks and when I regaled him with the tale of my pedal woes he told me I was cleared to leave my pedals on soley because there was a possibility I wouldn’t be able to get them back on properly and would have to drop out of the race for a requirement imposed by the staff for their convenience. Or something like that. I was thankful, whatever the reason.

I set about preparing for the next leg of the race, nabbed eggs sandwiches and hot cocoa for both Chris and myself and arrived to our bins. I didn’t see Chris anywhere in sight. I inhaled my meal, rummaged through my bin for my next clothes bag and hobbled over to the bathroom. Gingerly, I used the bathroom, changed my less than presentable attire, and emerged from the bathroom feeling much refreshed. I don’t think I appeared as fresh as I felt though. A “ women day hiker club” stood in line to use the bathroom before their weekly Friday morning outing on the trails. After a few minutes of answering their questions about what/who/how/why we were all invading their quiet trail system I returned to the bins to find Chris mindlessly staring into his bin. I could tell he needed a minute. I went to fill my water bottles and when I came back he was back to moving with purpose. We eventually loaded our bins on the waiting trucks, shouldered our packs, and discussed the upcoming leg. Race staff encouraged us that we were doing great and that we were solid on time. *Foreshadowing here… no one said anything about the option of skipping the paddle and biking on to TA 3.* We had to carry our paddle bag to the boat put in a little over 2km down the road. There was also a CP tucked in the woods north of the put in that would add on another 2ish km. I somehow convinced Chris we should go for that CP. He somehow agreed. So carrying our own individual packs that each weighed somewhere between 15-20 pounds, and sharing the load of our 30lb paddle bag, we marched deep into the woods and navigated down winding trails to the attack point I chose for CP 23. We dropped the awkward paddle bag at a trail intersection and I shot a bearing for the CP…and hit it dead on. It was one of those perfect finds where I question if I’m actually learning how to do this stuff more efficiently or if I’ve won the favor of some evil force and have been granted sorcery. It felt really fantastic after the last few near and total navigational misses I had had.

We returned to our paddle bag and headed due south back to the road that would lead us to the boat launch. We crossed paths with plenty of more efficient racers who had taken the out and back route from the road instead of the angled path I chose and had been able to leave their packs and paddle bags back at the road, saving themselves the back breaking task of hauling their gear over the proverbial river and through the woods. A small root vine chose me as its victim and grabbed my right foot as we were walking along a particularly rutted section of the path. I’d like to say I fell gracefully, and a team that was walking behind us assured me that it was graceful, but I slammed into the ground like a sack of potatoes. I didn’t hurt myself, and actually breathed a sigh of relief at the momentary rest it afforded me. Chris helped me up, we re-shouldered our paddle bag and moved on.

Arriving to the boat launch we were told we would not only have to carry our packs and paddle bag down to the river (roughly 250 yards) but we would also be responsible for getting our canoe down the trail as well. Typing it out, it doesn’t seem like that big of a deal, but in my mind at the time it was quite an undertaking. We knew throwing all our gear into the canoe and attempting to make it in one trip was futile. We trudged down the narrow trail first with all our gear, dropped that off, returned to the road and our waiting canoe and hoofed it back to the river. While we were getting our gear situated into our canoe, a 2 person male team suggested all the teams currently preparing to launch off should head upstream together and try to locate CP 24 as a group. Sounded good to me! Chris was also game, though not as enthusiastically. We pushed off and turned north to paddle the roughly 2km against the stream route. I can say with 100% confidence that if we weren’t part of that group of racers we would NEVER have found that CP. The scale of the map made it appear that the CP would be at least mildly along the riverside and the clue “man made structure” gave the impression it would be quickly spotted. Nope. Nope, nope, nope, nope. It ended up being about 100 yards inland, tucked beside some sort of mini silo that was uncannily camouflaged into the surrounding environment. However we got it, we got it, and I thanked all the other racers we were privileged to be tagging along with for that point.

Back in the canoe we aimed south and started scooting along with the stream toward TA 4. As we passed by the original boat put in, we converged with another larger group of teams and collectively we spanned the river with our red Old Towne canoes. We fell into an easy conversation with a 2 person male team for a few minutes. It came up in conversation that at least 2 teams had opted to skip the paddle section and short course themselves to the following TA. I mentioned how silly I thought that was to miss out on a tush saving paddle in exchange for more butt brutalizing biking. I asked if they had a choice and he told me it was an offer they were given with the stipulation they would not be allowed to obtain any of the points on the leg they were bypassing. Well that would be nearly a no brainer! There were only 4 points on the entire 23 mile paddle. If you weren’t planning to clear the course, who wouldn’t opt to skip 8+ hours of paddling for 3 hours of biking?! (Me. It’s me who would rather paddle. But I’m not the norm.). We paddled on chatting with other teams and enjoying the day. Chris and his fair skin was starting to get overly crispy and for every 10 paddle strokes he made he seemed to be stopping for just as many to adjust this hood, or that buff, or those sunglasses. I thought it was cute at first be eventually I wanted to tap him on the head with my paddle and tell him to stop primping like a little princess and just paddle already! But I didn’t. I just kept paddling at a steady pace and took in the “pretty Florida birds” (I have no idea what they were called, so I named them myself) and beautiful palm lined shores. We eventually came to our first on river CP which was simply hung on a tree above the water line that required us to get out of the boat and scale up a small rock formation. Being as he was in the front of the boat, I voted for Chris to get the CP while I rested for a minute. (Since he had rested for all those primping moments, of course.) The solo male “Lonewolf” pulled up beside us and jokingly/seriously asked if we would punch his passport for him so he wouldn’t have to roll out of his snug kayak. I kinda picked up in the fact he was being serious, but Chris let the hint fly right past him and said “sure, just pass me your passport from the bottom of the ledge.” It took the loner no less than 5 minutes to extract himself from his cramped quarters and by the time he had painfully and rather vocally made his way to the ledge Chris was already back in our canoe pushing off from the shore line. I felt a little sorry for the gentleman and told myself if he caught back up with us by the next cp I would offered to punch the passport for him so he wouldn’t have to play out that sad theatrical ordeal again. Getting out of the canoe must have perked Chris up because he paddled stronger to the following CP that was located just a few km further downstream. As I had promised to myself, when Lonewolf glided up next to us and jovially pleaded for assistance again I happily obliged. I stepped out over the edge of our canoe into the knee deep water and as the cool water seeped into my right shoe and infiltrated that good old heel blister I immediately regretted my offer. Where the pain had been masked by Motrin, rest, and moleskin, it was awoken like a ravenous beast chewing away at the fragile and frayed nerve endings. I climbed up the rooty and jagged river edge and punched both our passports. Once back in the canoe I hung my right foot over the edge and tried to imagine the wound drying out and healing up.

