2024 Sea to Sea Adventure Race: Northern Route Race Recap

This Sea to Sea adventure race recap is going to require one hell of a preface. Please stick with me.

A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to have a conversation with Jason Magness on the Bend Racing Podcast. One of the topics we briefly touched upon was participant safety during adventure races. How much of the onus of safety lies on the shoulders of a race director, and how much is the responsibility of the racers themselves?

There is no easy answer when it comes to adventure racing specifically.

Unlike traditional endurance races that cover a marked, pre-determined course, the very nature of adventure racing demands that participants often choose their own route or parts of their route, and constantly make choices that will determine the outcome of their race. Every single one of those choices will require an athlete to weigh their own risk versus reward. The "risk" may be something such as added time to their race clock, or it may be their own personal safety.

And in order for that freedom of choice to exist in adventure racing, race directors cannot control every single variable. There is always going to be a greater level of risk in an adventure race than you would find on a traditional, pre-marked course.

But, does that mean that race directors are completely absolved of responsibility in ensuring participants safety? I'm not looking for an answer, but rather, just presenting something to think about as a preface to this race report.

The following story I'm about to tell reflects our team's experience and thoughts about the 2024 Sea to Sea Adventure Race. Spoiler alert: we did not have a good time at this race for a number of reasons I'll get into soon enough.

I have no doubt that there are other racers who will read this and feel they cannot relate, as they had a vastly different experience than we did. And in telling my experience and sharing my observations, I truly do not want to take away from their experiences. I adore and respect my fellow adventure racing athletes more than words can say.

It can be hard being the one to speak up, the squeaky wheel if you will, especially in a community where "suck it up, stop complaining, and get the hard thing done" is the modus operandi.

But I also know for a fact that there are many racers who had very similar experiences to ours this past weekend, and feel the same way that we do as we reflect back on our race.

Nevertheless, one of the great things about free will and a free market, is that we all ultimately have a choice in what sort of risks we are willing and comfortable taking, and what we are willing to spend our hard earned money on. So, this is my story.

Pre-Race:

As many of you already know, last year we raced Sea to Sea in the middle of Geoff's shingles diagnosis. Was it a stupid move? Probably, but his doctor (reluctantly) approved, and we had put way too much time and money into the race to skip it. We took it slow, skipped a ton of check points, and ultimately finished. Somehow, we managed to place 3rd in our category, which truly felt like a bit of a joke, because we moseyed our way across the state of Florida.

This year, we were out for revenge.

The two of us trained our hearts out with the goal of at least doubling our total check points (CP's) collected, and truly pushing our limits to try and once again make it to the podium - but this time, feeling like we earned it.

We would be racing "together but separate" with our teammate Brian, who registered as a Solo racer. We did this for a few reasons:

1. To have two separate boats instead of having to cram all three of us in a canoe (inevitably, I'd be the one stuck in the middle)
2. To have separate hotel rooms before the race (Geoff snores like you wouldn't believe)
3. If our fitness levels ended up not matching, we could leapfrog when needed without breaking any "keep your team together" rules.

Prologe / Trek - City of Saint Marks

4.55 miles
1:07 total time (including TA)
CP's 1-4

Thursday morning at 5:30 am, we collect our race maps and climb aboard the bus for the long drive from St. Augustine across the state to Saint Marks. I dutifully mark our proposed route on the 30 provided maps, although my ADHD brain really struggles to think THAT far ahead.

Once the bus drops us off at the start line, we collected the very last map for the start of the race, our GPS tracker, our passports, and put our phones into sealed bags. We listen to the standard pre-race spiel, and before we know it, we're off.

As the only member on the team that doesn't hate running, I had somehow convinced my teammates to let us at least run/walk this section of the race. They obliged, and we took off. This allowed us not only to collect all four check points on this section without having to wait in any sort of line, but more importantly, gave us better selection when it came to choosing a boat.

You see last year our Old Town Canoe came with so many dents and bumps that it steered akin to a shopping cart with a busted wheel. We were hoping for a little more luck this year with a vessel that at least tracks in a moderately straight line.

The four check points on this trek section are easy to find, and we're back at the start line in less than an hour.

