Writer Emily Roberts describes the ups and downs of desert competition, not only for herself but also her teammates.

I heard a voice at first, then the less-than-mediocre tune that had been repeating in my head began to dissipate. There was light, amplified with each breath and humming to the rhythm of my breathing until it took on the darkness in my head.

It was a medic who had found me. I was surprised, when I opened my eyes, to find myself looking at the ground instead of the sky. I was on my hands and knees, rather than on my back, which was my last memory. The paramedic assessed me; objectively, I know the value of a first-aid attendant looking you over to ensure your safety. But I didn’t care. I was disoriented and all I could think about was whether or not the paramedic would allow me to keep riding. We sat for a few minutes, and he helped me calm down. I told him I was okay, I just needed to cross the first finish line. After 10 minutes, the paramedic let me go. I tried to get on my bike without wincing from the pain that had overtaken the right side of my body. I didn’t know if I could continue in the race. I hoped I could at least get myself through stage one, but that might have to be enough. 

COMING TO TERMS WITH AN INJURY

I had taken a hard crash just before the finish line of stage one of the Baja Rally, a six-day race I had prepped for, but that I now wasn’t so sure I was prepared to finish. Back at the hotel, the adrenaline wore off. I had hurt my ribs, and my right shoulder was in agony. I waited for the medics to return to assess my shoulder and determine if it was possible to continue. Luckily, one of the medics was an orthopedic surgeon. After a quick assessment, he determined that I had separated my AC joint, suspected to be Grade 2: bad, but no need for surgery. In layman’s terms, it was a separated shoulder.

I went to dinner and felt like a shell. Not because of the pain, but because I had let myself down. Despite the skill of any rider, we are faced, on any given ride, with countless decisions, most of which lead to the same outcome. But one choice, one moment, can change everything. I had made the wrong choice, and this one hurt.

The next morning, I decided that if I could get my gear on, I could ride. Although it took about half an hour to get everything on, I did it. I permitted myself to continue. I had worked and trained so hard for over a year. I couldn’t just give up and spend the rest of the week drinking margaritas … could I? Actually, that sounded quite pleasurable, and was almost my top choice of things to do.

PREPARED TO RACE

I rode up to the start line, just looking to finish the day. I was unable to move my shoulder on my own. With my left hand, I lifted my right arm to put my hand on the throttle and prepared for the ride. It was a mix of roads for the morning. There weren’t too many technical bits, although every time I found a pothole or hit a rock, the pain would radiate from my throttle hand to my shoulder and into my chest and ribs. At some point I tried riding without my right hand on the bar; unfortunately, that didn’t work out too well. 

In the desert, I was able to find a few other riders, one in my rookie class in particular, Timur, who rode with me for a while. It was encouraging to have someone there to keep pace, and to be there in case I crashed, because I didn’t know if I could pick up my bike on my own. 

We wound our way through desert valleys, and the red rock took in every ray of sun, showcasing myriad colours along the canyon walls. Day two offered two timed sections to the stage, with a transit in between. This meant the first portion of the stage would be timed, then we would travel on the road or through towns to get to the next section of…