Gear Checklists
My Backyard: Suffering in Style
By Patricia Jacobs
Nov 1, 2005, 12:47

Illustration by Darcy Muenchrath

You can trade the high-fashion runways of Paris for the muddy, bloody trails of an adventure race, but you don’t have to lose the look.

On a late September night, I lay face down in a patch of grass in front of a restaurant along Route 59 near Nyack, New York. I’d been on my feet in various guises for 17 hours and was struggling on the bike leg of a Balance Bar 24-hour adventure race. Twenty-four hours was the amount of time race officials guesstimated it would take the average racer to complete the bike/trek/paddle/blade/rappel-into-the-Hudson-River race. To our team—decidedly less than average and reduced from three to two—that time allotment seemed way stingy.

As I alternated between spitting out blades of grass and sobbing my eyes out in exhaustion, my teammate, Robert, stooped over me making fruitless attempts to massage away my pain. I hoped people passing by suspected that I was in the midst of executing some heinously impossible feat. But most of all, I hoped they noticed that—despite the mud, sweat and tears—we looked good.

For on my feet were snazzy, yellow/black Pearl Izumi cycling shoes with cushy Smartwool socks peeping out. I wore a clingy The North Face top in cerulean blue, and a breathable, waterproof Marmot coat in a lovely shade of saffron orange (which I’d have to say mimics Chisto’s Central Park “Gates”), from which shone reflective strips for that
little extra bling. Strobes, night sticks, compass and lights were all ’binered onto my various body parts. Completing the look was a sleek Giro helmet and the latest Salomon backpack, which contained all manner of items (an extra top, first-aid kit, emergency blanket).

This whole high-performance ensemble was designed to help the wearer outlast, outrun, outperform—yet here I was, curled up in a defiant heap of exhaustion on a patch of grass in the dead of night. But damn, I looked cool.

I came by my love of adventure fashion honestly. Right out of high school I got my first real job at a major New York newspaper where I did a bit of everything. I edited food copy. I discovered new fitness clubs—and I was taught the finer points of Nike, Hind, adidas and Reebok. I was sent to cover fashion shows in New York, Milan, London and Paris, where I learned the excitement of perfectly cut cloth. I met St. Laurent, Valentino, Armani and Lagerfeld—some of the names responsible for the collars, cuffs and cuts we take for granted.

While covering the New York nightlife beat, I tracked celebrities and the socialite progeny of future Parises and Nikkis. I discovered they were different from you and me. They ate differently (i.e.—they didn’t). And the clothes: embroidered, beaded, sequined and tucked, and made of fabrics crafted by angels. I went on to learn the difference between silk ottoman and chiffon, and how hemlines predicted the ups and downs of the stock market.

The job gave me the travel bug bad, so I moved to France, where, between dodging prostitutes and johns while jogging through the Bois de Boulogne, I dabbled in design. My first ensemble was a hand-painted red silk suit, which I debuted at a party. A voodoo party. You see, everything—including blood-letting ceremonies, apparently—is translated as a party in Paris. Interestingly, the killing of the goat was a relatively clean affair; however, the throwing of the cooked fish and rum wasn’t. The turquoise nylon raincoat I had whipped up the night before came in real handy. It was my introduction to truly protective gear.

Back stateside, I sought out luxury travel assignments and saw how the jet-set played. I stuffed my suitcase with wearables ready for everything from gallery-hopping to beachside galas. And although I found that silk doesn’t travel well, I never left home without it—or my green lucite Chanel bracelet with the gold C’s.

If you’re thinking, How shallow. It’s all about the bling with you, isn’t it? well, you’d be right. Or that is, it used to be. I soon discovered there can be too much of a good thing. I got bored with living the high life. I began questioning myself: What’s the payoff? What am I gaining? An invite to the right party/resort/designer sample sale? (Well, yeah—that’s where I got the Chanel).

I’d been tangled up in a job and a lifestyle where exterior impressions got the press, got the rich guy, got the best table in a restaurant. I had a backdoor entrée into a world that wasn’t mine. But where was mine? It certainly wasn’t lying in a chaise lounge in a swimsuit not meant to swim in. I wanted to be challenged, shaken up, scared stupid. I wanted adventure.

So I got an assignment to Chiapas, Mexico, and tried whitewater rafting for the first time. I explored underground lava tubes on Hawaii’s Big Island. In the Bahamas, I dove with sharks (which wasn’t nearly as scary as the ropes course in Colorado or the swim leg in the Danskin Triathlon).

But nothing matched the thrill of Borneo, where I covered Eco-Challenge for TV Guide and the New York Post. I’d seen some adventure racing on TV, but only between winces. I took to the assignments like leaches on a flesh wound. “From the Canyons of New York to the Jungles of Borneo!” screamed a double-page spread headline. “It was Hell!” screeched another.

