12 a.m.

I am asleep. 

It’s an uneasy kind of rest, frequently broken by the stirring of horses in their pens, the breathing of my friends, the drumbeat of not-knowing in my chest.

Any endurance ride, on any horse, brings with it a current of uncertainty.

Will we be under control at the start? Even if we are, will we be swept up in the drama of other riders? Will we lose a shoe, get lost, overheat, electrolyte inadequately? Will we fall? Cross the water? Spook into a ditch or fence? Go lame?

Will we complete?

Well. If we knew the answer, we wouldn’t bother to play the game. 

Some of us – those stirring to check the time yet again as the moon arcs high over Robie Equestrian Park – are mysteriously compelled to make the question even bigger, the affirmative answer even less likely.

Let’s make it 100 miles of rocks, please. Put the singletrack on a cliffside and ride it in the dark. Start crowded amongst a couple hundred of the world’s fittest equines and most competitive riders. Oh yes, that will be in the dark as well. 

Let’s climb up to last winter’s cap of snow, still clinging in the shadows, and then into the furnace of technical canyons where wildfires have stolen the shade and left their scorching heat behind. Ride the barest ledge across stomach-turning slopes where help, should you have the misfortune to need it, is many hours and lots of luck away.

Let’s make the water a sparkling demon-snake that lies in wait on a crumbly switchback in the night. And also a broad swath of current deep enough to lift the horses off their feet. And the taste of life itself, flowing over and through our bodies in unrelenting combat with the sun.

Let’s spend thousands of hours and dollars and dreams over years of preparation, then lay it all on one small day in July, when one small rider on one small horse will strike out into the vast wilderness to answer the unknowable question:

Will we complete?

2:58 a.m.

I wake before my alarm.

Layne and Jennie – Atlas’ owner and her sister, today part of our crew – also stir. We move like mimes in the pre-dawn: Layne out to feed Atlas, Jennie heating water, me straight into the bathroom to layer on hydrocortisone cream, Goldbond powder, riding clothes, sunscreen.

I force down some breakfast while nodding gratefully to Layne’s report that Atlas is eating his mash (forage-forward, no added fats) with gusto. Outside at this improbable hour, everyone seems to be hustling. Headlamp beams flash. Horses whinny. Panels rattle.

The air hums with tension, like an orchestra warming up for the performance of a lifetime. Disjointed. Uneasy. Tight-strung bows sliding across discomfort in search of a pitch that sounds like hope.

All those months of conditioning in snow, rain, mud, wind, and heat. All those trials of hoof boots and ulcer protocols, all those experiments in electrolytes and nutrition and tack, all those hours in the saddle and the gym.

The Zoom calls and group chats and spreadsheet exchanges with crew. The packing lists. The Paypal transactions. The coat clipping and long-hauling and souvenir shopping and ride meeting and restless night and early alarm and unwanted oatmeal that must be eaten anyway…

All come down to this. Time to step outside. Exchange nervous smiles. Tack up by moonlight. Get on the horse.

4:00 a.m.

Atlas feels familiar, yet extra, as we step away from the mounting block. We have friends with us: Suzie and Ace from Montana, Tani and Jericho from Oregon. Our plan is to warm up and head to the start together, then play it by ear from there. Ride our own rides.

I rarely enjoy the warm-up at any endurance ride. I sometimes dread the start. But today, at the biggest ride of all, Atlas is reasonable. We walk out the back of camp, away from the starting pens. We have over half an hour to burn before we need to be there.

So we walk, a brisk and swinging walk, with light contact on the reins, away down the gravel road. Trees bristle in an army of silhouettes against the pre-dawn sky. Cool air seeps through my lightweight shirt, chosen for the heat of the day rather than these early miles.

But I know I won’t have time to deal with a jacket later. I’ll have my hands full. Just how full remains to be seen. 

This, my second Tevis start, feels different from the first. Last year, I didn’t know what I didn’t know. Now, I do know what I don’t know…and it’s arguably worse.

There’s an endless panoply of misfortune waiting down that trail, but the parts that really worry me come early on. Last year’s starting miles and the conga line of horses through Granite Chief…these are memories capable of spiking my heart rate while sitting still. 

Will we complete?

My heart pumps too hard, despite casual conversation and an easy upward transition. Trotting now. Willing my legs and hands to melt. Light in the legs, soft in the hands, ride the horse and not your plans.

I’ve focused for weeks on not what-iffing Tevis to death. How many times have I ridden out scary moments that were over before I saw them coming?

Exactly.

So I can do it again. And again. And again. 

As Layne once told me, we can’t ride to the what-ifs, or we would never ride.

And all I really have to do is ride.

We check our watches. It’s time to turn back toward camp. We trot some more, walk, alternate a time or two. Camp is full of dust now. We breathe it more than see it, swirling in the shadows between streams of light that escape busy campsites, all wide awake and abustle.

Jittery greetings are exchanged. Between horses. Between riders, some squinting to identify features between helmets and bandit-style bandanas. Trailer doors slam. Someone swears loudly. A horse dodges his syringe of electrolytes.

Uh-oh, did Atlas get his? Layne didn’t mention giving him the planned dose. Normally, she’d have confirmed administering it. 

Well, it’s too late now. We’ve arrived at Pen 1, handed over our tickets. Atlas’ energy is rising now; he resents being held back as we wait for the pen to open. We circle once, twice, three times.

There! Now we can move forward, much farther forward than I did last year. I can see the straw-carpeted warm-up area to my right, filled with circling superstars. 

Suzie is one of those superstars! She doesn’t join the circle, but she and Ace funnel up toward the front.

Tani and I keep our horses side by side, content to let the frontrunners go ahead. We’re positioned to be in about the middle of Pen 1, which is just where I want to be.

Atlas does not want to be here. He wants to be moving – fast, and now.

4:55 a.m.

Atlas gets one wish.

We move, but not fast. Just a walk, or perhaps a jig, down and up the gravel road toward the official start. It’s about a mile and 20 minutes away. A lifetime, when counted in nerves and fits of impatient horses. Deep breaths. Heels down.

When forward progress stalls out, Atlas builds. I feel him look for the way out. Dart off the road? Buck? Slam into the horses ahead? Kick the ones behind? 

None of these are acceptable options. I manage to distract him with miniature bends – nose and ribs, side to side – and sigh relief when the mass moves forward again.

The next time we stop, the trailhead is in sight.

Tani and I check the time, exchange a grimace. Seven minutes. An eternity?

But no, the horses are handling it. They are still, watchful, suspended like divers who have just sprung from the board, in that eyeblink before gravity takes hold.