Ride Report: Tevis 2025, Part 3: “Will We Complete?”

We hustle out of Foresthill.

Our friends’ laughter, their encouraging shouts, fade almost instantly. We are dropping off the edge of day, the edge of town, the edge of excitement. It is sobering, this trot into impending darkness.

I remember the switchbacks that carry us back into wilderness, and I want to get down them while we can still see. We make it, but only just. At the bottom, it is properly night. The air smells of unseen dust and thirsty trees.

Behind us, Tani struggles a little with the shift to darkness. We slow down, experiment with light, travel a bit with her headlamp on red. The horses don’t seem to mind, but eventually we turn it off and carry on with just the glowsticks on their breastcollars to cast faint, glowing pools about their feet.

I try to drop into something like a flow state, letting time and trail pass unnoticed, simply absorbing Atlas’ motion as he finds his way. The reins swing gently stride by stride. His trot beats a steady tattoo of two glued-on boots in front, two strapped-on ones in back. We’ve come so far without trouble that I’ve almost stopped worrying about them coming off.

Almost.

Two hours and ten miles pass before we hear voices. We round a corner. A fog of light hovers among the trees. Even so, Cal 2 is the one of the darkest places I have ever felt. Something about that tiny island shrouded in branches, containing just a truck, a few water tanks, a handful of volunteers, makes the surrounding wild seem even more vast.

As the horses finish their drink, I hear more riders coming.

“Let’s go.” I’d rather ride with my friend in peace than risk the additional delays and general disruption that come with being in a group.

The night absorbs us. It is vast and echoing, a chamberless void that reaches beyond the edge of space. And yet, a sliver of compacted earth, scarcely visible to human eyes, draws us into itself.

Progress here is steady, but slow. I ponder that this is where the rich get richer. Frontrunners coming through in daylight can cover trail faster than we mere mortals after nightfall can. It’s not unfair. Just the nature of the game that all of us – from first to finish to first to pull – are privileged to play.

Somewhere out there on the descending trail, the game changes for Atlas and me. A touch of unevenness, subtle as dread, creeps over in his hind end. That left hind, yes. The same one that tightened up last year and left us walking the last leg into Auburn, only to pull at the fairgrounds.

I say nothing for a while. I stand in the stirrups. Post on each diagonal. Yes, it is there. Neither dramatic nor consistent, but there. The refrain grows louder in my head.

Will we complete?

Arriving in Francisco’s, I know we are on thin ice. I do not want to pull here. 

Something about Francisco’s unsettles me. Such anxiety in the air! Everyone tired, courtesy worn thin. The sheer physicality of the day catching up with horse and rider alike. I do not want to pull, and I especially do not want to wait here for a trailer out.

I drop Atlas’ bit and head straight for the vets. There are two, and I groan inwardly. The one who waves to us was pointed out to me earlier as one of the toughest to pass.

Will we complete?

Well. If Atlas is fit to continue, then he’s fit to continue. And if not? Then he’s not.

His metabolics are excellent.

But.

He refuses to trot. Flat out refuses.

“Try pulling his tack,” the vet says. Yes, kindly. I can see he wants to give us every chance. “Pull his tack and bring him ’round for another try.”

We find a spot at the edge of the fray. Tani meets us there. I tell her to go on without us, but she declines. Says she’ll wait. Takes Jericho off to find some hay.

Atlas does not want to stand. A volunteer sees me struggling and holds his head while I pull the saddle, try to find a dry spot to put it, a spot where none of our bits or pieces will disappear in the grass. From my saddlebag, I fish out a tube of BCAAs and administer it all.

Atlas is unimpressed, pissed off, impatient.

Well. If that’s the energy he has, that’s the energy I’ll use!

I thank the volunteer and reclaim Atlas’ lead. We march in a brisk circle to warm him up, watch for a break in the line, and head straight up to the vet.

“Ready?” I chirp to Atlas, “Trot!”

He does! Down the lane and back. We slow politely as we near the vet. Study his face.

He says nothing for a moment.

And then, “Well, he looks a lot better than I expected. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t let you go on.”

Go on!

“We’re going on!” I call to Tani.

Tacking up again is a hassle, but I make it quick. Mount up. Thank the out-timers on our way by.

Atlas feels downright perky, as if to say, “See, I’m fine. What’s all the fuss about?”

But it isn’t long before the moment fades. The unevenness comes back. And the drumbeat in my chest.

Will we complete?

We try walking. Trotting slower. A moment’s rest. All of these things – slowing and stopping – make it worse. Atlas is happiest moving out at a brisker, freer trot. When I let him do that, the unevenness disappears. His ears and attitude pluck up.

