I can deal with pain. But it’s getting weak—I can’t hold my own head up.” The words sounded strange as they came out of my mouth. Holding up our own head isn’t something we usually worry about. It’s not something we even think about. But here I was, struggling to lift my own head because it weighed too much for my neck muscles.
“Can you hold it up?” Paul asked, leaning towards the window while still watching the road. “You know, rest it for a while?” I propped my elbow into the aero bar pads, then plopped my chin in my hand and let it rest. Awkward, yes. Functional, I suppose so.
“I don’t think much can make it better than taking a break,” I admitted. “I just can’t afford to stop.” The clock was ticking. Mercilessly. Relentlessly. I sat up straighter, thinking that if I kept my head in alignment with my spine instead of leaning forward and having to tip my head backwards to look at the road, it might be easier. But it still felt heavy.
“Let us know if it gets worse,” Ruth said, and the vehicle dropped back. According to the rules they could only drive beside me for a minute four times an hour. And I could never, ever, touch the vehicle.
Alone with my thoughts again, I fought the heaviness of my head. I tried shifting to different positions, but nothing seemed to work. No matter which way I sat, turned, twisted or stood, my head was simply too heavy for my neck. Though I was completely conscious and awake, it lolled down to my chest like someone asleep. If I hadn’t been questioning my finishing the ride, it would have been a comical situation. Unfortunately, when an integral part of your body starts to collapse on you, things don’t feel comical.
I propped my head up with my right hand. It worked, but the back of my neck still hurt. It forced me to constantly lean forward, an uncomfortable position for too long of a time. It also forced me to steer, shift and brake with only one hand. This put added strain on my other arm, as well as my wrist. After a few minutes I switched hands, fighting to get comfortable.
This continued for 24 hours. And it only got worse.
My wrists were swollen from the pressure of holding my head. The “rest” I was giving my neck wasn’t helping. If something didn’t change, my ride was over. Finished. Another Did Not Finish (DNF) in a career riddled with a mixture of successes and failures. I had come to the conclusion that my percentage had dropped from 51 to 10, maybe 5. There was no way I could ride this way for five more days—I had reached the end.
My RAAM was over.
Consuming milkshake before getting back on the road
Through the mountains and into the Prairies
Looking bored as neck problems begin to set in
2. Determined to Succeed: Paraguay
We made our way through the trees in our bare feet, trying our best to be silent. Small steps and watchful eyes would hopefully keep us a few steps ahead of our quarry. The afternoon was bright and harsh—as always—and beat down on our bare backs. My older brother, Art, was holding the slingshot taut, aimed down at the ground. With only a split-second’s notice he could have it up and at the ready. Our prey was small but dangerous. Thankfully we could hear them far in advance.
The buzzing was obvious, and my brother signalled for me to stop with a slight movement of his hand. The signal would have been imperceptible to anyone else.
“Up there.” He flicked his head towards the tree straight in front of us. It was, maybe, 50 feet tall. My little eyes followed the trunk until what my ears heard matched what my eyes saw. A bees’ nest, some 40 feet up in the tree. It was a good 8 inches in diameter and 15 inches long—we had definitely found the sweet jackpot.
“You have a shot?” I asked. He responded by nodding. We didn’t quite speak, didn’t quite whisper. The sound was somewhere between the two, and it blended in with the sounds around us. The last thing we wanted was for our attack on the hive to be spoiled, sending us careening through the trees with nothing to show for it.
“I’ve got a shot,” he said, lifting his arms up into the air. Being older and stronger (for a while, anyway), he always took the shot. With his arms held high in the air, the slingshot cocked and ready to fly, he whispered out of the side of his mouth, not moving his head or letting his eyes leave the target.
“Remember,” he said, “when it comes down, you get it. If they attack, run—but don’t forget the hive.”
Right, I thought. Why am I always the runner? “Okay,” I whispered, sneaking closer to the tree. We were both about 15 feet from its trunk now, the sound of the hive buzzing in waves, rising and falling. He pulled the slingshot tighter, his aim true, and let the first clay bullet fly.
Thwack, it hit the hive. Instantly the buzzing increased in volume. The number of bees outside of the hive increased exponentially. There was a cloud of them now, attacking the tree angrily. Something had disturbed their home, and it was going to pay.
Without taking his eyes off of the hive, Art put another bullet into the slingshot and pulled it back. I held a two-foot club in my hand, spinning it lightly. It was the perfect size and weight, and its role was still to come.
He let loose the second bullet, and it missed the hive by an inch. Standing right beside him, I could trace its flight. The cloud of bees felt that they’d been grazed, and the intensity and volume of the buzzing increased.
Within a few seconds he had let a third bullet fly, and this one found its mark. Another tear appeared in the side of the hive. Like alarm bells had gone off in their home, the rest of the bees swarmed out to inspect what was going on and destroy the intruder. But they had no idea the intruder was far below them.
One more bullet to the hive should have done it—the bees were out of the hive now. The slingshot was the easy part. Art lowered it and hooked it onto his shorts, letting it hang and holding out his hand. I deposited the club into it like a relay baton. He swung it once, twice, testing its weight. Then, with the skill born out of practice, he cocked it back and let it fly. Now that the bees were out of the hive—supposedly—he would knock the hive off the branch, and it would fall to us. Empty of anything other than honey, it would land at our feet. The bees would be stuck upstairs, confused about why their house had just disappeared.
That was the plan, anyway.
His aim was true and the throw was strong—it knocked the hive off the branch. It careened its way towards us—though we still stayed a few feet back—bouncing off of branches until it hit the ground right in front of our feet. It had gaping holes from the bullets, where his shots had torn through it.
I went forward, diligent in doing my job. But something was wrong.
When I picked up the hive, I knew.
The sound of the bees had travelled to us as the hive came down. There were still bees in the hive.
“Run!” Art yelled, and I listened. But I didn’t forget what he’d said earlier—don’t forget the hive. I took off running in Art’s direction. Fear was written all over his eyes as he saw what was in my hand—and what was
