Life Is An Adventure Race

by Jim Farmer (farmerjp@bellsouth.net)

Adventure racing defines me. That was quite an epiphany when my wife dropped this bombshell while discussing life, the universe and everything one evening. Maybe I just hadn’t given it much thought or I just couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Either way, I had been plodding along, day after day, week after week, race after race, not realizing what this sport had done to my life and to everything and everyone around me. Meeting my old friend Brad for lunch the other day, his first question was “What race did you do THIS weekend?” Not, “How are you?” or “Whatcha been up to lately?” but “What race did you do THIS weekend?” I have to admit, I was a little dismayed. Perhaps, post-epiphany, I was a little bit sensitive to it. But he was right. I immediately went into my dissertation on the thirty-hour, gut-busting, pain-fest that I endured on Saturday while he was probably spending the afternoon grilling out and water skiing on his boat with his lovely wife. I left my lovely wife at home on her birthday that weekend. What the hell am I doing?

I had struggled for a long time with finding my passion in life. I tried academics, career, community service and even other sports. I loved adventure racing though, right from the get-go. But at first, I was simply a guy that “did” adventure races and still had a career and a life. Somewhere along the way I become “an” adventure racer. I guess it’s difficult to see your own personal transformations. Sure, I have a different body, a different lifestyle, different friends, etc. But I just didn’t wake up one day and “poof”, I’m an adventure racer. It was a long, drawn out process. It was an evolution of sorts, and just like the Darwinian processes at work in nature, things just don’t happen overnight.

Now don’t get me wrong here. I still have a life outside of racing. Carol and I both pride ourselves in our volunteer work and heavy involvement with several non-profits. We also have successful careers and plenty of friends both inside and outside of adventure racing. But when it comes down to it, I eat, sleep and drink this sport. I dream about it. I’ll go back over old race maps and relive epic battles in my head. I have to take an Ambien the night before a race because I’m so juiced about the upcoming carnage. Sometimes, I can’t get to sleep the night after a race, even after ones that last more than a day, simply because I have trouble coming down from it all. The maps dance in my head. I can still see the topographical features from critical parts of races that happened months and even years ago. It’s freaky. But I can’t help myself.

Work has simply become a way to support my habit (I hope my boss doesn’t read this). I can’t wait to get done with a piece of code that I’m developing so that I can peruse the message boards or fire up Google Earth to scout out the area for an upcoming race. And there’s always an upcoming race. There’s no off-season. I don’t think I’ve ever raced in December before, but that’s the only month on the calendar that I could consider an off-season. Don’t tempt me though. I’m sure there’s one out there if I just look hard enough.

My body is a testament to my addiction. The scars on my legs look like the canals on Mars, a crisscrossing of white lines that, luckily, blend in well with my pale skin tone. My toenails, at least the ones that are left, look like a piano keyboard, every other one blackened and raised from the incessant pounding of downhill running. I’m also usually sporting sores or chaffing marks from carrying a heavy pack and a map case for days on end. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I take great pride in my war wounds. I have to admit that I enjoy the shock value that my butchered legs, arms and feet get from the folks at the Waffle House when we show up for our post-race feast of omelets, waffles and hash browns. Extra butter and plenty of syrup, thank you very much.

I’m not sure where I’m going with all of this, and I’m pretty sure you have no clue either. I guess I’m not trying to go anywhere with it. It’s just sort of cathartic. All of my articles are that way in a sense. I don’t really care if anybody reads this drivel although I know that a few of you can at least sympathize. I’m not going to stop adventure racing anytime soon, so this isn’t a sad commentary on some sort of mid-adventure racing-life crisis. I’m not at a crossroads or anything like that. I’m simply trying to come to terms with the epiphany that I’m Jim Farmer, THE adventure racer. Is that really what I want on my tombstone?

P.S. More of the “Life Is An Adventure Race” series can be found at www.TrailBlazerAR.com under the Chattanooga Chapter section.