Riding through the pain // Desert 100 throwback

“I don’t know exactly what is wrong yet, but if this is my last race for months, or for the season, I may as well go for it and try to finish the full 100 miles.”

The annual Desert 100 motorcycle race, held in Odessa, Washington, has become a yearly highlight for myself and thousands of other racers of all levels. Leaving my home in BC, Canada, crossing the border into the USA and heading to Odessa for this race has become almost routine on the first weekend of April. This race spans 100 miles through rough desert terrain and has become a larger than life event over the last 50 years. Thousands of participants come together each year, all looking to test themselves on the unforgiving course. This year, I was confident I would be a front runner.

My sister, Victoria and I travelled together along with friend Steve Shannon this year, arriving late Friday night, finding a spot in the temporary city that forms in the desert every spring. Set ups ranging from tents beside Honda Civics, to half a million dollar motorhomes and trailers that all come together in one place and set up beside one another. After breakfast on Saturday morning we watched some of the riders participating in the Poker Run ride and checked out the rest of the scene before gearing up ourselves. We went out to do some bike testing and practice, everything was great. My bike was running well, suspension felt perfect and my confidence was high for Sunday’s race. I was ready.

Sunday morning came, we got prepared and made our way to the riders meeting along with all the other racers. Afterwards, we all made our way to the starting line. With thousands of racers lining up, you can’t see from one end to the other in this “everyone for themselves” style start. It’s a sight you really need to see in person to appreciate and understand. I slotted in at an open spot that looked to have a fairly clean line and parked my bike. The start here is unique in that it has every racer leave their bike on the start line, then walk behind their bike fifty feet where everyone lines up on foot. Here we wait for the deafening cannon to fire, signalling the start of the race. When the cannon sounds we all take off in a mad dash, running towards our bikes, determined not to be near the back of the pack and left in the blinding dust. BOOM. 

I sprinted towards my KTM, and halfway to my bike the rider to my right tripped, falling in my direction. I took a high stride and barely missed hitting him in the helmet with my boot and without missing a beat I finished the sprint to my bike. I hit the electric start button with my thumb and the motor turned over, coming to life without hesitation, and I took off. Looking left and right you can see hundreds of other racers picking their way through the sagebrush at full speed, all of us aiming for the same first corner to enter the race course. I had a great start, by my guess I was in the top 20 or so racers right away. I got on the gas, knowing that this is the closest we will all be throughout the day and made passes at every opportunity. In a race this long, you need to know how to pace yourself, but right now wasn’t the time to hold back and it didn’t take long until I was in the top 5. I was riding smooth, fast, and having fun.

The 100 miles is made up of two 50 mile loops, allowing a pit stop at the 50 mile mark for fuel, repairs, or for some, to call it quits. On lap one, around the 30 mile mark, I was passed by a racer on a KTM. We battled it out briefly, with him getting the better of me. The course was dry and dusty, and being almost blinded by the dust I switched into a line to my right, looking for some clear vision without lowering my speed. I was on the gas, coming out of the dust towards the right without knowing that the main line was easing left. As my vision cleared, I stayed at my top speed with no signs that I should slow down. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I saw that I was heading right towards a deep ravine. By the time I recognized what I was about to hit, it was too late.

My front wheel crested the edge as I started to drop into the large washout and I knew I wouldn’t be able to clear the gap. I made the quick decision to part ways with my bike, trying to jump up and over the handlebars, but in the process I clipped the toe of my right boot on the crossbar. My bike and body went down with an earth shaking thud into the other side. My KTM slid down ten feet as my body stayed up on the edge. I pulled myself onto the flat ground as I was screaming in pain, my right leg being the main source. I’ve had knee injuries and surgeries before, but the pain from those injuries pale in comparison to what I was feeling at that moment. I knew I had done some real damage. As far as being out in the desert on a race course goes, I was very lucky that some of the course workers and a photographer were close by, one being almost in sight of the whole incident. They rushed to me, and within minutes I had three people in hi-vis vests surround me. “What hurts”, “what do you need”, “this guy needs help”, and then I heard my name, but pronounced as a question, “Malcolm?” I responded between my groans of pain, “my knee, my leg, somethings broken”, but then I heard something I wasn’t ok with. “I’m radioing in for the chopper!”

