“A few gray federales say,

They could have had him any day.

They only let him go so wrong,

Out of kindness, I suppose.”

--Townes Van Zandt “Pancho and Lefty”

The 2019 Atacama Crossing concluded today as nearly 70 sore and dusty competitors arrived in the main square of the tiny tourist town of San Pedro, Chile after an incredibly arduous journey of 155 miles across a harsh desert environment. Kudos to all the champions.

I didn’t make it to the end. I withdrew at the first checkpoint on Day 4, about 80 miles into the race. Despite not carrying through to the conclusion, I had a wonderful time, experienced breathtaking scenes and connected with many inspiring people.

The course was hard, but brilliant. On the second day, we meandered through a winding slot canyon where we were obliged to cross and re-cross a knee-deep stream two dozen or so times. Later, we ascended a zigzagging mountain road, passed through a narrow tunnel and then traveled along a ridgeline offering panoramic views of the desert valley. A llama galloped past me before I plunged a few hundred feet down a sand dune.

The terrain was tough in every imaginable way. We bushwhacked across stony ground, traversed crusty salt flats, trudged through dried lava flows and gingerly picked our way across baked and splintered clay soil. Dunes filled our shoes with sand, spiky plants scratched our ankles. Everyone’s feet took a beating. It was hot in the afternoon; icy cold in the morning and night. Every day included a period of strong winds.

My race never really took off. I fared well enough on stage one, but each subsequent day found me moving more slowly and struggling farther back in the pack. A baboon could have connected those dots and seen where I was heading. My feet were lacerated, my shoulders ached, my spirit sagged. After hours of mental self-flagellation, I pulled the plug. The result stings, but I’ll get over it.

For my small disappointment, I was more than compensated by the company I kept. I had the best tentmates. Anim, Gudrun (my pal from Namibia), Fred and Mark, were unfailingly cheerful and supportive. Mark, not previously an ultrarunner, showed great courage and fortitude in completing the full circuit. I am humbled to call him “friend.” Each day, I was carried along by the goodwill of my fellow travelers--Zeana, Deb, Felipe, Don, Enrique, Ricky and so many others. My sincere thanks to one and all.

As before, Sam Fanshawe and her crew from Racing the Planet did an exceptional job, pulling off a logistically daunting event flawlessly, with good humor and grace. The medical staff, volunteers and local support similarly worked tirelessly to tend to we competitors and ensure our safety. I am extremely grateful for their effort.

I will especially cherish the memory of this event for the presence of my wife, Linda Rosner, who gave up two weeks of her life to serve as a race volunteer. She provided aid and comfort to me, while filling water bottles, sweeping the course, enduring cold, sleep-challenged nights and gobbling down a seemingly endless succession of freeze-dried meals. All with nary a complaint. Everything good in my life, I owe to her.

So, a little beaten, a little battered, I’m preparing to make my way back to LA.

My cup runneth over.

“This Is the End”

“My only  friend, the end.”

I pulled out today at Stage 4, Checkpoint 1, 80 miles into this fabulous race. I’m fine, no big issues, just a lot of tough terrain and heat. I’ve joined my wife on the volunteer crew. So, no pity or praise. I’m very lucky to have had the opportunity to make a go of it. More when I get back to civilization. Otherwise all good cheer.

Atacama Road

“Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight, carry that weight  long time.”

We spent a cold night at the Valley of the Rainbow before setting off on the first stage of our adventure. We passed through some beautiful canyons and valleys. The terrain was similar to ]what I experienced in the Mojave Desert, soft sand and rocks. It was all relatively easy asthese things go, until the last 6K,  a merciless ascent up a mountain in the heat of the day. 22 miles today. 27 miles tomorrow. The training wheels are about to come off.

After a few uneventful flights and three nights in Santiago, we arrived in San Pedro, a hamlet of slapdash, mudbrick and stone structures and scruffy stray dogs of 101 variations. It’s a lovely, eccentric spot, and it’s hot.

In Santiago, Lindi and I enjoyed a couple of days of sightseeing. We saw the Changing of the Guard (the band played “In the Mood”) and rode a small gondola down from Cerro San Cristobal (I nearly soiled my linen).