And there was something that thrilled me above all about the Eco-Challenge. The mud, vermin, diseased waters and painful, skin-splitting hazards that make up your typical jungle habitat were an unavoidable, uncontrollable inconvenience to the biking, trekking, kayaking and abseiling racers. But there was one thing they were in charge of: their gear. The way adventure racers dressed was fly—sexy, even.

They wore crisp tops in fast-drying, technical fabrics with pit zips and all those team number patches in a multitude of nation-identifying colors. They hauled huge backpacks containing all the accoutrements necessary for the life-against-death struggle. They dressed as though their survival depended on it—and sometimes it did.

The Playboy Team—three gorgeous former centerfolds—emerged after several days of jungle habitat in torn Columbia shirts and mud- (and blood-) streaked ensembles, looking like the outtakes from some demented Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue shoot. The Girls from Brazil sported tiny braids like gonzo Bo Dereks. New Zealand’s John Howard, arguably the sport’s greatest athlete, took to pantyhose like a macho Marilyn Manson, accentuating his taut, well-conditioned legs.

They were strong, they were daring—and they dressed cool. “This is a race that shows you what you’re really made of,” Eco-Challenge (and Survivor) producer Mark Burnett told me. That was it. I wanted to be an adventure racer!

Already halfway decent on a mountain bike and having paddled a couple of times, I got a trainer, who had me run up flights of stairs, doing push-ups after each flight. I entered my first race, the Hi-Tec—a sprint for beginners. It took me and other rubes through sand, mud and fishing lines in New York’s Orchard Beach. I wore spanking-new gear bought at Paragon. I found an adventure racing association, and from it two future teammates.

To get some flavor, I tagged along with Team Fred at the Genesis Adventure Race in Telluride. And to get up close, I did gear checks at local races. I even found myself paddling in a downpour at 6 a.m. at an adventure racing training camp. But none of this prepared me for the real thing.

My first 24-hour race, the New York Balance Bar, started off with three of us, all versed in the prime A/R tenet that you’re only as good as your slowest teammate (guess who?). However, about six hours into the race, one dropped out. And truthfully, perhaps I should have as well.

My Montrails were still holding solid, but pebbles began to feel like boulders. And the Pearl Izumi shorts stopped helping after several hours of bouncing.

But with the approach of night, I began to experience a new sensation. It wasn’t hunger, nor thirst. I was tired and wet and chafing in places that shouldn’t be mentioned. In another situation, this would signal that it was time to pack up, get ice cream, go home and watch the telly. But there were miles to go, a lake to kayak and a battleship from which to rappel.

It was very late. Roger and I were pedaling toward Nyack. “Five miles” to town, the sign said. I’d already lost track of how many we’d traveled. “Stay in the white line!”, Robert yelled. I found myself wandering into the road—I’d fallen asleep cycling! Shaken awake and pedaling furiously, I tried keeping up with the red rear light of Robert’s bike with the hope that I could draft off him.

My mind began to play tricks: I struggled to stay within the white line and not fall off the runway into Anna Wintour’s lap. I heard applause from the audience—but it was actually the rustling of bushes I’d drifted into. They scratched my arm to shreds. My brain, already crazed with fatigue, began functioning in code, panicking when the red light faded into the distance, then ecstatic as it turned to white, coming toward me to check if I was still alive.

Finally, at the sight of a patch of grass outside the 24-hour restaurant, it saw a way out. That grass was Nirvana, salvation. It was my mommy, into whose soft, green arms I fell like Naomi Campbell into her Vivienne Westwood heels. It felt good to be on the wet, early-morning ground. So good, I didn’t want to get up. And like a baby, I cried.

I was humiliated. Had all my training come to this? Was this what Burnett meant, that I was destined to chew cud? We soon pulled out of the race, having missed the cutoff at the kayak leg and with no desire to rappel into the Hudson, thank you.

Now I know the true meaning of the words “fashion victim.” As in looking the part doesn’t mean you can play it. As in all the fancy gear in the world can’t get you across the finish line anymore than a Dior handbag makes you Brazilian bombshell Giselle Budchen. And I now know that overtraining, as well as running around in flip-flops during downtime, can bring any future training (and the sciatic nerve down my left leg) to a crashing, tragic halt. As I struggle to get back into shape with my Leki Nordic walking poles and lots of therapy, I cherish—but don’t need to return to—the memory of that night, when I was dressed like a super-athlete but felt less so. I’m glad I tried something scary, even at the risk of pain and humiliation.

I still covet Gucci, Marc and Prada, but my adventurous side reveres Suunto, Gore-Tex, Speedo and Athleta. I learned that at least attempting a race (if only 17 hours of it) is better than nothing and that I’d rather kayak in a squall off the USVI’s St. John than lie around on its beaches. And that all cotton socks should be garmentus non-grata on your gear list. But most of all, I realized that the best accessories are good teammates, a spirit of adventure and the ability to brush off the leaves and go on.