It wasn’t long before we arrived to the portage point in our paddle leg. We had to take out our canoes at a boat ramp just before a large dam, carry all our stuff over the dam and put in on the far side. Have I mentioned how heavy those Old Towne tubs are? Google tells me 79lbs. I’m gonna believe that. We took the same approach as the beginning of the paddle and hauled all our gear first then came back and brought our canoe over the dam. As we were slowly making our way with that lead weight we were passed by at least 4 teams on bikes. BIKES!! It appeared more than just the two teams we had heard about were taking full advantage of the short course offer. Bogus. We were told we were “killing it” and we were “some seriously tough racers” but deep down we were cussing at the fact we were now falling behind the pack because we were simply following the designed course. Paddling is definitely where we can efficiently gain ground on many other teams, but that advantage was thrown out the door, along with a lot of energy, by this curve ball. Once we finally made our way back into the river over a field of boulders (cause there was no reachable boat ramp on the far side of the dam, just a rocky, vegetated shoreline, we returned to our steady paddling rhythm. Both of us grumbling every time a team scooted past us on their bikes. The headwinds and setting sun didn’t help our spirits. The lack of anymore CPs between us and the TA also sapped our motivation. Looking at the map it looked like we had nearly just as much distance to travel ahead as we had already paddled in the past 5 hours. The river wasn’t as bendy though, so perhaps it wouldn’t take quite as long. I looked ahead and saw power lines. Looking at the map, they looked to be approximately 1/4 the distance to the TA from where we were. I decided to time us to see how long it would take us to get to the lines and then figure how much longer the rest of the paddle would take. Within 15 minutes we were gliding under their crackling electrical current. An hour? Was this really only going to take another 45 minutes? Even if I was wrong, I was going to tell myself we only had another 45 minutes of paddling. It worked. We slammed into the shore line as hard and fast as we could, as instructed by the race staff at the shoreline, within the next hour.

The volunteers at the boat take out were full of praises for our speed at completing the paddle. Though we knew we had just paddled a pretty respectable distance, I was surprised to hear we had traveled over 23 miles by boat in less than 8 hours. Imagine how fast we could have gone if princess hadn’t done so much primping! (Forgive me, Chris. I’m still working through that one.) We collected our soggy and cold selves and made our way to the TA as the sun dipped below the horizon on day 2.

Arriving to TA 3 we set to changing into dry, warm clothes and shoes. I had changed in the porta potty and didn’t have the dexterity to get my shoes back on in the tight quarters so I hobbled back over to our bins with my heels hanging out of my shoes. I wanted to get a good look at my gaping hole of a heel before I shoved it back into a shoe. It didn’t look good. The moleskin was hanging on to a flap of skin and the skin that was still attached wasn’t looking very alive. It didn’t hurt nearly as bad as it looked like it should. So, I decided I wasn’t going to look at it. I dug through my comfort bag and found medical cling tape and started to hide my wound under a few layers of camouflage, popped a few more Motrin and forgot about it. Once i squealed my way back into a shoe and took a few steps, my mind over matter approach worked. We dropped off our paddle bag, swapped out maps, dawned our head lamps and headed out on a sunset trek. As we walked toward the open area of Sunny Hill Conservation Area we ran into team ARDotWatch. We hugged, high-fived, and hemmed and hawed about the paddle. We all enjoyed the chat and the opportunity to stand still for a few moments. I realized I had left my compass back at the bin and scurried back to get it. When we got out to the open area we saw that ARDotWatch was heading in our planned direction of travel. I hate feeling like I’m following another team and mooching off their navigation, so I stubbornly decided to change the direction of our planned route so that we wouldn’t be following another team.

It took me a few minutes of walking to reorient myself to the new plan. It threw me off more than I expected and I wasn’t able to make sense of the interchange of trails to the northeast of the TA where I was looking for a route to CP 27. We putzed around for a few minutes before Chris convinced me to throw in the towel on that CP and move on. With the knowledge that after this small trek section we were planning to take our first sleep, his motivation to get it over with was pretty high. We turned north and headed for CP 29. Walking on a straight, hard packed trail gave us the opportunity to shine our lights all around. We were catching the reflection of hundreds of little beady eyes in the grassy swampy patches on either side of the trail. I mentioned to Chris that the place must be riddled with little possums and rodents with so many sets of peepers looking at us. We chatted until we heard a splash much closer than we had expected. We slowed and really took a good look into the swampy abyss to our left and right. We started to perceive a soft chattering sound all around us and so. many. eyes. FFS. Those weren’t rodent eyes. We were literally surrounded by gators. I was both thrilled and terrified. I knew those beasts weren’t going to come storming up on the trail to snap off an appendage, but there was something unsettling about knowing I was staggering along a gator lined trail, sleep deprived and searching for hidden white and orange flags in the dark. Whenever we would spot a rather larger pair of peepers we would keep our light directly on them until either they would sink below the water or we would walk out of their line of sight. The baby gator chattering was almost cute, if only it didn’t guarantee a big protective momma gator was close by.