“By the time I recognized what I was about to hit, it was too late.”

I do purchase insurance specifically for high speed motorcycle racing, but a chopper ride wasn’t something I was interested in, nor did I think it was necessary. “Don’t do that, I'm Canadian!” I shouted at first. “Just give me a minute”, I asked. I knew immediately that I wanted to ride in myself, and then I thought about seeing my name in the results with a DNF (did not finish) beside it, something else I wasn’t interested in. I quickly gathered my thoughts, then asked them to retrieve my bike up for me. Things were, well, bent. The front end wasn’t pointing forward, levers were broken, but it was rideable. They were kind enough to straighten things out as best they could, and although apprehensive, one of them started the bike for me after I asked. The electric start button was broken in the crash, but thankfully I had a kickstarter as well. The other two lifted me up onto the seat. I assured them I knew what I was doing, that I wanted to do this, and against their suggestion, I took off. I stood on just my left leg while letting my right leg rest against the side of my bike, not allowing my boot to contact the footpeg, as I couldn’t take the pain of weight bearing. I shifted all my body weight to my left side and tried to keep my right leg under control.

Adrenaline lessened the pain after a few miles, but it wasn’t any easier. My knee was locked straight and I couldn’t bend my leg what so ever. My hip and lower back were painful and the rest of my body was beginning to feel bruised and beat up. I tried to sit, but without the ability to bend my leg I had to hold it straight out, which wasn’t any more comfortable. Regardless of the pain I put in the miles, eventually getting to the 50 mile gas check. At this point I knew the smart move would be to pull off and go straight to the medics, there wasn’t a strong argument against that. I’m sure they already knew there was a guy out there racing that was injured, the track workers from earlier would have radioed in. But my main thought was this; I’m injured, and I’m certain this is a bad enough injury that I’m going to be off the bike for a while. I don’t know exactly what is wrong yet, but if this is my last race for months, or for the season, I may as well go for it and try to finish the full 100 miles. I pulled into my pit, being careful to only put my left leg on the ground to come to a stop. I told my pit crew that I was injured, that it wasn't minor and that I needed the medics when I got to the finish. Of course they were looking out for what they thought was my best interest, suggesting that I pull out of the race now and head to the ambulance, but I was persistent. My mind was made up, I needed gas, some water poured down my back, and I am going to finish this race. They complied, and as my bike was being filled with gas for the next 50 miles I noticed a dark spot near my right knee on my riding pants. “That looks like blood”, I thought to myself. I chose to ignore it, and took off once the gas cap was back in place. 

It was frustrating being passed by riders I knew I could contend with, but I didn’t have much of an option at his point, and finishing the race on my own terms was my only mission. I worked the edges of the course, picking the smoothest lines I could spot, and surprisingly I was able to keep a respectable pace and minimized how far back I slipped in position. At one point in the race course there is a manned road crossing. The race officials here are making sure that everyone abides by the rules of dismounting your bike to push it across the road, remounting only when your tires are back on the dirt. I knew this was coming up, and considered two options in my head. One was to slowly ride onto the road, up to one of the officials and yell “My leg is broken, I can’t walk!” to him, hoping he would understand what I was saying and let it slide. That thought made me picture them not hearing me, then one of them stepping in front of my bike to stop me, or worse, reaching out to stop me, putting me off balance and forcing my right leg down onto the ground. If I had to rely on my right leg for support, there was a 100% chance that I would fall onto that side, causing more damage to my already battered limb. Option two was to say nothing. I would try to hop off the bike carefully, landing on just my left foot while keeping my right leg in the air, then hop on one leg as I crossed the road. On the other side I would hop high enough, and coordinated enough, to remount without putting any force on my right leg. For simplicity sake, I chose option two, and it went as smoothly as I could have hoped for. I did get some funny looks though.