And so I let him choose a smart trot right down to Poverty Bar, where the air grows dank with river. We follow glowsticks to the bank – steep this year! The horses will need to plunge almost directly into deep water.

Uncharacteristically, Atlas refuses.

“Let us try.” Tani takes Jericho ahead. He dives in, bless him, and Atlas follows.

But twenty feet from the bank, Jericho changes his mind. He begins to panic, tries to turn back! I can do nothing but push Atlas around him, forward now, and hope Jericho swims after.

He does, and we really do swim! Churning across the swift current to the sand bar in the middle, where the horses can touch down but water still rushes over my boots. Then we’re paddling again, across the second channel to the far bank.

Atlas clambers up. I wince with every step, feel every ounce of his mass pushing through those hind boots, those soaking wet strap-on boots slipping in mud. And yet, somehow, they remain secure.

We trot on.

Atlas feels better here than he did before Francisco. Not perfect, but better. My plan is to give him my final tube of BCAAs shortly before arriving at Lower Quarry. When I see the lights off to my right, I dismount. Fumble in my saddlebag.

“It should be here!”

But it isn’t. All I have is one, last tube of electrolytes.

No BCAAs.

Atlas’ weary muscles are on their own.

We walk into Lower Quarry and pulse down right away. Head immediately to the vet, before Atlas can stiffen up from standing.

Pass!

He gets a B on gait, and the rest looks good. I nod relief to Tani and lead Atlas aside to eat.

The volunteers here are particularly kind. They offer hay, alfalfa, water. Hold the horses’ reins while we visit the porta-potty and take a brief stretch. There’s something deeply comforting about seeing all these people smiling, surrounding us after a tremendous day of stress and heat, when they should all be sleeping and nobody has compelled them to assist. A tiny piece of my soul – the part that worries about the state of our world – heals because they are simply here.

But we must move on.

Six more miles, a climb from this riverbed up and over No Hands Bridge, up the steep and crumbly trail to the banner over the fairgrounds at Auburn. Almost close enough to smell the shavings in the stalls, feel my crew’s arms around my shoulders. But I know we are hanging by a thread.

Will we complete?

Crew members wait at the bridge. Do we need anything?

BCAAs!

We don’t have those. Electrolytes?

We’re good on electrolytes. Be ready in Auburn. Ready to deal with a crampy hind end before we vet.

No Hands Bridge, then trail. Trail, more endless trail. Six miles were never so long!

And now, I feel another problem. Atlas’ front end is inconsistent, probably his feet feeling all these miles of rocks. There’s nothing to do but carry on.

Will we complete?

And then we are scrambling up the final hill. Under the yellow banner. Congratulations!!! 100 Miles!

Our friends cheer briefly, then get right to business. One of Tani’s crew members, the excellent bodyworker DeWayne, has swapped over to help with Atlas.

“You have your own rider,” I protest.

He shushes. “We’ve got it figured out.”

And I am grateful.

Water for Atlas. Down the steep bit of pavement. Around the track!

Tani reaches for my hand and we clasp them overhead, trotting side-by-side down the final stretch.

FINISH!

We exchange a smile, but my heart pounds. I have been this far before.

Will we complete?

I opt for DeWayne to trot Atlas, guessing that he’ll go better for someone else.

But he doesn’t. He scarcely trots at all.

The vets exchange looks. Are silent for too long. Then they say, “You have time. Bring him back for another try.”

There is no end to this brutal night!

My crew works frantically. Massaging. Keeping Atlas loose. Watching him trot.

At last, there is nothing more to do.

We put Atlas in Layne’s hands for the final trot. They know each other best – and it’s poetic, after all. I’ve ridden him for the past two years after he smashed Layne’s leg in a terrible fall. Now, after the endurance event of her recovery, she is able to run again.

And run she does. As fast as she can, right past the vets. All their expert eyes follow Atlas! Up the lane, back again.

They huddle.

Layne and I stroke Atlas, exchange a look. The pre-dawn sings with tension.

And then, one of the vets flashes a thumbs up.

Completed!

We completed!

There are tears. Hugs. Sloughing off the weight of a hundred thousand pounds.

Completed.

We’re in the top 25, and done! Poor Atlas has won the drug-test lottery and submits to having a bit of blood drawn before our crew chivvies him off to a stall and me to the trailer.

Bobbi wraps Atlas’ legs.

I shower, sink into bed. Float on the welling sea of memory that has yet to gel, that doesn’t seem quite real, not yet. But I know, in time, I’ll claim it.

Completed.