We arrived to where I pegged the CP to be. And it was actually there, just on the far side of one of the beady eye filled swamp plots. We had seen a slight split in the trail just a few hundred yards back so I turned back and told Chris to keep his light shining on the CP. I jogged back (yes, actually jogged) to the intersection, crossed over a dry trail to the far side of the creek bed and found a foot trail that paralleled the trail Chris was on. I found the tree with the CP and saw that it grew out over the creek. I had to shimmy about 4 feet up the trunk of the slanted tree to reach the CP over the creek. My whole body shook, I don’t know if it was fear of falling into what I was certain was an Indiana Jones pit of gators, or simple exertional exhaustion. After I completed that ordeal and retuned to Chris it seemed we were on the return to our sweet sleep plan. Just two more CPs, both on the way to the TA. We found the next CP without a hitch, and the following one would just be down the trail, hang a left and follow the river back to the TA. Only after CP 30 the trail ended into what looked like waist deep swamp water. We could see the other side of the trail that would lead us along our intended route, but about 30m of deep, dark, swamp water stood in our way. We looked to the north, we looked toward the south. We even tested a few dry looking patches to see if we could somehow hop across. It was a big fat “no” or possibly become baby gator grub. We did have an option to go back on the trail we had turned onto and then turn north, and take the long route around. If we went that far, it would only make sense to also punch CP 31, which we hadn’t planned on grabbing. We could then go on and get 32 as planned. Without missing a beat, Chris declined this offer and said we were going back the way we came and getting the blessed 2 hour nap he had been promised. Fair enough. As we walked back I began to feel more exhausted than I expected, while Chris had a sleep motivated pep to his step. I suggested he navigate back to the TA so I could detach my mind for some mindless trekking. He agreed. We made it back to the TA, ate some hot noodle soup, drank some sort of hot liquids, angled our bins to block the wind and bedded down in our sleeping bags for our first rest in nearly 36 hours. I shoved ear plugs in my ears, cracked open some hot hands, and buried myself deep into my sleeping bag. We both slept hard for a solid 2 hours until Chris’s watch woke us up. Ever so reluctantly and slowly we emerged from our snuggly bags of warmth and over the next 30 minutes packed up our sleeping arrangements, and prepared for our next biking leg. Looking around we noticed the once bustling TA was now nearly desolate. There were only about 4 other teams milling about, less than a dozen bins, and hardly any race staff. We were back to the back of the pack after our much needed rest.

We mounted our bikes feeling just about as refreshed as you could imagine we would given our circumstances. The next bike leg seemed straightforward and paved. Nothing out of our abilities. Other than a few pesky way points, we had a straight shot to the next TA. We started out on a larger road but then turned off and followed along residential roads. With the busyness of the map, I missed a CP we had planned to get, though thankfully I realized it relatively quickly. We turned around from the way point on the corner of rt 450 and back tracked to CP 33 where the flag was hanging on a state park gate. We then high tailed it across rolling hills and county roads until we came to the Umatilla skate park where we found the CP hanging off a small oak tree. The race staff had mentioned that the possibility of that CP being stolen was high, so if we couldn’t find it we were to take a picture of the large wooden totem pole at the park. Prior to finding the CP we went ahead and snapped a picture of said structure. This was honestly the ONLY time I pulled my phone out of its waterproof case lodged at the bottom of my pack.

We left the park and headed East and toward a larger road. Along route 44a I was mumbling something about the amount of lakes in the area when Chris interrupted me to say “I think we just passed a dead guy on the side of the road.” I’m embarrassed to say it took me a good 5 minutes to register what he said in such a calm, matter of fact voice. Once I realized what he said I stopped and tried to understand exactly what he saw. We deduced that either it was a hallucination or he saw someone passed out sleeping off a ringer of a night. He didn’t see any injuries on the guy and he was 90% sure he saw the guy breathing. I am still having slight guilt for not going back to confirm that the guy was just drunk. If anyone heard about a hit and run in the area in the early morning hours of February 23rd, we’re willing to give a statement, as unreliable as it might be.

After the questionable crime scene, we missed our turn onto Bill Collins road, but reoriented ourselves within a few hundred feet. We climbed and descended more hills along that area than I thought were possible for central Florida. We came to another intersection on route 44a and took a right heading east. I was under the impression that even if we weren’t planning to get CPs 35 and 36 we still needed to hit the waypoint along the way, but Chris assured me that was only there if we were planning to go for the CPs, so we scooted past the turn off. We uneventfully arrived to TA 4 around 4 am and checked in for our chance at the o course relays. The food tent was up and running and had plenty of leftover bacon egg and cheese sandwiches to fill our cold bellies. We helped unload our bins, which had JUST arrived, and set up shop next to a patch of trees near a loud humming generator. We rested for just a few short minutes before packing up again and heading out on the longer of the two o-courses together. We found a small kiosk with maps of the local trails and tried to make sense of the squiggly lines. We set out in the direction I thought was accurate only to find myself second guessing my route repeatedly. It wasn’t until we had gone about a half mile and found ourselves at a church and large open field area that was absolutely not accounted for on the map that I finally allowed logical thought to win and we headed back in the direction we came. Chris was falling further and further behind my pace and I realized he was either going to completely fall apart or argue repeatedly with my plans to get the 5 CPs I had had planned for that course. The course design was set up so that only one member of the team had to do a course on this leg while the other could rest. It only made sense to send Chris back to the TA as we passed by it, now heading along the correct trajectory. He didn’t argue. I told him I would be back to the TA by 7ish and if I wasn’t back by 8 to start to worry. He mumbled what I think was an acknowledgement and headed to our bins.