Paddle to TA 1 at Taylor County's Mandalay Boat Ramp

21.97 miles
8:22 total time (including TA)
CP's 5-7

After collecting our West Coast sand and loading up a dent-free canoe, we set off on the first paddle leg of the race.

The first section of this paddle consists of an approximately 2.5 km down the Wakulla River towards Port Leon. There's a decent headwind pushing against us, but race director Jeff had assured us that once we went around the point at the Saint Marks Lighthouse, the wind would be better.

Here's another spoiler alert: the wind would actually get worse. But we didn't know this at the time, and the promise of "push past this hard part and it will get easier" combined with early-in-the-race-excitement kept us going.

As did an acapella-canoe-karaoke version of Andy William's "Happy Holidays", on repeat, for a few hours. ("So hoop-de-do and dickory dock...)

At this point in the race, the participant field is still thick and bunched together. You almost don't have to navigate at all - you just look for a massie pile of canoes and kayaks on the shoreline, and you know you must be near the check point. So while I'd like to tell you I navigated us successfully to CP 5...I really just followed everyone else.

We grab CP 5 and continue on towards the lighthouse / point where we'll take a turn and start heading east. The wind is not better, it is in fact worse. We decide to pull over to the shoreline so we can all put on extra layers. The wind whipping combined with water starting to splash over the bow of the boat is already starting to lower our body temperatures, and it's way too early in the race to start shivering.

An added layer of jackets and pants on, we push hard against the wind for CP6 which is on an island about 6 km from the lighthouse. Once we secure that CP, our team takes a look at the map and brace ourselves for the next section of the paddle: a 12 km straight shot across open water.

There's a small part of me that wants to stick close to the shoreline, as it feels safer. We're out in the open Apalachee Bay of the Gulf of Mexico, and my biggest concern at this point is that if the wind gets worse, I want to be as close to the shoreline as possible to self-rescue, if needed.

Except the "shoreline" isn't a shore at all, so much as salt marsh, pluff mud, and reeds. You likely couldn't actually stand on it if you needed to. So was adding all of that extra time and distance worth it? Probably not, we decided.

We take the tangent straight towards the opening of the Aucilla River, approximately 12 km away. And much like I feared, the wind got even worse. At this point, our canoe is bouncing around on swells occasionally reaching upwards of 2-ish feet, and waves with whitecaps are crashing onto the side of the boat. For hours, it feels as though we're making zero forward progress, as we have to constantly turn our canoe South straight into the waves to avoid capsizing.

I find out after the fact that a number of boats did, in fact, capsize. One racer we talked to said he was in the water for a solid 30 minutes before another canoe was able to rescue him.

My shoulders and back are screaming at me, but I cannot let up on paddling or we will never make it out of this paddle section. At one point Geoff asks me how I'm doing, and I tell him I'm a little scared. I know that if I fall into this water, my already cold body temperature is going to plummet quickly. We're well over 6 hours into this paddle section, and I have not seen one single boat other than a canoe or kayak. No fishermen, no recreational boats, and certainly no safety boats from the race.

Geoff replies - calmly and kindly, I'll add - that he needs me to NOT be scared right now, and to instead keep pushing. I know he's right. As dramatic as it sounds, the saying "no one is going to save you, you have to save yourself" repeats in my head, and so I put away my fears, put my head down and push.

Eventually we turn and head north into the Aucilla River. My relief is only temporary, as now we are essentially surfing our canoe with the waves, which is nerve-racking in it's own right. Fortunately, the waves aids in our forward progress up the river, and soon enough, we're finally on calm water.

Just in time to enjoy a beautiful sunset as we grabbed CP7, then headed straight into the first transition area (TA).

Bike to TA 2

78.86 miles
10:59 total time (including TA)
CP's 8-17

At the TA we all shiver our way through unloading our boat and packing up our paddle bag. I check in with race staff and then make a beeline for my gear bin, stripping off my clothes and putting warm, dry ones on in their place. I warm back up quickly, and for the first time all year I find myself grateful for the extra 25 lbs I've reluctantly put on since the last Sea to Sea.

My clothes may be tighter, but I certainly stay warmer. Kind of like a walrus, I chuckle to myself.

We take probably longer than we should have in the TA, but eventually check out with race staff, mount our bikes, and head out.

