Page 18 of The Big Race
“They’re sending us the material.” As if we were already in tune with Departure Gate Productions, my laptop beeped with an incoming email.
The official contestant packet was nineteen pages of rules, guidelines, gear recommendations, and legalese. Ray skimmed it with the intensity of a sports analyst reviewing game tape. I printed it out, highlighted sections in three colors, and created a packing checklist broken down by priority, function, and backpack volume.
“Only one carry-on-size backpack per person,” I read aloud. “They’re really serious about that.”
Ray grinned. “Now we see who the minimalist is.”
“You own fourteen pairs of compression socks.”
“Which roll up tighter than your T-shirts,” he said, grabbing a pair of lightweight trail pants from the closet. “We’ve watched every season. You know the winning teams don’t overpack. Lightweight, drip-dry, odor-resistant. And no cotton.”
“I know,” I said. “But do we bring one pair of shoes or two? What if it rains? What if it’s muddy? What if we’re running through a market in Mongolia or a sand dune in Sudan and I step in something unspeakable?”
“Then we toss the shoes and buy flip-flops like the couple from Season 22. They made it to the top five with sandals and duct tape.”
I stared at the open suitcase. “This feels real now.”
Ray’s voice softened. “Itisreal.”
We started laying out gear on the guest bed like we were prepping for a military campaign. Ray’s side was all mesh zip pouches and merino wool. Mine was spreadsheets, Ziploc bags, and backup batteries.
“Do we bring headlamps?” I asked, holding one up.
“Only if you want to look like a spelunking accountant.”
“First leg is probably at night. Youwantto be the guy tripping in the airport stairwell?”
He took it and clipped it to his backpack strap. “Fine. But I draw the line at trekking poles.”
“They fold up!”
“We’re not crossing the Alps,” he muttered.
We bickered over socks (“Wool or synthetic?”), snacks (“Can we bring protein bars from home?”), and the color of our matching shirts. “We’re the magenta team,” I said. I held up one of the shirts that had been shipped to us.
“That’s fluorescent pink,” Ray said. “Did they also send us tags reading “The Gay Team” to wear with them?”
“They want us topopon TV,” I said. “And they have gay teams every season.”
“Trust me, they’ll know we’re the gay team without a label or a magenta shirt.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Since when are you concerned about our brand?”
He didn’t answer, just laid the shirts side by side on the bed. For a moment, the bickering faded. We were just two fans living the dream, surrounded by moisture-wicking fabric and far too many charging cables.
“You think we’ll kill each other on day one?” I asked, carefully labeling my compression cubes.
Ray leaned against the doorframe. “Probably. But we’ll look fantastic doing it.”
I tossed him a packet of travel wipes. “Don’t forget these. They saved that couple in the Philippines when they fell in the pig mud.”
“You know,” he said, unpeeling the label and tossing it into his bag, “for two guys barely holding it together, we make a hell of a team.”
I didn’t reply. But I didn’t disagree, either.
I forwarded all the information to Leo, and he showed up with a six-pack and a pizza the next evening like it was any other Friday night. But the way he lingered in the doorway, backpack slung low and eyes cautious, told me something was off.
“You’re really doing this,” he said after we’d eaten, standing at the kitchen island and staring at our two loaded backpacks like they were IEDs.