I picked up my pace and headed into the map. I confirmed my place on the map with every bend in the trail until I came to the spot where CP 37 should have been located. I looked for the pond along which the cp would be found. I couldn’t find it. I figured the sun would be up by the time I came back by here to return to the TA, why not grab this point then when the sun would be able to unmask these hidden features. I navigated on to CP 38 and started to shoot a bearing from the turn in the road when I met up with 3 women racers. They asked if I was looking for 38, which they had just found. I’m not one to turn down a little race magic so I took their advice to “simply go for that tree over there. Not that one or that one, but the one there, you see it?!” Yea, totally. I didn’t see it. I went off into the direction I thought they had been pointing and meandered around for about 10 minutes before succumbing to the fact I would have to hope sunlight would help me out with this CP as well. I made my way back out into the trail feeling beat, dejected, and like an imposter. I go off on my own and can’t find a single CP. I had been navigating the entire time, but without a teammate to give me assurances and bounce ideas off of, I was proving to be quite worthless. I trudged on down the road, still planning to go for CPs 39, 44, and 45. I was walking along the main trail waiting for the trail to the left to just pop up and tell me I was on the right route. When a trail showed up to my right I knew it wasn’t the right one, but I immediately started second guessing my resolve. I could hear male voices coming up behind me on the trail and I weakly decided to wait for them to pass me and follow them to the right trail. I busied myself reorganizing my maps when it hit me. I’m NOT a bad navigator. I DONT need to follow men. I HAVE sense and can trust my gut. I set back out with more confidence than I had had a few minutes before and soon enough found the exact trail I had been hoping to stumble upon. I walked south and found the creek along which CP 39 was located. I heard no less than 5 teams stomping around in those woods looking for the CP. I considered wondering around as well, ears peeled for a “I found it!” But my resolve to be independent won and I decided that was another CP would grab on my way back through. The sun was climbing higher toward the horizon and the next CP wasn’t far away. I headed on, keeping a close eye on the turns in the trail and thumbing the map. I neared the area where I was planning to turn off into the woods to find a spring where CP 45 would be when something outside of myself told me to look to the right. Directly beside me was a well worn foot path that I nearly walked right past. It’s like God stopped me in my tracks and showed me though I was capable at many things, He always had more info and a better way to show me. I took the blessing for what it was and headed down the trail. It ended right at a bubbling little spring. Though the CP wasn’t right in front of me, I had no doubt it was in the area. I rooted around for less than 5 minutes before I spotted it on the other side of a small creek. Still not wanting to wet my fragile right heel, I shimmied across the creek on a fallen log, punched the CP and hiked back up to the main trail. Renewed with confidence I headed on and perfectly pace counted out CP 44. By this time the sun was above the horizon and shedding beautiful light in the forest. I made my way back to the location of CP 39 and took a good look at the map trying to find clues to help me dive into the woods at just the right location. I pace counted down a trail that paralleled the creek and shot into the palms directly northward. The terrain obviously became more and more swampy as I neared the creek. I was so confident in my navigating I wasn’t concerned about much else. As I was nearing the creek I stepped on a log that sounded like it was above a hollow patch of ground. It made a strange sound, so naturally I stomped it again to hear it again. It didn’t make the sound. I stomped again, still no replaying of that strange sound. I look to my left then right and noticed a small pool of murky water. Laying half submerged in that pool was a 2 foot long little….. GATOR!!! Now I admit I was tired enough to have hallucinated the reptile, but I would put a whole lot of money on the fact I was having a staring contest with a juvenile Florida alligator. I stayed perfectly still for a moment, seriously considering digging for my phone to snap a picture of the bugger when sensibility won and I said “CP 39 is yours buddy, it’s not worth it to me!” And I hightailed it out of that predicament and back onto the trail. I was WIDE awake at that point and along with the sun warming the air, my adrenaline had heated me right up. As I walked I stripped out of multiple layers of warmth and eventually made it back to the location of CP 38. I met up with one of the guys we had chatted with on the last paddle and we decided to head in to the woods to find the CP together. We headed in the exact same direction and quickly located the CP right next to “that” tree the lady had pointed out to me earlier that morning. I went on to easily spot the pond side CP that had eluded me in the dark. By this time it was a few minutes after 8 and I figured Chris would either be up starting to fuss in his head about having to talk to people and ask if they had seen me out and about, or he would still be fast asleep.

When I got back to the TA, Chris was upright and rummaging in the bins, obviously refreshed and functional. He had had a good, uninterrupted 2 hour sleep thanks to the steady hum of the nearby generator that blocked out the noise of the TA. I was feeling just a little on the depleted side and asked if he was planning to go out for the second relay. He didn’t exactly jump at the opportunity. I offered to go along with him. He still didn’t seem thrilled or even game for the opportunity. What do we do in such situations? Well, we do what has to be done. I walked over to the check in desk and grabbed the next map to plan my route. The B course had a total of 6 CPs and roughly 7 miles. I picked out 2 CPs and headed out on my own. As I entered the trailhead, two men, obviously not part of the race, also entered the trail. I don’t think of myself as weak, and I generally believe most people are good. But for just a few moments I was uncomfortable in the thought that if these two guys were up to no good, I wouldn’t be able to put up a very strong fight. Thankfully, there were plenty of other racers off and on the trails, and before I know it I had forgotten about the strolling gentlemen.

