Page 77 of The Big Race
“We’re almost there,” Ray encouraged, water streaming down his face. “Just a little more, Jeffrey. You’re doing great.”
His words gave me a second wind, and I dug deeper, pushing through the exhaustion. Together, we guided the boat to the final pier, where we’d need to make our last delivery and identification.
The dock at this location was partially submerged by the rising water, making the approach particularly treacherous. As we drew alongside, a massive water monitor—even larger than the first we’d seen—slithered from under the pier, its tongue flicking as it scented the air.
Ray handed up the final baskets while I kept an eye on the monitor, which thankfully showed no interest in boarding ourboat. With the delivery completed and our fifth token secured, we pushed away from the pier, ready to return to the main pier.
Khun Chai steered us on a different route back, avoiding the worst of the current. As we rounded a bend, we spotted the Fletcher and Adrienne efficiently completing their own final delivery. Their movements were precise and coordinated, much like our own had become.
The rain eased as we approached Tha Tian Pier, sunlight breaking through to create a rainbow over the canal. We had worked in true harmony with the natural environment—paddling with the currents when possible, fighting against them when necessary, respecting the wildlife we encountered while learning about this complex ecosystem.
We reached the pier minutes before the military couple, scrambling out of the boat with our five tokens and wildlife identifications complete. The race official checked them carefully, then handed us our next clue.
“That was amazing,” Ray said as we tore open the envelope, both of us breathing hard from the exertion and excitement. “I’ve never seen a city like that—from the water, dealing with the animals and plants.”
“We were really in sync this time,” I replied, feeling a deep satisfaction that went beyond just completing a challenge. “No arguments, no second guessing—just working together with the environment.”
“Almost like second nature,” Ray said with a grin, squeezing my shoulder. “Like we’ve been paddling together for years.”
Chapter 32
Muscle Memory
We unfolded the clue, eager to see what challenge awaited us next. My clothes were damp with sweat, canal spray, and rainwater, my muscles ached from the constant paddling, but I felt oddly energized. Together, we’d mastered not just the urban waterways of Bangkok, but something more important between us.
“Detour,” I read aloud. “Rice or Spice.”
Ray groaned. “Another challenge? I was sure we were heading to the finish line.”
“Looks like we’ve got to choose between harvesting rice in a traditional paddy field or grinding and mixing a specific Thai spice blend that passes a local chef’s taste test.”
“Spice,” Ray said immediately. “It can’t be as bad as that durian, and I’d rather not wade through a rice paddy.”
I nodded in agreement. “Spice it is.”
Cody rejoined us, and we followed the directions to a small, open-air cooking school tucked between two larger buildings. The air was thick with the scent of lemongrass, galangal,and chili—a perfume that made my mouth water despite our exhaustion.
"Muscle Memory Challenge," Ray read from the clue. "Teams must master the traditional Thai technique of crafting Nam Prik paste, demonstrating perfect consistency across multiple samples to satisfy local culinary experts."
A smiling Thai woman in a crisp white apron greeted us. "Welcome to Chao Thai Cooking School. I am Chef Malida. Nam Prik is cornerstone of Thai cuisine, passed down through generations. Today you learn not just recipe, but proper technique that becomes part of your body's memory."
She led us to a wooden workstation where a large stone mortar and wooden pestle waited, alongside small bowls containing various chilies, garlic, shallots, lime leaves, and other ingredients I couldn't identify.
"In Thailand, we say good Nam Prik comes not from recipe, but from rhythm of grinding," Chef Malida explained. "You must make three identical batches. Each must match sample in texture, color, and taste." She pointed to a small bowl containing a vivid orange-red paste with a glossy sheen. "This is standard. Your pastes must match exactly."
I noticed Gemini and Blaine, the sorority sisters, at the station next to ours. Gemini was already organizing their ingredients in neat rows while Blaine studied the recipe card with the intensity of someone planning a rush week event.
"This is just like coordinating a charity bake-off," Gemini declared confidently. "We've got this, hon."
Chef Malida assigned each team an experienced Thai grandmother as a judge. Ours was a tiny woman with a deeply lined face and sharp eyes that missed nothing. She introduced herself as Khun Yai Pranee.
"She has made Nam Prik every day for sixty years," Chef Malida translated. "Her hands know perfect paste without thinking. Your hands must learn same wisdom."
Ray studied the recipe card while I surveyed the ingredients. "It says we have to toast these dried chilies first, then grind everything in a specific order, maintaining precise pressure and rhythm."
"Let me handle the grinding," Ray offered, flexing his arm muscles. "All those years of athletic training should be good for something."
I smiled. "And I'll measure and prep each ingredient as you need it."