Painfully and determined I chipped away at the 100 miles. My physical conditioning saved me in the last sections of the race, and as riders that passed me earlier on were being affected by fatigue and the relentless desert I actually made a few passes, still standing on just my left leg. As the end neared it wasn’t fatigue or pain that started to get to me, instead I was feeling noticeably light headed. My vision was being affected, but not everything looked out of focus, rather everything felt out of focus. It was similar to the feeling I get after a concussion, which I am familiar with, but I didn’t remember hitting my head exceptionally hard during the crash. Occasionally I would glance down, seeing that more blood had soaked through my riding gear. My best option was to keep pushing forward. I was riding on muscle memory, but I didn’t want to slow down so that I could reach the end as soon as I could. When the finish line was finally in sight I let out a sigh, but it wasn’t met with a feeling of relief. I crossed undramatically and almost unnoticed, blending in with the other racers. I rode away from the finishing area and any familiar faces, and headed towards my trailer to be alone before anyone could recognize me.

I came to a stop with my handlebars leaning against the trailer, making sure I didn’t put my right foot down. I slipped off the back of the bike, came to the ground, and crawled into the trailer door. Here I slowly removed my boot, and with it blood came trickling out onto the floor. I threw the boot out the door then closed it. My riding socks were white at the start of the race, now soaked and dripping red. I tried to pull my riding pants up towards my knee, but they were too tight to get more than halfway up my calf. I started to undo my pants when I thought to myself, “I shouldn’t be doing this alone in a trailer right now, maybe it’s time to find the medics.” I crawled back outside, got onto my bike and hit the electric start button. Nothing happened. I wiggled the wires while holding down the button and it connected, starting the bike. Carefully, I rode back to the main pit area and to the ambulance, leaning my bike against the side as I was greeted by one of the staff. 

At this point my sister had gotten back to the trailer, finding my bloody boot on the ground. After inspecting it and seeing the copious amount of blood in the boot and on the trailer floor she put two and two together and came looking for me at the ambulance. The medic had helped get me into the back doors and I was sitting, propped up on my elbows, as my sock, compression pants and riding pants were cut off, which exposed my broken knee brace. I was wearing carbon fiber knee braces, and the right one was broken in four spots, the hinges were bent, and the entire brace was blood soaked. I was telling the medic that I had broken my kneecap, or something in the area, and possibly some other damage. He seemed overwhelmed by the amount of blood I was covered in as he carefully finished undressing me. Once my leg was exposed you could see two large gashes, both caused by my broken knee brace, cut into my skin. They were deep, very deep, and my femoral artery had been nicked, causing the excessive amount of bleeding. The medic that was attending to me seemed more rattled and nervous, and was radioing in for his partner, saying he needed to get back to the ambulance ASAP for transport. My sister was standing beside him as he held my leg, then he slightly bent my knee, trying to get a better look in the wounds. Blood literally squirted out from the lower opening, shooting right at him! I straightened my leg as he quickly applied pressure with a dressing. None of us took this as a good sign. I looked at my sister, then asked the medic if we would be leaving right away. His partner, the driver, still wasn’t present. He said something along the lines of calling an ambulance instead of them transporting me, and said I needed to get to the hospital immediately. My sister disappeared from site.

One minute later Victoria pulled up in her diesel truck, hopped out and said “I’ll drive him to the hospital, this seems time sensitive”.  There was no resistance, and I was lifted into the open door of her truck. I was keeping pressure on the open wounds myself with a large pile of gauze and had a tourniquet tied above my knee. Victoria got behind the wheel and we took off for the Odessa Hospital. My sister is a good driver, and in this situation, she was also a fast driver. We parked right at the emergency doors and Victoria jumped out of the truck, running in and getting their attention immediately, then rushed back out with help in tow. “OK, bring him in!” someone said, “He can’t walk in!” Victoria answered. A gurney was requested, and a wheelchair was brought out instead. I was helped out of the truck while I continued to hold pressure on the now red dressings. 