I was moving a little slower but still felt good. I came to the first body of water that CP 51 was located on, barged through a thick wall of saw palmetto and wondered north along the water edge looking for the “small oak cluster near pine graveyard.” I saw plenty of dead pine trees and a bunch of little oak trees but no CP. I kept scooting along and fell in behind a 2 person team who obviously thought I was stalking them for help. When I was close enough to say something I tried to make eye contact and strike up a conversation but she wanted no parts of a social interaction and sped up to her teammate to tell him to quiet down or he would give away some coveted intel. I paused for a moment to give her some space and then went back to my search. I found the CP and punched it. Looking back to the west I saw Miles, the previous youngest Sea2Sea record holder, crossing a marshy bog heading toward the CP. I talked to him for just a few minutes and then headed back to the trail I had been on. I headed west toward CP 50 along a pond side trail. I was trying to thumb the map to keep track of my distance but the pretty scenery and warm sun distracted me. I shot into the woods where I thought I saw a trail just to end up at a marshy dead end. I came back out to the main trail and wondered further. I started to head down another trail with an arrow sign at the beginning pointing further west to “heaven.” After walking just a few meters down the trail I was convinced I had gone too far and returned to the main trail. There I met up with a solo male racer and we together tried to figure out our exact location on the map. As we were talking, another team popped out of the trail I had just gone down and said “you want this trail.” Well dang. I had been right, just not confident. Imagine that. Together, the soloist and I walked down the trail toward “heaven” talking about ultras, hallucinations, and navigating. All delightful topics of conversation. We found the CP and I thanked him for his help and headed back to the TA. Within about 10 minutes he came trotting up and passed me doing the AR shuffle. I debated about keeping pace with him but decided my AR saunter was more my current mood. I eventually made my way back to the TA where Chris had procured a scrumptious quesadilla for me. He had actually acquired two, realized they had peppers on them, and gave me his as well. I nearly inhaled both in record time as I sat, mindlessly staring at the busyness of the TA. Chris had also filled all my waters and organized the next set of maps I would need. He is fantastic at the little details I sometimes overlook. Once the calories started to hit me, I was back. Chris had peeked at the next leg and saw that we would be on a mix of trails and roads. I started to plan out our route and saw that the first page was nearly all trail. I prayed that they were nice, friendly Florida trails that didn’t hold miles of sugar sand.

I went into the bathroom to change and realized at that point that there would be no more changing of anything below the waist for fear of wakening the heel blister dragon that was somehow still hibernating under layers of bandage wrap and Motrin. I sometimes think I’m gross after a long run or a legit CrossFit workout. That bar has been lowered from this race. I once again just slipped a pair of bike shorts over my leggings and we set out. The trail out of the TA was the same I had walked along for the A O course. I pointed out the mishaps and little wins I had had on the trek to Chris as we biked along. It gave him absolutely no FOMO. We cruised past the turnoff I had taken to CP 39 and maintained our west/southwest heading. The trail became loose, sugary, and slow. We rode along the sides of the trail as much as possible and truly only pushed the bikes for about 100 meters. We found CP 52 without a problem and then headed on. We linked up with a few other teams around this point but within another 2 km we had pulled ahead some and chose different routes. It’s reassuring when the map perfectly matches the land, but AR isn’t perfect, and many of the maps we work with are also far from it. Through a series of second guesses, irrational confidence, and honestly some dumb luck, we made it out of the maze of trails and on to CP 53 ahead of all those teams we had linked up with. The dirt road became a paved road which lead us to a blessed gas station along route 44. We stopped in for some much much MUCH needed chapstick and a cold soda. I made the mistake of buying a peppermint infused chapstick that made my sun and wind fried lips scream in protest at its application. It was a good pain. We forded on along route 44 beside a steady stream of non-bike friendly motorists. Some were kind enough to merge over as they passed us, but just as many seemed to be making a game of how close they could fly past and not QUITE hit us with their side mirrors.

We eventually arrived to Ed Stone Park and found CP 54. Our old friend Dan was perched on a picnic table taking a breather in the warm afternoon sunlight. We talked for just a minute before heading back off. Chris pointed out the 15th discarded mattress along the side of the road near the park. I laughed wondering if all those mattresses were grossing him out or tempting him to take a nap on them. Desperate times, man. We didn’t nap though. Somehow we were still upright and making good time.

Chris’s Aunt Lori, who lives just south of the town we were coming into, had told us she was going to make an effort to meet us at the next CP located at a ball park in DeLand. Motivation to see a friendly, familiar face kicked in and we navigated (nearly) flawlessly to CP 55. I love racing out in the “wild” but there is a cool aspect to urban navigation. I kinda love the strange looks we get when a whole squad of us coming rolling into town, bleary eyed, and grimy. We certainly looked the part as we crossed over rt 17/92 and pulled into the parking lot of the ball field. The giddiness I felt seeing Aunt Lori smiling and waving to us was awesome. Knowing it was just another Saturday afternoon for her, and everyone else in that town, made me all the more proud to be part of such a cool (in my mind) adventure. After giving her fair warning about the state of our personal hygiene, we hugged Lori and hopped off our bikes for a few minutes of rest. We talked for about 10 minutes before we felt compelled to head on with our race. As we turned north along 17/92 we saw remnants of a parade that had just ended in downtown DeLand. Pulling up to an intersection, I spotted two municipal workers and decided to ask them the best route to our next CP at Skydive DeLand. They confirmed that Old Daytona rd was our best bet, but gave us the advice to hop over a few streets to the west to avoid the hullabaloo of Main Street. It was solid advice and we scooted along Amelia street much quicker than we would have on Main Street. We arrived to the roadway that would lead us into the industrial complex housing Skydive Deland and narrowed down our route directly to CP 56. There was a splattering of racers hanging around the CP eating snacks, resting, and enjoying the view of the crazy loons voluntarily jumping out of perfectly good airplanes. To each his own.

