Humans are generally advised to leave something in the tank. Save some money, get some sleep, keep a little in reserve for the inevitable. It’s solid advice—right up until tomorrow stops happening. Bruce Willis in Armageddon understood the loophole: if there’s no tomorrow, you can really open up the throttle on today.
For three weeks, tomorrow has been the primary adversary for the muscle-powered contingent of the Race to Alaska. Every mile cleared today came with the grim knowledge that the morning would demand forty more, and every hour of sleep skipped was a high-interest loan that would eventually come due. You can empty the tank clawing around a headland, but there’s always another one waiting behind it, lurking like credit card debt clad in spruce trees.
The proximity to “Done” ruins all the math. When the smell of the barn hits those salty nostrils, the body’s internal union rep stops complaining about unpaid overtime and agrees to work the shift. Legs declared legally dead suddenly find a pulse. A sensible anchorage starts to look like cowardice. Maybe the brain keeps a hidden reserve behind glass with a little hammer next to it, or maybe a shower stall is a performance-enhancing drug when viewed from twenty miles out.
Whatever the chemistry, by 0600 this morning the final four teams were all within forty miles of Ketchikan, moving north believing that today was the only day left on earth. Team Belly Full of Tea led the pack toward the dock and, presumably, the Hecate Solo Star Award.
Behind Esther came Team Apple Bottom Boy. We have all known, conceptually, that Eric was traveling on a stand-up paddleboard, but the prose has thus far ignored the physical reality of the name. He has been standing. For roughly half of the 500-something hours since the horn blew, he’s been on his feet, balancing on a high-tech piece of driftwood while dragging it 750 miles north with a glorified spoon. We noticed the paddling; the standing seems like a massive oversight on our part.
Somebody get that man a chair.
Next up is Team Lillian Signed Up to Suffer. Lillian has attempted the R2AK twice before in this boat, and today—her birthday—she is finally going to finish the thing. She also rowed something like ten miles farther than Team Notes yesterday, less a dramatic pass on the inside corner than the ancient racing technique of continuing to row after the other person stops.
Which leaves Team Notes anchoring the rear. Nate has run a quiet, media-agnostic sort of race, mostly because he’s too busy being a quiet badass to bother with the cameras.
Forty miles is a long way to move a small boat, but forty miles toward a burger is different from forty miles toward another wet tent. For 22 days, they have had to save something.
Today, they can spend it.
Header image by Lynnette Oostmeyer | Gallery photos by Lynnette Oostmeyer and Jim Meyers