I was wheeled into emergency, then told we are going to an OR room immediately, “You're going to need some work” was said aloud. I was wheeled down the hall into a private room, now with a few nurses and a doctor at my side, and my sister coming along with all of us, seemingly unnoticed. Taking care of me seemed to be a higher priority than worrying about Victoria coming into the room, so she got to see everything that happened as she stood in the corner of the room. I didn’t take anything for pain and wasn’t going to question what needed to be done, I trusted them to take care of me. It was obvious that I needed X-rays, but that would have to wait for now, the bleeding was of higher concern. At this point the pain started to ramp up again. After getting me onto the table, my leg squirted blood out of the upper wound, my femoral artery was bleeding more excessively now and they needed to access it immediately. A small nurse climbed right onto the table with me, straddling me with her knees in a 69 position while putting pressure onto the damaged area. Someone else started to put their fingers inside of the higher gash, the cuts were large enough that no new incisions were needed, everything could be accessed. My knee cap had shattered into pieces, leaving a mess of fragments that made it hard to navigate my insides. “This is a mess” I heard from the woman that was up to her second knuckle inside my leg. I leaned up slightly, looking down at the work being done, “Lean back and just look up, you don’t need to watch this” I was told while being pushed back to a horizontal position. I responded with “The entire ceiling is a mirror, I can see everything!”.

Shattered pieces of my patella were shifted and my artery was able to be sutured, getting the bleeding under control. Now it was time to piece my knee cap back together. At this point I can’t remember what came first, but I was hooked up to an IV, and stayed awake as they put my knee cap back together with surgical wire wrapped around it to hold it in place. I had x-rays, and the x-ray technician asked me to bend my knee for a few of the shots. I shook my head and told him that’s not happening, and he took the x-rays with my leg straight. With the bones back together and the bleeding stopped, they sewed up the gashes that my knee brace had made. There was a high chance that further damage was done to ligaments in my knee and other areas, but they got me put back together enough that I could safely travel back home to Canada to see my doctor. My right knee and leg were put in a large immobilizer and that was it for the hospital visit. I asked for crutches before we left, but didn’t get any, so my sister pushed me out in a wheelchair and got me into the back seat of her truck again.

When we arrived back at the race site the awards ceremony was underway and everyone was gathered at the stage as trophies and prizes were awarded. We passed by and drove to our camping area where the three bikes (Victoria’s, Steve’s and mine) were waiting to be loaded. I laid in the back of the truck while Steve and Victoria loaded our bikes along with everything else we had out. Victoria hooked the truck up to the trailer and we were ready to go. We drove the rig right up to the awards ceremony, which was starting to come to an end, and the two of them got out of the truck to go check results. My sister came back holding a trophy, hers I assumed, and I wasn’t sure what to expect her to say when it came to my finishing position. Honestly I wasn’t too concerned, for once in my life, but still, I was curious. She handed me the trophy, saying that it was mine and that I was called up earlier for it. Then she told me my finishing position, 14th Overall! I didn’t know how to react, part of me was disappointed that I didn’t break into the top ten considering I was so close (I did place 9th in the Open A class, 4 riders in front of me were in the 250 class), but at the same time I was stoked that I finished that well! “No way!” I said, “That’s crazy!” she said back. I had crashed hard in the early stages of the race, got up, and raced 70 miles in pain and on one leg, beating over a thousand other racers in the process. To me, it was worth it.

“I had crashed hard in the early stages of the race, got up, and raced 70 miles in pain and on one leg, beating over a thousand other racers in the process. To me, it was worth it.”