The next plan was to continue on Old Daytona and merge onto US 92 after the off limits section. We followed the roadway but it lead directly to 92, well before where we were allowed to ride on it. The road name didn’t match either. We turned around and returned to the CP point. I tried to take the road that the CP was physically on, but it ended in a parking lot that fenced off the landing strip. Now what the…. One of the other racers pointed out the update we had all received at the last TA which a majority of us had forgotten that quickly. There was a bike path that paralleled 92 for the span of the runway. We were to follow that path, return to Old Daytona, and then merge onto 92 at the intersection. We followed this route and saw where we were supposed to turn back off onto Marsh road. The bulk of the racers in front of us remained on the bike trail lining 92 rather than returning to Old Daytona. We toyed with the idea of following suit, but ended up following the assumed course design. Either way we only added on less than half a km, and we were sure not to break/bend any rules of travel. Once we returned to 92 we were forced to ride along the roadside while cars sped past us going about 65 mph. It wasn’t too terrible until a huge, noisy moving truck flew past us and shook me to my core. We followed this road for about 3 km before turning off on a dirt road heading northwest toward CP 57. We stopped next to an antenna tower for a quick pee break just down that road. Coming back out toward our bikes we saw a male soloist cruise by in the opposite direction. It didn’t make sense to see this. There was an obvious connecting trail from 57 almost directly to CP 58. I asked him if everything was ok, assuming he had dropped something or was heading back for some out of the ordinary reason. He bluntly stated he was fine and then after a pause asked facetiously if we were ok. Point taken. I responded with my usual “peachy keen, jelly bean” and rolled my eyes.

As i waited for Chris to finish up his time in the woods, I discovered a forgotten can of Orange Fanta in my pack. Oh happy day! I cracked it open and greedily chugged its contents, fully intending to save at least half for Chris. But I couldn’t stop. Before I knew it I had slugged down the entire can, and when I came up for air I was face to face with a crushed and thirsty husband. I’m a terrible person. I apologized profusely, but Chris feigned a deep crushing hurt. I still feel really bad for that one. I’m not even that big of a fan of the fluorescent concoction, but my standards drop out on these races.

We mounted our bikes and continued the ride northwest toward the trail intersection that would lead us to the next TA. We passed more and more teams all heading back the way we had come. The soloist wasn’t alone. We finally asked someone why everyone was turning back. We were told “once you get to the trail, you’ll see.” And we did. The trail was a chunky, soft, rutted, mess. It all but screamed out “attempt this and your spine, quads, and all accessory muscles will pay a dear price.” We opted to trek in for the point, return to the bikes, return to 92 and follow it for about 8km and shoot up another road toward CP 58. Along the roadside of 92 a local Florida man had set up a small produce tent with fresh produce and gator jerky. Another team had stopped and we each had the idea to do the same but were holding out waiting for the other to say something. As much as those oranges looked life giving, I had no desire to carry the 10lb bags he was selling.

We made it to the turn off and crossed over 4 lanes of traffic at a light. The entertainment for the ride to the CP was provided by a Tom turkey who had gotten separated from his gaggle of girls and was desperately trying to reunite with them. Poor guy. We started to hear the pop pop pop of gunfire and while Chris immediately knew it meant there was a shooting range near by, I assumed it was some disgruntled band of locals protesting the arrival of this motley crew of ruffian racers. Thankfully, Chris was right, not me. We followed the road as it became more and more narrow and rutted. We eventually came to a beautiful little park with a pavilion and dock out onto the quiet and secluded Indian Lake. There was another small fleet of racers taking a breather at this site. As Chris and I walked down the long boardwalk of the dock toward the CP, I realized it felt like home. If you would have plopped me down in that exact site without telling what state I was in, I would have said Delaware without missing a beat. Another racer approached us and asked if we wanted our picture taken at the CP since it was such a beautiful and peaceful backdrop. We eagerly agreed, thanking him all the while. He handed his phone to me afterwards and said “text it to yourself so you have it when you get back.” What a thoughtful and kind gesture! I loved seeing that picture pop up when I finally opened my phone the next day.

We returned to the dirt road that lead north and spent the next 10km trucking along. We were stuck on this route for a while, and I was starting to fall back in my pace. Chris was riding to my right and between us we were bebopping back and forth across the road trying to avoid as many pot holes as possible. I eventually had the idea to draft behind him for a while. I wouldn’t have to think to navigate, I could follow his lead to avoid potholes, and I would be able to take a little break and let him pull for a while. It was a wonderful little blessing. We maintained that formation for more than 3/4 of that long slog north. The clouds in the sky were becoming more and more ominous, and I was worried the originally clear forecast had been false. Thankfully, we only received about 10 minutes of super light drizzle during that ride. Finally, we began to see flashes of cars glide by in the distance and we knew we were nearing rt 40 and subsequently, CP 59. We found the CP easily and arrived to the intersection of route 40. As we were coming out of our saddles to gain some speed Chris lost his balance and nearly head dove over his handle bars while trying to adjust his bike light. It looked scarier than it felt for him because he was totally calm as he righted himself while I let out that annoying “Ohhhya” that I always do when I’m surprised by something. We both got ourselves organized with headlamps and bike lights since we were going to be on a larger road again. We only had about 2km before we turned off onto a much less traveled road. The right and the left of this entire roadway was taken up by development after development of brand new housing. Where would all the people come from to fill this plethora of residences?! I’m talking THOUSANDS of new homes and row houses. It was almost eerie. We could hear the roar of 95 in the distance. My planned route kept us to the west of the interstate and on a smaller roadway for about 4km. There was another road that paralleled 95 to the east, and I’m not sure why I didn’t plan for that option. It had an obvious way to cross 95 safely where my route choice wasn’t so clear. As we road north on the west side of the interstate I started to get a sinking feeling that I hadn’t chosen wisely. The map didn’t show a clear way to cross over or under 95, and as much as I like fording new and risky paths, crossing 95 at dusk didn’t sound like a good time to me. I studied the map as we rode north. I came up with a sketchy backup plan if we ended up not being able to cross 95 easily. By the grace of God, we didn’t have to carry out that plan. My route choice ended with an underpass that safely brought us to the correct side of 95 and right on path toward our next TA. We crossed a set of railroad tracks and I yelled back to Chris that my butt needed a 5 minute break. While I wasn’t anywhere near as uncomfortable as I had been on last year’s race, my tush was still feeling quite terrorized. Confusion monsters struck while we were stopped for those few moments. I somehow thought we still needed to go slightly to the East before continuing north on Plantation Road. So rather than simply crossing over rt 1, I lead Chris on a wild goose chase down rt 1, across multiple business parking lots and grassy front lawns before finally realizing I had goofed somewhere. I stopped and really looked at the map for a few moments before realizing where I had fumbled. We did a 180 and returned to the intersection of 1 and Plantation. The remainder of the ride into TA 5 was filled with 12 more km of blessedly smooth, but narrow shouldered roadways.