Our first bike leg is a long one, but fortunately, we are well prepared. Living in coastal South Carolina allows us to train on almost identical terrain, and we had been regularly putting in 100 mile weeks on our bikes. We're on a lot of paved roads, dirt roads, and the occasional side trail. While I mentioned above that route choices exist in adventure racing, mandatory waypoints as well as limitations due to what's available often forced us on these roads.

The paved roads make me nervous, they always do. But especially in the middle of the night when drivers are typically going faster than the speed limit and certainly not anticipating a bunch of cyclists to be on the road. Nevertheless, we fall into a pace line - sometimes the three of us, and sometimes letting other teams tag on, and the miles ticked by quickly.

We collect CP's 8-12 with no issue. Up until this point, navigation has been easy, and the flags are exactly where the maps claim they will be (this is surprisingly not always the case in adventure racing.)

At some point well after midnight, I'm thinking to myself that I don't feel "that tired" yet. Despite not sleeping well the night before the race (if I slept at all) I'm handling the first night - which historically I've always found the hardest - pretty well.

That is, until I see a set of eyes watching us from about 10 feet away, hunkered down in the tall grass in a field where we are looking for CP 13.

"Brian, do you see that?" I ask him quietly. He nods as we both stare into the field. The big glowing eyes are accompanied by a pair of large pointy ears.

"Is that...is that a bobcat?" I ask him as we continue to stare at the mystery animal.

"I think it is a bobcat!" he replies. I continue to stare and think to myself that if it's a bobcat, it's a really LARGE bobcat. The ears are too tall, and the dark pattern below it's eyes looks a lot like a ...

"Brian I think that's a cougar. Could that be a cougar?" The longer I look, the more I'm absolutely convinced this is a very large cat. I know Florida has a wild population of panthers, but I have no idea if we're in the right region. Nevertheless, I'm now absolutely convinced that this is what's looking back at me as I shine my Fenix handheld light in it's face. I slowly feel a little panic creep up.

"GEOFFREY YOU NEED TO TURN AROUND AND COME BACK HERE RIGHT NOW." I quietly but firmly yell towards my husband, who is stomping around ahead looking for the CP. My mind starts racing with a plan to get the hell out of there when my cougar suddenly stands up...

...and reveals that she is, in fact, just a deer.

The sleep monsters are starting.

We find CP 13, and then make our way down a gnarly, deep, sugar sand filled road to find CP15. It's the first time all race that I'm truly starting to physically feel beat down, but this is to be expected. Sugar sand on fresh legs still sucks a bit.

I'm getting tired, and struggling with temperature regulation. It's lightly raining on and off, and my attempts to keep myself dry on the outside result in causing me to sweat too much under my clothes. The trails slow us down and increase our body heat, but the roads are fast and bring on the cool wind. I'm not the only one in our trio having this issue, and I feel like we stop a million times to either take a layer off or put a layer back on.

Eventually we make our way to TA2 sometime before sunrise, where we feast on hot veggie burgers, change out of our wet clothes, and get ready for the trek.

Trek to TA3 at Suwannee Ranch 505

27.94 miles
11:06 total time (including TA & a nap)
CP's 18-27B

Foot travel is naturally where I feel the most confident. Once an ultra runner, always an ultra runner, I guess. It's around 6:30 in the morning, and we still haven't slept. We decide to carry our sleeping pads, and figure we'll curl up in the woods somewhere for 20 minutes or so eventually.

We take off on foot a few kilometers towards the Suwanee River State Park. This is the first time we begin to see the crazy damage done to the Northwest region of Florida from last seasons Hurricane Idalia. For the next nearly 30 miles, and "trails" we encounter will essentially be a path cut with a chainsaw through endless downed trees and branches.

It makes for interesting navigation, because while the trails go in the same general direction they originally did, there are so many reroutes that you can't count on bends in the trail on the map to match bends in the trail in real life.

As such, this section takes significantly longer than anticipated.

During this trek we alternate between the devastated trails, paved roads, and dirt back roads. We pass a number of small, hidden dwellings with endless no trespassing signs and lots of barking dogs. At one point a big white dog comes lunging for us, teeth snarling.

At this point I'm too exhausted to be afraid, but yell (in my best-serious-mom voice) "NO! GO BACK HOME!" The dog pauses momentarily before continuing his attack. Fortunately he decides not to chase us, and as soon as we're far enough past his house for his comfort, he leaves us alone.