Before we left there were people coming up to the truck, checking in on me and looking for updates on what had happened. We didn’t stay long though, and after quickly trading stories with some other racers we drove off on route to the Canadain border. The drive was painful. I struggled to find any comfort in the backseat of my sister's Dodge as I turned onto one side, then the other, then my back, never finding a place of rest. A few cities into the drive we were all hungry, but more importantly, I had to pee. We pulled into a parking lot with some restaurants and fast food joints only to find them all closed. We tried across the street and were greeted by an Arby’s with a bright red open sign. To me food was second priority to peeing at this point, and we pulled up, parked, then started the production of getting me out of the truck. This took a few minutes, but Victoria and Steve were able to get me out and upright. I put an arm over both of them for support and we started to make our way over to the front door as 10pm hit. A tug on the handle resulted in a “clunk” and no movement. There was a worker on the other side that was about to start mopping the floor and Victoria, assuming she could hear her, was asking if we could please just use their bathroom while pointing at my immobilized leg. We got a head shake “no” as she mouthed “we’re closed”. I had to pee, there was no way I was going to make it back to the truck without going in my pants, so I told Victoria and Steve to shift me into the corner of a brick pillar on the front of the building as I pulled down my pants. I’m not proud of peeing on the front of an Arby’s that night, but it had to happen. 

Back in the truck now we stayed heading North, eventually crossing the border and making it to my Sister’s house. It was the middle of the night, but I was wide awake, constantly assessing my pain and getting lost in my thoughts. The swelling and pain was getting much worse, and it was a struggle for the two of them just to get me out of the truck now. When they did get me out I immediately asked them to lower me on to the ground, the blood rushing to my leg was making things even worse. I laid in the dirt for a minute before they helped me crawl towards the few stairs that led onto the back porch. It was painful and took time, but eventually we conquered those three stairs. Every movement was agony, and when one of them would touch me it would make it even worse. When we finally got onto the porch I said “this is it, I’m not going inside, I’m not moving anymore, I’m staying right here.” I asked my sister to get me a blanket, I was happier with the thought of laying awake outside for the rest of the night then going through the pain of getting into the house. When she brought me the blanket one of us had the bright idea that if I laid on top of it they could pull the corners towards the door, sliding me into the house. This was almost as painful as what we were doing before, but we followed through and I made it inside. This time I really was done moving. I would lay awake on the floor, the two of them would get a couple hours of sleep before the sun came up and we would reassess in the morning. And that is exactly what we did.

The recovery of this injury is another story in itself, but my sister did get me back home the next day. I lived alone at the time, so she graciously took some days off of work and stayed with me. I was floor bound, unable to get to the bathroom by myself at times. She made me meals and kept me company during the first week before going back home and to work. I had friends come and visit daily, and I went out to my parents house for a week at one point too. My dad and I watched Perry Mason reruns and the original A-Team series. He was still recovering from a separated achilles tendon at the time so we kept each other company while driving my mom mad. I was in a wheelchair most of the time but was able to start using crutches more often for short trips. I tied ten pounds of weight to my crutches for an extra workout every time I used them (Something I’ve done with all my injuries) and always had some weights with me to get a small workout in while on the couch or floor. My right leg started to suffer from muscle atrophy, and I was worried about the rest of my body falling out of shape as well. I would do at least 2km in my wheelchair everyday on the paved road and try to keep a good pace for cardio. At one point my sister came out while I was at my parents house and she joined me on that day's outing, only she was riding her horse along with me! I didn’t like the horse being too close as he had the tendency to go right to my elevated leg, causing me to worry and tense up, creating even worse pain. My sister followed me on horseback, and if my pace slowed down I would feel the nose and head of the horse right on my shoulder, reminding me to pick up the pace and to keep pushing. I worked up a good sweat on that one.

I tried to be as independent as I could, but had obvious struggles when I went back home alone. My girlfriend, Jordie (now my wife) was living in Vancouver attending college at the time (about four hours away), and when I felt good enough to move around on crutches I flew to see her for a long weekend. Getting to see her in person instead of talking over the phone or Skype was so great and helped keep my spirits lifted.

After multiple doctor visits and endless physiotherapy I did recover enough to get back riding and even racing in the same year, but I didn’t get back to 100% until the following season. My knee has sustained further damage since, but none as painful as this injury. The scars from my broken knee brace are still there today, a reminder to never give up and to always keep pushing forward.