Camden by Shey Stahl
The days following Cullen’s birth, River and I spend at home, alone. I’m still amazed they let us leave the hospital with him, and absolutely no qualifications on how to raise a kid. CPS would probably have a smaller case load if they implemented this into hospital protocol. Just sayin’.
I’d love to say we had it all under control, but we did not. Far from it. I don’t know who cried more, River or Cullen.
He’s a baby and crying seems to be what he does best.
Maybe it’s because he met my dad, days after his birth, and my dad smiled, held him for two minutes, and then left. I did my part. I called him. It’s up to Jerad to be involved after this. And since that day, I haven’t seen him. Hell, I haven’t even seen that stepmom of mine.
Are you surprised?
Don’t be. I’m not.
Still, Cullen, that unhappy little turd, I’m pretty sure he hates everyone and everything because he cried. For the first four weeks of his life.
But we got through it, with a little help from a bottle of whiskey, and he’s five weeks old today and strapped to River’s chest as we stand underneath a KTM tent in the historic town of Eisenerz, Austria. Yep, I was cleared three days ago to compete in the most extreme hare scramble.
The Hare Scramble is part of the Red Bull Hard Enduro Series and I’ve been wanting to race it since I saw Roan come home from Austria all banged up and with a detached retina from a fall in a section called Carl’s Diner. It’s also where he broke his femur and nearly died a few years back.
Still, today, he’s here with me. In fact, our whole family is, aside from Ophelia and Amberly who stayed back with the small kids. I tried to get River to leave Cullen at home, but she insisted he see his daddy win the biggest race of his career.
Do you like her confidence?
While I certainly appreciate it myself, I’m not so sure what will happen. Statistically only one percent of the riders that enter the race finish, let alone win. Roan’s done it back-to-back even, but me? I… don’t know.
Erzberg is a four-day event with prologue races to determine who qualifies for the race on Sunday. The top five hundred riders of the prologue start and only about thirty finish within the four-hour mark. It is by far the hardest enduro in the world.
I’m nervous to tackle the iron giant and the morning of the race, the hills of Eisenerz see the worst weather in the race’s history. Torrential downpours that blanket the hill in a thick layer of fog and rain.
Underneath the KTM tent after the riders meeting, Roan’s helmet hits mine, beads of water slipping over the shiny bright orange-and-white paint scheme. “This is the moment you do better than me.”
Applying another layer of fog guard to my goggles, I stare at him, unsure what he means by that. He’s won the Erzberg Rodeo seven times, and back-to-back the last two years. How am I going to do better than him? “Why?”
He hits his hand to the side of my helmet as I prepare for the biggest race of my life. “Because I trained you. Give me some goddamn credit.”
Tiller, who’s not racing but here because he’s forced to be, he says something completely off-the-wall, but true to him. “I’m fresh outta fucks. Get on my level.”
I laugh and adjust my steering damper once more, the sounds of bikes revving in the background drowning him out. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means relax, Cam-Man.”
I smile and Shade approaches, a radio in hand. He’s here too, but not racing. He has no interest in this shit, but here to support us. And I think he’s a bit nervous for me because he stares at me and says, “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.”
I’ve heard that line before. It’s from a Roman philosopher, Seneca. It’s true though, when you think about it.
Preparation is key for a race like this. There is no way in hell you’re going to come to this mountain and win off pure luck if you hadn’t trained for it. The race, it’s the opportunity to show you’ve trained hard enough.
River is the last person I see before the race. Other than officials. I kiss her, sighing against her lips. “Have I told you I loved you yet today?”
She wraps her arms around my neck, the sounds of rain hitting the tent we’re under mixing with the thunderous roar of hundreds of bikes idling in the background. “No.”
I press my lips to hers. “I love you.”
I kiss the top of Cullen’s head but he doesn’t wake up. The only time he sleeps is when bikes are running.
With a deep breath, I back up and burn the image of them standing in the rain in my head. It’s one I’ll use to push me through the next four hours.
Riders line up at the base of the Steirische Erzberg iron ore deposit. I stare up at the Iron Giant, trying to calm my nerves. It’s the largest iron ore pit mine in central Europe and when you look up at the deep orange snaking steps carved into its side, it’s believable.