For the next hour, we can tell when another racer passed that house as we could hear the ensuing dog barking and human yelling interactions. I truly hope no one got bit.

Fortunately, our dog story takes a positive turn.

Halfway through this trek we passed a hiker on trail who asked if we were missing a dog. Sure enough, he had an adorable brindle pitbull/lab mix following behind him. We said no, it wasn't our dog. But it didn't matter, because the dog did a 180 degree turn on the trail and decided he was going to be with us now. Whether we liked it or not, he was temporarily "our dog" now.

Geoff quickly named him Jerome because he clearly loved to "roam"...this was a trail dog if I'd ever seen one. He had no collar on but looked healthy, and was cleary very happy and comfortable on the trails.

He was also as sweet as can be: when we stopped to sit for a minute he tried to climb in my lap. And I would have let him - if I hadn't just watched him happily roll in some sort of animal scat on the trail moments earlier.

Not that I smelled any better, to be fair.

He stuck with us for quite awhile before hopping in with another team who passed us while we were taking a short break.

Then the rain began. It had been raining on and off all day, but this was Florida-monsoon-level rain. It was pouring, the kind of rain that leaves you feeling like you've just jumped into a river. I've never lived in Florida, but I have absolutely heard rumors of late afternoon Florida storms. It was around 4 pm, and I kept telling myself this rain would pass eventually. It had to.

Fortunately, it did.

Eventually we are on the last stretch of the trek headed into the TA, which included about a 2 km hike through a massive cattle pasture. It was beautiful. All of a sudden I hear a noise coming up quickly behind me. I turn to see our pal Jerome sprinting through the field, tail wagging. I'm not-so-secretly happy to have him back, but I wonder how this is going to play out now that we're crossing through a number of pasture fences and cattle grids.

Without hesitation, Jerome barreled across the first grid, but caught his front legs in a gap, and did a face plant. He immediately whimpered and started limping. Geoff let out a big sigh, and started adjusting his pack. I knew exactly what he was getting ready to do: fireman carry that dog the rest of the way to the TA.

If you only know one thing about my husband, it should be this: he loves animals more than people, and would have 100% given up the rest of his race in order to take care of a stray dog he picked up along the way.

But, before Geoff could pick Jerome up, he started wagging his tail and sprinting around again without a limp. I felt so bad for the little guy that I poured the rest of a bag of doritos I had in my pocket on the ground for him to snack on.

Before he ate them, he came over and gave my GoPro a big kiss.

As we got closer to the TA, I noticed a huge herd of cows ahead. "Is there a fence between us and those cows?" I asked Geoff.

"Nope" he replied. "And a bunch of them have horns...is that bad?" You'd never knew the two of us grew up in New England, surrounded by dairy farms, but I digress.

There was no fence, and there was a slight moment of panic when something we did (though we still don't know what it was) caused all of the cows to suddenly trot in unison towards us. I feared Jerome was going to come barreling through again and startle the cows, but he had once again disappeared.

We quickly made it through the last gate and to the TA with no cow issues (though I wouldn't have been sad if I had the chance to pet one) and I immediately started telling some volunteers and staff about our dog. I could see them politely nodding but perhaps not believing me fully...this sounds way too much like the "Arthur the King" story line to be true. Seconds later, here comes Jerome sprinting into the TA, tail wagging. He spent the rest of the night running around, getting pets from racers and volunteers, and more than likely stealing snacks from anyone who would give them up.

I've never wanted to take a dog home so badly in my life. Alas, Jerome truly LOVES to roam, and would not be a happy dog here in the stuffy suburbs of Myrtle Beach (I can relate, buddy.) Last I heard he's still hanging out at the ranch where the TA was held. Word on the street was that the ranch owners were working on finding his family, and if he doesn't have one, they'll be keeping him on the farm.

Bike to TA 4 at Olustee Beach

45.01 miles
10:56 total time (including TA & a nap)
CP's 28-40B

Brian, Geoff, and I put up our tent and try to get an hour of sleep before leaving the TA. To no one's surprise, and on par with my racing history, I wasn't able to sleep. We're now well over 30 hours into the race, and a few days since I've had some real sleep, and I'm starting to feel it.

This, my friends, is where it all starts to fall apart.

