Sierra Horse Race Blazes a Trail of Faith

Getting here takes faith.

This is the finish of the Tevis Cup--the most famed, and most feared, of all endurance horse rides. One hundred miles. Twenty-four hours. A trail that bucks and rears over the Sierra Nevada.

Making it here to the finish means enduring muscles that yelp at every move, fatigue that tatters the eyes. It means bumping over truly wicked terrain.

Above all, though, it means faith.

For to succeed at the Tevis, you must trust your horse to guide you over treacherous trails. Quickly. And in the dark. You must cede control. You must let your horse take care of you.

Only then will you make it to Auburn.

And only then will you understand the allure of endurance riding, the tug of this grueling, exhilarating race.

“Your horse becomes you,” explains Bill Pieper, president of the Western States Trail Foundation, which inaugurated the sport of endurance riding with the first Tevis Cup race in 1955. “It’s the best feeling in the world.”

Not that this ride is all euphoria. The Tevis is not only the oldest and most prestigious, but also the toughest of some 500 endurance races throughout North America. The official T-shirt says it best: “This is not a ride for snivelers.”

Indeed.

It starts at 5 a.m. in Squaw Valley, south of Truckee, in the thrilling chill of a mountain dawn. Soon enough, though, the sun blasts away the tingles; it’s 105 degrees by noon and the air is tight with dust and dung.

The trail swoops and swerves, relentless. One canyon unwinds in 42 taunting switchbacks. A mile and a half stretch through alpine woods scales a distance 300 feet longer than the Empire State Building is high--on a trail pitched at nearly a 60-degree angle. The best riders dismount and take these monsters on foot to save their horses from hauling their weight.

“So far, so hard,” one woman panted, sweating, as she swung back in the saddle at the summit and nudged her horse toward a veterinary checkpoint two miles down the trail.

“Unbelievable,” another woman, wrapped in a back brace, said. She managed to muster a cocky grin. “A very sobering hill.”

Winding past freakish outcroppings with names like Devil’s Thumb, Murderer’s Bar, Cougar Rock and Ruck-A-Chucky Rapids, riders cover a total of 23,000 feet up and 18,000 feet down before they get to Auburn and the ceremonial victory lap around the Placer County Fairground.

Noses bleed. Heads swirl.

Vertigo. Nausea. Blisters.

Somehow, it’s oddly addictive.

“I don’t do drugs,” rider Traci Falcone said. “I do the Tevis.”

Held this year under the full moon on July 19, the Tevis attracted competitors from 16 states and from Australia, Belgium, Britain, Canada, Germany and Japan as well.

In all, 223 riders started the race. Just 109 earned the silver belt buckle that awaits all finishers at Auburn. The winner was Marcia Smith, a veterinarian from Loomis who completed the course in 16 1/2 hours, sweeping across the finish line on her birthday (she wouldn’t say which one) riding an Arabian gelding called Elvis. She looked great at the finish. So did Elvis.

Most everyone else was considerably more beat up.

“I don’t have anything that isn’t sore,” rider Bob Oury, a Chicago executive, moaned at the 56-mile mark. “I want my mother.”

Oury, 59, had completed the Tevis twice before. But he was riding a rented mount this year, a peevish one-eyed mare named Patty. And things were not going well.

Slumped against a tree near Devil’s Thumb--a huge rock teetering at the edge of a canyon--Oury looked thoroughly wiped. Patty had stumbled on slick boulders near the start of the race. Oury had crashed to the ground.

The cut on his face was bleeding still.

“Do you want some lemonade?” a volunteer asked him.

“I need a psychiatrist,” he answered.

Still, Oury rested just a few minutes before creaking his banged-up body back into the saddle. This, after all, was the Tevis Cup. And no one quits the Tevis because of human fatigue.

The veterinarians posted along the trail can pull any rider whose horse wears out--as Patty eventually did. But that’s about the only excuse for failing. Blame the endurance riders’ code of honor: If the horse can do it, you must too.

“It would be a disservice to the horse [to give up],” explained R.F. “Potato” Richardson, a veteran endurance rider who now trains foreigners for the Tevis. “If it’s in condition, you don’t not ride it.”

To make sure that the horses are indeed in condition, volunteer veterinarians examine each animal before and after the race, and at eight checkpoints along the way.

Swarming each horse with stethoscopes and thermometers, the vets check blood flow and digestion, pulse and hydration, muscle tone and hoof condition. Riders must trot their horses in a straight line so the vets can check for signs of lameness. Spot blood tests screen for drugs.

“At the first sign of a problem, they’re disqualified,” head veterinarian Mitch Benson said.

He means it too.

Vets this year pulled a leading contender, three-time Tevis winner Hal Hall of Auburn, because his stallion’s pulse was racing too fast at the 60-mile mark. They also disqualified Pieper, the Trail Foundation president, with just five miles to go, citing suspicious gurgles in his gelding’s gut.

“It happens to everyone I know,” Pieper said later, still disappointed. “That’s why they call this the toughest ride in the world.”

To finish the Tevis, riders must be truly attuned to their horses. They have to know when to dismount, when to ride hard, when to pause for water. If they push the horses too hard, the vets will disqualify them. But if they take it too easy, their horses will flag out of boredom. And they won’t make the 5 a.m. cutoff.