When the race begins, I have no idea what to expect other than what I’d experienced in the prologues. Let me just say this. I’m not prepared.
I manage to get a good jump off the starting line and into that first hairpin turn and up the rocky embankment. From there, I shut everything else out and work through the course, falling back on all my training from Roan.
My body aches, my muscles are cramping up so bad I have to grit through the pain. My arm pump gets to the point I can barely grip the handle bars, but still, I push. I’m exhausted, bleeding, probably have bruises from my shoulders to my toes, pretty sure I’ve broken an elbow, but I push my body to the point it can’t go on any further, and then I rely on my mental stamina. The mindset Roan instilled in me.
Don’t give up.
Look inside yourself to find greatness.
Believe you can do it and you will.
In those twenty-one miles uphill, between twenty checkpoints, and four hours, I’ve never faced isolation quite like that. I prepared for years, but in that hour in the rock beds, also known as Carl’s Diner, I hated Carl. If he thought of this section, I wanted to kill the motherfucker that decided sharp rocks the size of Mini Coopers was a good idea. It challenged me more than anything in my life. I had to dig deep and find the will to go on and not push my bike off the fucking mountain and say, screw this shit. I wanted to. Believe me, I did.
There’s another section titled “Please Help” and it’s exactly what you think. You need fucking help to get up it. It’s practically straight uphill and have you ever tried to walk up a steep embankment? Yeah? Well try pushing a two-hundred-pound bike up it. Try it. Let me know how it goes.
Or, I can save you some time and just admit to you that it’s hell. At one point, I’m basically parallel with the hill looking at dirt and rocks. “Jesus Christ,” I yell, resting my head against the handlebars and contemplating letting go. I want to give up.
There’s officials yelling at me and trying to pull my bike up, other riders and even spectators. Believe it or not, it’s not against the rules for them to help. That’s another thing I hadn’t anticipated is the spectators. There’s something like forty thousand people there and they’re on the course cheering you on.
I spend so much time there with Roan trying to get my bike up, I want to quit. I really do. I start to mentally prepare myself that I’m not getting up this embankment. I’m already hurt, bleeding so much from a gash on my leg that ripped through my pants that I can feel the blood pooling in my boot.
The only reason I don’t give up is the look of pride on Roan’s face that I’m here doing this in the first place. He’s beside me in the “Please Help” section, urging me forward. “You got this man. Dig deep inside and know what you’re fighting for.”
What am I fighting for? To make it off this mountain alive? Because I certainly have my doubts now.
I force myself to look inside and you know, it shaped who I am. I find myself on that hillside because I’m forced to. An obligation, one I can’t, won’t go back on.
I think about my dad, surprisingly. I would have never thought that man would cross my mind, but he does. My anger embedded deep inside me urges me forward. I’m here, doing this, despite him saying I should give this dream up.
This race, it doesn’t pay anything. Not a single dollar to win it other than a handshake at the top from the race director.
So why does anyone do it?
Bragging rights.
Pride.
Accomplishment.
Ricky, once told me the greatest achievements in life pay you nothing. He probably meant Tiller graduating high school, but now, as I push myself to the extreme, I believe him now.
You probably don’t care much about that race though, do you?
Didn’t think so.
You want to know if I finished?
Twenty-five years old and guess who finished the hardest hare scramble in the world?
Me.
Guess who won?
Roan?
Nope. The kid who climbed the fence into three adrenaline-addicted brothers lives and became one of them.
Can you believe it? I can’t.
I fucking won and it doesn’t hit me until I climb that last hill over the final embankment and see the checkered flag. I thought I was miles behind the other riders but as it turns out, the reason I didn’t see any other riders that last hour of the race was because I was leading.
I can’t even process the emotions let alone what it means to win it.
I knew one thing though. The girl holding my son at the finish line, she’s enough.
He’s enough.
I’m enough.
So, when I see River, and I’m soaked from head to toe, covered in a thick layer of mud, blood and running on adrenaline, I know what comes next. After a quick glance at Tiller, who winks at me, his silent approval, I pull a line from a Taylor Swift song and fall to one knee before her, waiting for the realization to hit her.
She thinks I’m injured, exhausted, until she sees the ring I’d carried with me the entire race. Shock hits her and she covers her mouth with one hand and holds onto Cullen strapped to her chest with the other.