The next 45 miles consists of more roads. Paved roads, dirt roads, just a hell of a lot of boring, long roads. There was no way around it. At one point we are riding down a 4 lane road when I feel my bike kick a little and immediately hear a loud whooshing sound.

My tire blew out.

We pull over and climb to the other side of the guardrail, perching ourselves carefully on the edge of a very steep bank. I'm able to quickly find the 1/2 inch gash in my tire from running over something sharp that I never actually saw. I'm riding tubeless, and it's too big of a hole to try and patch, so Geoff gets to work putting a spare tube into the tire.

Once we get that situation fixed and we're back on the road, the exhaustion starts to hit me, hard. I'm struggling to keep up with the guys, and I'm noticing insane pain in my saddle area. Further, my left palm is going completely numb, and I'm having some strange nerve issues running up my left arm.

This is all frustrating, as I have been riding this exact setup (bike, shorts, chamois cream, you name it) for a few years now and have never had an issue before.

I find myself quickly and unexpectedly in a deep, dark, mental and physical hole. Geoff asks me a few times if I'm OK, and I respond "No, but I will be."

And I know I will be. This isn't my first rodeo.

I know that multi-day adventures will undoubtably have low points, but if you push through, you'll come out of it. So that's what I try and do: push through.

Fortunately, Brian takes over navigation at this point, and I just focus on trying to hang on. This entire section is fuzzy in my memory, but I do remember the following:

• Stopping for a quick 10 minute nap on the side of a road next to a giant field. Once we were all hunkered down and quiet, all I could hear was a blood curdling scream and/or howl. My exhausted mom-brain immediately wondered if it was a child. I asked out loud "what IS that?" to which Brian replied "that's a cat, trying to get laid." Sure enough, it was a cat in heat, and it serenaded us for the remainder of our 10 minute nap - which I wasn't able to sleep through, naturally.
• On a long dirt road in the middle of nowhere around 3 am we come across a pickup truck parked on the side of the road with it's lights on. Brian, who works as a firefighter and EMT, mentions that there's very little "good" reason for someone in a truck to be all the way out here in the middle of the night. He asks me if I can be ready to push hard, just for a few minutes, once we get close to and past the truck. I don't have the energy to ask why, but I know what's implied. "Yes, I can do it" I reply. And I do. It's amazing the energy you can muster up when you truly need to.
• A second nap, on the side of another dirt road. This time, all I remember is setting my alarm for ten minutes, laying my head down, and my alarm immediately going off. Thank the adventure racing gods, I finally slept. When I awoke, Geoff replied "GOOD JOB HONEY!" like I was a tiny toddler who finally caved in to her extreme exhaustion and crankiness. To be honest, that's exactly what I felt like. He suggested I bust out my toothbrush, as brushing your teeth in the middle of the night has a wacky way of helping you wake up a bit. I do it, and it's amazing.

Eventually we're on the last little stretch into the TA, and we meet up with Donna Boots and her teammate Kristen as they are leaving the TA. She warns us about some more stray dogs that have been attacking racers ahead. We barely pedal a few feet down the road and we can already hear them barking.

I stop. "Should we go this way or find another route?" I ask the guys.

"We can go around, but it's going to take longer" Brian answers.

"Let's keep going" I reply. At this point, a dog bite seems more welcoming than the saddle pain I'm experiencing. I want off this bike.

Trek O-Relays A&B at Olustee Beach

We make it to TA 4, eat some amazing, hot, vegetarian chili, set up our tent, and take a long nap in lieu of heading out to the trek O-relays. I think I sleep for about 2 hours, and when I wake up, feel like a whole new person.

It's cold and windy on the lake at Olustee Beach, but the sleep left me feeling like a new person. We know at this point that we - and most of the other teams - are cutting it close on cutoffs. This course has proven to take a lot longer than I think the course designers originally anticipated. So we decided we're going to take the quickest possible route to TA5, only stopping for the checkpoints that are immediately on the route.

Bike to TA 5 at Jennings State Forest

56.04 miles
7:32 total time
CP's 41-43

Despite the smile on my face in the above picture, the first mile out of the TA felt like needles were being shoved into my sit bones and urethra, and my saddle was swapped out for a cheese grater (sorry, there's no such thing as "TMI" in these types of races).