Here in San Pedro, I’ve had the opportunity to meet up with old chums from Namibia and make new friends. I love hearing the stories of their colorful lives and incredible accomplishments. (Wish I had a few to share!) Today, on the street, I bumped into the senior competitor in the race, a very fit and sprightly man of 74 years. I told him he’s the guy I want to be when I grow up. He told me, I already look pretty old.

I’m tanned. I’m rested. We head to the starting line tomorrow.

A few people have asked me recently if I am “ready.” What a question! Readiness is a concept I have a hard time pinning down for an event like Atacama Crossing. It’s too long, too complex. Too many things can go awry.

I have prepared. I’ve studied the suggestions of the organizers and the wisdom of past participants. I’ve chosen my mandatory and optional gear with care and made allowances for my personal idiosyncrasies. (The 2000 calorie-per-day minimum requirement is not nearly enough to see me through, so I’ll be toting more food.)

I’ve also done the training. For me that’s meant a succession of 50+ mile weeks, much of it involving comically slow, solitary slogs with poles and a pack stuffed with 32 ounce bottles of Gatorade. I’ve run/hiked at altitude, in heat and in darkness. I’ve also hit the gym. My exertions have not transformed me into Kilian Jornet—far from it—but I’ve done what I could to give myself my best shot.

And that’s just it. I may fall prey to injury. I may succumb to a strategic blunder (I’m good at that). The race may turn out to be too much for me. I can accept any of those outcomes with equanimity. But were I to go belly up simply because I hadn’t worked hard enough, that would stick in my craw. Having paid my dues with my god-awful, 20-pound sack, I’m content to let the chips fall where they may.

Besides, if the result were pre-ordained, if I knew beyond doubt that I’d make it, I wouldn’t be interested in the attempt. Where’s the fun in a sure thing?

If you’re old enough, you may remember the “Peter Principle,” a business school concept popular in the late ‘60s. It suggested that, in any given hierarchy, people tend to rise to the level of their incompetence. Over the past several years, I have been on a Peter Principle trajectory vis a vis my running career, and last May, I neared its zenith when I took part in the 4Deserts Sahara Race, Namibia.

Despite spending months fussing over the mandatory equipment list, reading blog posts from past competitors and scanning YouTube videos produced by "stage race experts,” I made all sorts of errors with my kit. I chose the wrong stuff. Gear didn’t perform as advertised. Things busted.

I’d read the instructions regarding patch placement at least 100 times and still managed to get it wrong. So just before boarding the bus on race day, I had to cadge needle and thread from another runner and hastily stitch country and race patches to the sleeves of a pair of jackets. They hung by threads from my shoulders for the entire week making me a source of amusement for my 90 or so new pals.

I bought a nifty camera that clipped to the strap of my backpack. Unfortunately, upon arrival at the first camp, I clumsily hit the record button with my thumb and captured 25 minutes of the inside of my pocket, nearly draining the battery. That wasn’t a big deal as, during the race, I was so focused that I was rarely inclined to pause for snapshots. Aliens could have landed in my path and I wouldn’t have bothered to whip out my camera.

Many other small things went preposterously awry. The top clip on my backpack snapped off. My cache of energy bars melted into a gelatinous blob. But easily my biggest mistake involved my camp shoes. Looking for something light and compact, I pulled a pair of mukluks from my closet and stuffed them in my backpack. You know the type: red-knit absurdities, decorated for Christmas and reaching halfway up the calf. More laughter for my tentmates.

The trouble with them was they were wickedly difficult to slip on in the middle of the night. As an older guy, I was obliged to make nightly forays out of the tent. Inevitably, I wouldn’t begin the process of wiggling out of my sleeping bag until I was near the point of panic. Then I’d have to root around in the dark for my light and shimmy into those ridiculous mukluks. It seemed to take ages! By the time I had them on, crawled out of the tent and stumbled toward the port-a-potties 200 yards away, my reason for getting up in the first place had, literally, dribbled away.

In the end, none of it mattered. My litany of micro-disasters affected my race not one jot. Each day, I managed to cover the required distance without too much difficulty and finished the week, patches dangling, but head held high. The months I’d spent training, trundling up and down the Santa Monica Mountains with a pack strapped to my back, carried me through.

This year, my plan is to focus more on training, less on the minutiae of gear. Inevitably I’ll encounter a few new hiccups, but I feel confident in my ability to muddle through. And if, on race day, you happen to find that you’ve sewn your country patches upside down, just look for me. I’ll be the guy with the spare needle and thread.