Around 8 pm we made our way into TA 5 to the cheers and shouts of a group of amazing volunteers full of an energy we desperately needed to be a part of. We checked in, located our bins and were literally served steaming bowls of pasta directly to our bins by a volunteer who I owe so much to. I didn’t catch her name, or even a clear view of her face in the dark, but whoever you are, I owe you so much for your willingness to serve. Even if you’re not a Christian, you made Jesus smile through your kindness. And you made me tear up! We wolfed down the food, chugged a few cans of soda and tried to decide our next plan of action. I was bone tired at this point, and the thought of going out for even one CP at that time was too much for me. I told Chris I needed some sort of rest, even if it was only for a few minutes. I didn’t want to drag out my sleeping bag and ground pad, so I settled for my repurposed bivy from last year and my inflatable pillow. I shoved in my earplugs, crawled in to my bivy without taking off my shoes, curled onto my side, covered my face with my visor and fell asleep hard and fast. After about an hour Chris shook my foot to wake me up. Initially I was enraged to be awoken, but once I remembered who and where I was, I accepted my current fate and situation and sat up. I was starting to shiver and with my most pitiful and desperate voice, I begged Chris to get me a cup of hot water so I could warm up before I emerged from my cocoon of warmth. He is so good to me.

After sipping down the first cup I was able to crawl out of the bivy, walk to get another one, and soon enough we were walking down the trails to get the one and only CP we were planning to obtain on this whole trek/paddle section. I had originally said I wanted to touch each leg of the course by getting at least one CP on each part. Chris very bluntly said, on multiple occasions over the past 12 hours, that he had ZERO interest or willingness to get back in a canoe for the reminder of the race. He also wasn’t going to be talked into any impressive length of distance for trekking at the trek/paddle section. For these reasons, and because I was loosing my resolve to get as many CPs as I could con Chris into going for, we chose to only go for CP 60. The out and back took well less than an hour. When we got back to the TA we set to preparing for our last leg of the race. A final bike ride north along the coast with 5 last CPs. We decided since we almost completely skipped out on the trek paddle leg, we would try to clear this last ride. As we were checking out of the TA , team Lazy Man Running, another 2 person coed team, came coasting in on fumes. I had enjoyed talking with them last year in the race, but hadn’t seen much of them in this years course. She looked just about as bad as I had felt when we had pulled into the TA a few hours earlier. I touched her arm and said “I felt as bad as you do right now, but some food and a quick hour long nap can change everything. You got this, friend!” I don’t know if my words registered in her head, but my heart went out to her. (They went on to win 3rd in the 2 person coed division, so I know she had it in her! Tough woman!!)

Chris and I eased our sore tushes back into our saddles and headed out into the night around midnight. We helped an all male team pinpoint CP 68 at a trail intersection, and then assisted them in locating the bike station for CP 69. After this CP we made a few different route choices than them and we separated. We had to cross an inter coastal waterway via a big, beautiful ornate bridge and I can say cruising down that far side of the bridge was life giving. Freezing! But life giving. Once we made our way onto route A1A it felt like we were on the home stretch. While we still had another 30km before we would hit the pier and cp 72, we were really just a hop, skip, and a jump away from the finish.

We cruised north on A1A for a few km, noticing a comforting police presence. I’m not sure if it was the uppity neighborhoods we were passing, who undoubtedly demanded proper security, or if it was our strange arrival, but those officers were keeping a close eye on us. As we were mindlessly cruising along I would point out obstacles along our path so Chris could avoid them. I was late to point out a pile of fur and goo and Chris plowed right over a dead possum. I apologized for not alerting him and he very calmly accepted the fact… that he thought he ran over a live possum and killed it! I laughed out loud at his lack of emotion for what he thought was the nursery of a marsupial! Like zero emotion! Poor guy was running on E and couldn’t care less. But he was still upright and we were still moving forward, so I wasn’t going to make a big deal about it.

A1A angled closer and closer to the beach. We were beginning to hear the crashing wave, smell the salty air, and feel the chilling mist of the Atlantic. I regretted being on that section of the race in the dead of the night. While it made the roadways blessedly empty, it also masked the beautiful scenery we were undoubtedly missing. We came to our turn off for CP 70 and made our way down a hard packed dirt road. Arriving to the prominent bend in the road, we hopped off our bikes and started searching for the “cedar tree” that held our next CP. The three man team caught up with us here and joined the search. After about 5 minutes one of them found it and hollered out. We thanked them for their help and they returned the thanks for the previous 2 assists we provided them. Chris and I mounted our bikes to head off, pausing to see if they wanted to ride along together, but they stated they were in need of a reprieve and were planning to take a break for a few minutes here. We waved them goodbye and headed back out to A1A.