Over the next few hours I would try everything I could think of the alleviate the pain. More chamois butter. Different types of chamois butter. Swapping my bibs out for triathlon shorts. Putting my bibs on OVER triathlon shorts. You name it, I did it.

At one point I pedaled up along side of Geoff and told him "I need you to know that I'm truly trying my best. And I'm not going to quit. But I'm in more pain than I think I've ever been in before, and I'm struggling."

I consider myself to have a very high pain tolerance, and after years of participating in ultra endurance sports, a very high emotional/mental tolerance for discomfort. I was able to put my head down and keep going, but I'd be lying if I said I enjoyed even a single second of it.

To top it off, the course was continuing to be more of what we'd covered over the last two days: endless miles of dirt roads and paved roads. At some point I said to my team "I feel like I paid $1,000 for a handful of maps to ride my happy ass across the most boring parts of Florida."

Again, I know that there are always going to be less-than-ideal sections used to connect more exciting points of the race, but this course felt forced, with very little excitement and a whole lot of road.

Harsh criticism from an athlete with a raw undercarriage? Maybe. But this course was nothing like the Sea to Sea we had experienced last year, which meandered through the gorgeous Ocala National Forest and through the amazing Santos trail system.

The highlight of this stretch was a checkpoint (CP 43) held at a tiny hole-in-the-wall convenience store outside of a town called Glen St. Mary. The incredibly kind store owner could have told me my grand total for a gallon of water, two sodas, and two ice creams was $107, and I probably would have paid it.

I happily ate my ice cream, oblivious to the fact that my day was going to get worse.

Not long after, while riding through the very busy urban streets of Glen St. Mary, a car turned right in front of me, cutting me off. I have no idea how or why, but I immediately sensed that something was off about this car, and hit my brakes. Had I not, the car would have turned directly into me, throwing me right over the windshield (or worse).

The next 20 miles consisted of riding down 60mph hour roads, much without a shoulder - never mind a bike lane, and being buzzed by large pick up trucks who clearly could not give a shit about our safety, or our lives for that matter.

The good news - if there can be any at all - is that the utter fear I felt riding down these roads helped me forget about the insane pain I was feeling from the chafing and saddle sores.

But I'd be lying if I didn't say that I was really uncomfortable from a personal safety point of view. Having participated in adventure racing for nearly 5 years now, I fully understand that riding on roads is not always totally avoidable. However, this felt like an excessive amount of road riding, and I, personally wasn't ok with it.

I don’t feel (and never have felt) comfortable riding on roads. I know too many people who have had their lives radically changed after being hit by cars while riding bikes. There are too many distracted and/or unnecessarily angry/aggressive drivers out there, and that type of emotional discomfort and stress is NOT the kind I willingly seek. ESPECIALLY while sleep deprived, and while my own bike handling and decision making is compromised.

Further, the history of this very race kept playing in my mind. In 2021, 46 year old Troy Manz and his teammates were hit by a car while participating in this exact same race. He was pronounced dead at the scene.

According to the Florida Department of Highway Safety and Motor Vehicles, 18 people on average are in a bicycle crash in Florida every day. Per capita, the state leads the nation in bike deaths.

And I sure as hell didn't want to be one of those statistics. I love adventure racing, but I love my kids even more, and they needed mom to come home.

When we finally reached the TA, I handed in our passport and told the staff member that our team was done. We'd covered 235 miles over 53ish hours, and we'd had enough. Plus, I hadn't been able to pee at all that day due to the pain in my urethra from my saddle. I didn't want to do any permanent damage.

She tried to convince us to stay in the race, but I politely told her that we have not had a good race up until that point, and it was in our best interest to quit. She and another staff member (or volunteer, I'm not sure) told us that in that case, it was up to us to find our way back to the hotel.

Now, believe me, I fully understand that they cannot cater to ME. I don't expect anyone to drop what they are doing and drive us back to the hotel/start/finish line. I expressed that, and said that we could just hang out or even help out at the next aid station and make our way back when it was more convenient. But we were told no, we needed to call someone else to come get us, or keep going. I said I was injured and I couldn't keep going. Again I was told there was nothing they could do for us, and that I had to call an Uber.

