Dragging a canoe, crawling through the woods, shouldering a bike through waist-deep mud and sleep monsters have never been so much fun

“Whack!”

And another branch of young pine slapped me across the face. Turning to avoid the tree in front of me, I ran smack-dab into another. Three-hundred-and-sixty-degrees of thickly clustered, sprightly pine trees. What a nightmare.

I held back the tears that were coming with every ounce of self-control I could muster and dropped to my knees, army-crawling under the lowest bough, gritting my teeth and wondering what kind of terrible life-choices had led me to this moment of doom?

It was Friday, the second night of the 72-hour Untamed New England Adventure race. More than 30 hours in, and my team was deep into a bushwhacking endeavor that would take us until morning to complete. We were working our way up a steep slope, to a ridge, then over and down to a mountain lake and the first of two off-trail checkpoints. I honestly didn’t have a clue how close we were to reaching our goal, and while I trusted my navigator, Brent, completely, I couldn’t help but wonder if we would ever make it through this demoralizing maze of deadfall and new growth. This New Hampshire forest was the thickest I had ever seen and it seemed to be getting worse with each step. Visions of men in orange suits, search dogs and bright lights from the rescue helicopters swirled in my sleep-deprived head as I worked my way up the mountainside.

Finally, the terrain leveled out. We’d hit the ridge. Brent stood, looking in all directions before shrugging his shoulders and leading us in a rough line of where he thought the checkpoint could be. After no more than a minute, sure enough, he’d found it. I was amazed. And so relieved. Little did I know, we had about eight more hours of self-abusive misery to go before we would escape from those woods.

For better or worse, one thing I’ve always been good at is moving on. I don’t know if that’s always a particularly endearing quality or not, but it’s helped me to weather some difficult storms and allowed me to become more independent. I know how to adapt to a new place, new job, new friends. I know that whatever bump or slip or whirlwind of a ride life chooses to throw at me, I’ll be okay. I’ll pick up the pieces and move along.

Expedition adventure racing is all about enduring one obstacle and moving on to the next. While the struggle to reach one checkpoint can be full of pain, exhaustion and mental defeat, like our trip up Bosebuck Mountain, when the sun comes up, it’s another day. And you have another checkpoint to chase.

In our case, we had quite a few more to go. Since Thursday afternoon, we’d paddled 40 miles across remote lakes and into a spectacular sunset, then navigated small rapids downstream in the dark; portaged our boats for six miles on rolling roads and through menacing single track trails; huddled around a fire with fellow-racers while one team member at a time ran a solo orienteering course in the dark; biked 30 miles through bumpy snowmobile trails to the Canadian border; trekked 35 miles into Maine, up and down mountains, much of the time off-trail; rode a zip-line across a beautiful canyon, then rappelled down a rock face next to a waterfall... and we still had a day and a half to go. On Saturday morning, we slept for 45 minutes before more rounds of running, biking, or rather hauling our bikes through a swamp, and swimming to a series of small islands would lead us to the finish line.

I experienced quite a lot of personal growth during those 72 hours, but perhaps what I value most about this sport of adventure racing is that through it all, from beginning to end, I was never alone. I was always pushing for the good of my team, and my teammates were always beacons of light guiding my way through the darkest hours.

Out of a field of 41 international teams, sponsored, decorated athletes from across the globe, we found ourselves fighting for a top five finish, and capturing it. We slept for less than 45 minutes in the course of four days and more than 200 miles, but we actually raced ourselves across the line. We never gave up. We stayed sharp, we stayed positive—we raced the dream. And when it was all over, we knew there was only one thing left to do: Enjoy that feeling.

In my relatively short adventure racing career, I’ve already experienced the highs and lows, goods and bads of team dynamics. At times, I’ve been the strongest and the weakest link. Finding four competitors with similar abilities is only half the battle. When all four teammates are driven to accomplish the same goal at almost any cost—bruised, battered, blistered and still willing to lend a hand and wear a smile—well, that’s just pure magic. And that is where I see adventure racing transcend “sport.” It’s people helping people to accomplish a common goal, be it something small or something great.

When the race is over, there is always mixed emotion. Relief, for one...each racer happy to finally sit down. A sense of pride for accomplishing a feat many would never dare to start. And finally, a hole. Where once was undeterred focus in moving forward and forging ahead; where once was the black and white world of traveling from point A to point B, now there is a void. Reality begins to set in. The pungent scent of ripened bike jerseys and the sight of your mud-caked gear ropes you back down to Earth.

Fortunately, for the true AR-junkies, there is usually another race on the horizon... another chance to escape into the wilderness and test the limits of our bodies and minds. After all, this is what we live for, whether we want to admit it to ourselves or not.