After a few more km we were starting to look out for CP 71 with the clue “dead cedar over looking Fort Matanzas.” I narrowed in on the fact it HAD to be at the park that housed a ferry to the fort. Like I did not see any other possibility. For that reason, when we arrived to the park, which had a locked gate and a obvious “NO TRESPASSING” sign, I ignored all the hints, stating “rules don’t apply to adventure racers.” Even after Chris questioned my plans multiple times, I still scooted under the locked gate and plowed on into the NO TRESPASSING area.
The park was beautiful, even in the dark. We searched around the shoreline to the left, not quite sure what direction the fort was from the ferry launch. The dark of night hid anything in the distance. I returned to our bikes and looked over all the information plaques until I got an idea which direction the far off fort was. I then painstakingly picked through the shoreline to the right. Chris had given up on this approach and chose to look down the nature trail for something that might make sense. We both returned after no less than an hour of futile searching. I was ticked. Later, once I saw on the tracker where the actual CP was located, I realized my unfounded insistence that the CP would be at that particular park had blinded me to other hints on the map that would have guided me directly to its whereabouts. We reluctantly returned to the main road and headed north. Less than a km away was another park that would have afforded tourists a view of Fort Matanzas. In another futile attempt, we entered this open park and spent another 15 minutes looking for the CP that was actually south of where we were focusing all our attention. We finally totally threw in the towel on that CP and headed back to the main road. A solo male racer was just ahead of us and I pushed to catch up with him just to see if he had found CP 71, not that I was planning to go back and get it. Probably. He said he had looked for only a few minutes and gave up on it. Fair enough. Chris and I plugged onward on this last long, lonely section of roadway, leaving the soloist behind. Our butts were brutalized, our shoulders stabbing with pain, but we were so close. I asked Chris if he needed a rest stop and he heartily agreed. We stopped on the side of the road and allowed the blood flow to return to our bottoms. I stared into the map, willing the distance to minimize. After a minute or so I asked if he was ready to move on. I don’t know if I even heard a response, but I hopped back on my bike and started off. Apparently, he had said “no” and was beginning to pull out a snack when I flew off into the night. I eventually realized I was riding solo about a km down the road. I figured I was pushing him too hard and slowed down my pace. His light wasn’t getting any closer. I slowed down even more. Still no closer. I finally stopped and waited for him to catch up. When he did it was obvious he was on his very last shred of love for me. In marriage, you learn when and how to approach your spouse in their bad moments. For Chris, it’s silence. Don’t poke the bear. So I went on quietly ticking off the km until we passed a beautiful, wonderful, fantastic sign stating “St. Augustine Beach.”

In my excitement of being so close to the finish, I started calling out things to look for. Road names, bodies of water, and finally the actual pier where our beloved CP 72 would be awaiting our arrival. Chris wasn’t responding to any of my comments, so I figured he was ignoring me. Later I found out he was just ASLEEP. Like literally sleeping during long blinks on his bike. The Lord sustains us, right?! Cause that is the only explanation I can find for him not falling over and crashing on that last section of roadway.

We arrived to the pier in the dark of night and punched the CP at 5:54 am. Only the absolute faintest of light was showing in the far off distance over the Atlantic. Randy, the photographer, was there is snap the obligatory CP 72 photos, but otherwise, we were alone on the beach. Chris had no desire to walk down to the waves, and I truly wish I had insisted, but we turned and headed back to our bikes. The whole atmosphere was so strange. Where last year there was a near frenzy of excitement and euphoria at this point, it was now so quiet, calm, and surreal. My absolute favorite part of last year’s race was coming over the bridge and through the city, yelling, cheering, and fist bumping to every last racer we passed. The camaraderie and empathy we felt with and for other racers was so ethereal. This year it was just Chris and me and the quiet, early morning streets of St. Augustine. It wasn’t until we were within a few blocks of the finish that we passed a Warrior van the honked and cheered as we rode by. Last year these streets were lined with other participants who had either tapped out or come in much earlier than we had, all cheering and clapping at our accomplishment.
With the entrance to the finishing line in sight we pedaled strong to come in fast and hard. We turned the corner into a near empty yard to see our flock of beloved kiddos standing idly around in an early morning fog. Not a one of our brood are “morning people” so for them all to be lined up awaiting our arrival was no small feat for them or my mom who had to drag them all out of their beds to witness their crazy parents crossing the finish line. I skitted into a stop right infront of them and reached out for all their little (and not so little) arms to hug and kiss all of them. They were ever so slightly hesitant to embrace us in our current states of filth, but they at least humored us with quick embraces. My mom came trotting up from the far parking lot, sad to have missed our grand arrival. Save for one single race staff member, we were the only people in sight. The early morning hour kept the finish line music and cow bells out of the line up, and we crossed over the line and handed over our tracker quietly, but proudly. The staff member snapped our picture and then offered to get one with us and our support crew of kids and my mom. We could not have done the race without them. And we definitely could not have completed such a feat without each other.

Adventure racing is more than just a physical sport. It’s strategy, endurance, teamwork, mental fortitude, and just about the most perfect way to make memories with people you have to trust and love. Not every race needs to change you, but thankfully, most do. The 2025 Sea to Sea expedition race changed me, and I’m fairly certain it changed Chris. He saw his wife do things no man should have to witness, but he also saw me lead our team across the state of Florida *relatively* safely and efficiently. He saw me maintain grit when it would have been so much easier to give up and back down. And I saw him. I saw him break through barriers, shine in the ways God has gifted him, and become even more so the husband I need and adore. I’m not saying adventure racing is better than therapy if your marriage is on the shakey ground. In fact, that would be a terrible idea. But if you’re in a solid, loving relationship, an expedition race could bring you to a whole new level of marital meshing, you just have to make it through the marital mayhem first.

We didn’t podium, we didn’t even come close. We did, however, fantastically succeed in meeting our goals. We finished 46th out of 81 original teams. We punched 35 out of 72 checkpoints. We completed the course as designed and unassisted. We remain married and we didn’t die. Maybe not an official win, but a total win emotionally, physically, and relationally. I’ll take it.