This is when I got really upset. Everything about this race came bubbling up - the lack of safety boats, the fact that it felt like one big boring road ride across Florida with an occasional check point every few hours*, the lack of concern for riders safety on the roads, etc. (And again, huge apology to Hunter who happened to be in my physical path when these feelings bubbled over the edge, and took the wrath of my tears and verbal rants in the moment. We hugged it out after, he's an incredible kid. )

*I realize the "boring" observation is subjective.

The adventure racing community is small, and I realize that in writing these feelings out I am certainly going to rocks some boats, if not burn some bridges. But I have been in the endurance racing community for nearly my entire adult life. I am close, personal friends with a number of race directors, and I have directed trail races myself.

I cannot fathom telling an athlete who paid (a lot of) money to participate in the race, and had to pull out of a race, that they need to figure out on their own how they are going to get themselves out of there. ESPECIALLY when it's listed on the website as one of the "perks" included with the entry fee.

Telling them they had to wait? Absolutely reasonable. Telling them it might not be the most ideal conditions - maybe they had to follow along to other aid stations or even ride in the back of a box truck? Sure thing.

Telling them they are on their own? That doesn't sit well with me, and I feel that deep in my gut.

Fortunately, my cell phone had service, and I had the $90 to pay for an uber to get us back. But what if I didn't have those things? What would I have done? (Side note: one of our friends had to bail at an earlier TA, and had to pay $400 to get a cab ride back. Yes, you read that number correctly.)

Afterwards I found out that there was a short course option available, AND a number of teams had taken an alternative route to get to this very TA even sooner, avoiding what I thought were mandatory waypoints. This was not communicated clearly beforehand, which left me frustrated.

Needless to say, it all came crashing together in a perfect storm that left me feeling as though my safety and well being wasn't really a concern, and therefore I had no doubt that I was doing the right thing in my mind by pulling out of the race. Geoff and Brian were fully on board, and I'm very grateful for both of them.

It's now Tuesday morning, a little over two days since we withdrew and took a DNF. It has brought me nothing but JOY to see so many of my fellow athletes fight through that tough course and cross those finish lines, especially first-timers. In fact, we stuck around at the hotel Sunday morning in order to cheer them in and give out some hugs.

But I'm still trying to reconcile my feelings over this whole mess. For all intents and purposes, I am still "new-er" to this sport and the imposter syndrome is certainly still present from time to time. On one hand, I think that maybe I'm the one who is expecting too much when it comes to ensuring the safety of participants. This is "adventure racing" after all, and not a closed course triathlon. What if I was out in the middle of the Fijian jungles, or the Patagonia ice field? How much could I reasonably expect a course designer to keep me safe?

But on the other hand, I recognize that I am a paying customer, for a race that is NOT of the magnitude of Fiji or Patagonia. It's one that markets to beginners and newer expedition racers. And part of any entry fee assumes that the race organizers are putting together an event to challenge me in a slightly more controlled, safer environment than if I just decided to head out into the wilderness on my own.

I don't know. And despite this now 6,500 word essay about a race that didn't go the way I wanted it to, I assure you that once this is published, I'll get over it, and I'll move on to more crazy, amazing races.

The safety aspect and course selection of this race can certainly be argued, and maybe I am wrong. But I do know, after speaking with at least a dozen other athlete's after the race, that I'm not the only one who had many of these same feelings and concerns. And I do know that there is NEVER any shame in making the choices - especially the hard choices - that you feel are right for you, your safety, or your physical and emotional well being, even if no one else feels the same way you do.

That said, I want to end this post on a positive note. So I will say this: I freaking LOVE the adventure racing community. I really, truly do. And even though our race didn't go anything at all as we had hoped or planned, spending the weekend in the presence of these amazing people filled my heart with joy.

I'm grateful for the endless, amazing volunteers who took good care of us at the TA's and moved our stuff across the state. I'm grateful for my good friend Brian who stuck with me when I was in lows, even if I didn't always do the same for him. I'm grateful for my husband for pushing me in this race, at times harder than I've pushed before. I'm grateful for sweet Jerome, the memory of our time with him will always hold a spot in my heart.

And that's where my story of the 2024 Sea to Sea Adventure Race ends. Holding my head up and keeping my eyes forward as we move on to bigger, better, less paved events.

Oh, and I'm going to get a bike fit...