With so much strategy to ponder, “you get to talking to your horse, asking him how it’s going,” ride director Larry Suddjian said.

“Questions about your horse go through your mind all day,” Montana cardiovascular surgeon Jim Oury said.

Unlike his brother Bob, Jim Oury finished the Tevis this year--and pronounced it even tougher than Hawaii’s Iron Man Triathalon because of the constant concern about the horse. “It’s emotionally and physically draining,” he said.

To encourage good horsemanship, the Tevis awards an annual prize, known as the Haggin Cup, to the top-10 finisher whose mount is in the best condition at the end of the race. Won this year by Oregon rider Ona Lawrence, the Haggin Cup is as coveted as outright victory.

But even those not in contention for the Haggin lavish care on their horses at every break.

They sponge sweaty manes, massage stiff flanks, kiss lathered lips. They feed their horses watermelon. They smear diaper rash ointment on saddle sores. They mush electrolyte paste into applesauce to create an equine version of Gatorade.

They also organize crews of loyal friends to hike into the two main checkpoints--mandatory one-hour rest stops at 36 and 69 miles--dragging wheelbarrows filled with hay and bran. The crews bring plenty of people food, too, so riders can fuel up with fruit and sandwiches and Power Bars. But most riders insist on making their horses comfy before they sink into lawn chairs to chow down themselves.

“My horse comes first,” said 21-year-old Whitney Bass, grinning as her mare, Iza, slobbered bran mush all over her black Lycra riding tights.

The pampering pays off after dark.

Though the trail is marked with yellow glow sticks, most riders have trouble seeing the way after sunset. The moon trips them up: a patch of light jabs into the path like a boulder. A far-off glint ripples like a puddle. They can’t tell mirage from obstacle. Their horses, however, can.

This is where faith kicks in.

“You start out this ride thinking you’re the boss. You’re the one deciding right or left, fast or slow,” Bob Oury said. “But over the course of the day, the control changes hands. At night, it isn’t you taking care of the horse. It’s the horse taking care of you.”

The experience is intense. It ties riders to their horses in a way they struggle to describe. The bond, they say, is what makes the pain of the Tevis worthwhile.

“It’s really a rather profound experience, riding your horse at speed in the dark,” said Sonoma resident Anita Fiondella-Eck, 45, who finished her first Tevis this year on a horse named Sam. “It was very moving.”

Many riders find it moving as well to ponder the legacy of the Tevis course, part of which has been designated a national historic landmark. Gold prospectors passed this way. Silver miners, too. And pioneers plodding forever westward. “You can hear them whispering to you sometimes,” Pieper said.

The trail takes riders across swinging bridges and through abandoned mining camps, past the old Deadwood cemetery and through rumpled small towns where fans line the streets to cheer. Meadows fuzzy with blossoms give way to rugged cliffs. The sun rises, then the moon. Butterflies dance by. A deer darts from the trees. A coyote races across the trail.

“It’s so beautiful,” said San Luis Obispo dermatologist Jeff Herten, who has won two Tevis buckles. “You can’t imagine how beautiful.”

Though a few thoroughbreds and even some mules make it through the Tevis each year, most of the horses are purebred Arabians. The best train like Olympians--on trails, on treadmills, in pools--and they look the part, sleek and toned, ever pumped to go.

Their riders, in contrast, are a decidedly motley bunch. Some wear jeans and cowboy boots; others, running shoes and nylon shorts. Ace bandages encircle wrists; back braces protect bruised ribs. Surgeon’s masks--or sweaty bandannas worn train-robber style--block the worst of the dust.

Seniors and juniors, cocky and scared, with beer guts and without: the Tevis attracts all types.

Two men with prosthetic hips finished this year. Julie Suhr, age 73, won her 21st buckle. Seventh-grader Stephany Ashley finished as well, at 4:42 a.m.--thus adding another offbeat accomplishment to a resume that includes competitive wrestling.

“This is character city,” said Kate Riordan, a ride director. “Absolute character city.”

Even among such an eclectic crowd, Grass Valley contractor Ken Mindt stands out.

A shy-looking, tough-talking man, Mindt landed in the Tevis by accident, when a buddy had to drop out unexpectedly the morning before the race. The friend asked him to ride a dappled Arabian mare named Brian.

Mindt, 52, had never met Brian. He had never attempted a 100-miler. He had never ridden at night. He had no time to fetch his riding shoes or his saddle. Plus, his left eye was swollen and purple, from a spooked horse that bashed his head. His forehead sported a nasty lump, the result of a mishap at work. Also, he mentioned in passing, he had been through quintuple bypass surgery less than a year before. He could still feel the scar tissue ache.

But this was the Tevis. Brian was in shape. Mindt could hardly refuse.

Checking out his competition at the pre-race vet check, he decided: “If these people can do it, I can do it.”

Mindt made it nearly 70 miles before his mare was pulled for a sore back. He did not win a buckle. But he had made a pass at the Tevis. He had taken the challenge--on faith.

“I can’t say no,” he had told his friend. “I can’t pass up a chance to ride.”