Page 17 of The Big Race
Mind the Gap
T here was no time to continue that conversation because we both had to pay attention to our surroundings.
As we emerged from the labyrinth of Casco Viejo’s one-way streets, the road suddenly widened into a modern six-lane boulevard, Avenida Balboa.
The contrast was jarring. From centuries-old Spanish colonial architecture to gleaming skyscrapers in an instant.
The taxi accelerated as we joined the flow of traffic on what a sign in English called the Coastal Beltway. This impressive strip of highway ran along the Pacific Ocean, with landscaped parks and recreational areas buffering the road from the water.
The air conditioning in the taxi struggled against the tropical heat, and sweat beaded along my hairline despite the cool air. Outside, joggers and cyclists moved along dedicated paths parallel to the highway, seemingly unbothered by the humidity.
“There it is!” Ray pointed ahead to the colorful Panama sign that stood proudly along the roadside – oversized letters spelling out the country’s name in bright primary colors.
The clue box had to be somewhere near there.
The sign offered the perfect backdrop for photos, with either the impressive skyline or the vast Pacific Ocean behind it, depending on which way you faced.
“ Estamos aquí ,” our driver announced, pulling over to the curb. “ El signo de Panamá. ”
The letters were tall enough for people to pose inside them for photos. We thanked our driver and stepped out into the wall of heat. My heart rate quickened as I saw the clue box – our next challenge awaited.
Adrienne and Fletcher were already there, retrieving their clue. Gemini and Blaine were nowhere in sight—they must have taken a wrong turn or gotten stuck in traffic.
“This way,” Ray said, already moving toward the sign. But before we’d gone more than a few steps, he caught my arm, pulling me to a stop beneath the shade of a palm tree.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, glancing anxiously toward the clue box in the distance. “We need to keep moving.”
I looked at him, really looked at him—his tanned face flushed from the heat, sweat beading at his temples, his eyes holding something I hadn’t seen in months: vulnerability.
“I’ve been thinking about that day you found Russell’s text,” he said, the name still landing between us like a stone. “You asked me what it was about, and I said it wasn’t just sex. That he made me feel young again.”
I stiffened. “Is this really the time?—”
“It’s exactly the time,” Ray interrupted. “Because what happened back there with the mola—you helping me instead of letting me fail—it made me realize something.”
Around us, tourists streamed past in bright shirts and sun hats, oblivious to our bubble of tension. Cody had discreetly positioned himself to capture whatever was unfolding between us. I caught him in the corner of my eye and tried to ignore him.
"Russell never saw me fail," Ray continued, his voice dropping lower.
"He only saw the version of me I wanted to show him---the athlete, the competitor, the guy who had everything figured out.
But you... you've seen me at my worst. You've seen me fail, and instead of walking away, you step in. You always have."
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs.
My chest tightened, and I felt something crack open inside me—not breaking, but opening.
Twenty-five years of small moments flashed through my mind: Ray struggling with Leo's math homework while I quietly solved the problems on scratch paper, sliding them across the table.
Ray's food poisoning in Cancun when I'd held his head and brought him ice chips.
The day his mother died when he'd collapsed in our kitchen and I'd simply held him.
I'd never thought of those moments as stepping in. They'd just been... love. The automatic response of a partner who couldn't bear to watch the person they loved struggle alone.
"Ray," I started, but my voice came out rough. I had to clear my throat and try again.
He was looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read—vulnerable but hopeful, as if he'd just revealed something precious and was waiting to see if I'd treat it carefully.
"I never thought of it that way," I managed, my hands trembling slightly. "I just... I couldn't not help you. That's what you do when you love someone."
"I know that now," he said softly. "I'd forgotten, but I know that now."
The weight of his admission settled between us like something sacred. For a moment, the tourists and cameras and competition faded away, and it was just us—two men who'd built a life together, one moment of support at a time.
Then a familiar voice called out.
“Jeffrey! Ray!” It was Ernie, the garbage collector, jogging toward us with George close behind. “Clue box is over there! Come on!”
Ray held my gaze for one moment longer. “We should go,” he said. “But I needed you to know that.”
As we ran toward the clue box, I tried to process what had just happened.
Twenty-five years together, and it had taken a competitive reality show in a foreign country for Ray to articulate something so fundamental about us.
I wasn’t sure if I should feel touched by his realization or frustrated that it had taken this long.
Either way, there wasn’t time to dwell on it. The race was waiting, and so was our next challenge. But as Ray reached for the clue, I couldn’t help feeling that something had shifted between us—something small but significant, like the first crack in a wall that had seemed impenetrable.
Ray tore open our clue. It was a “mind the gap” challenge. “Decoded Waters,” he read. “Teams must collect fragmented phrases hidden on buoys throughout Cinta Costera Bay. Once all fragments are collected, teams must fill in the missing words, then connect the phrases to find the ultimate answer.”
We were fitted with life vests headsets with cameras, and given brief instructions on paddleboarding technique. The military couple was already on the water, expertly maneuvering between buoys.
“I’ve only done this once before,” I reminded Ray as I tentatively mounted my board. “At that resort in Key Largo.”
“You’ll be fine,” Ray assured me, already standing confidently on his board. “Just keep your knees slightly bent, core engaged, and paddle with your whole upper body, not just your arms.”
I wobbled as I attempted to stand, the board unsteady beneath my feet. “Maybe I should kneel until I get the hang of it?” I suggested.
“We’ll be too slow that way,” Ray said. “Just follow my lead.”
He pushed off, paddling smoothly toward the first buoy. I attempted to mimic his technique, managing to stay upright but moving at a fraction of his speed.
Ray reached the first buoy and grabbed the plastic-coated strip. He called back to me. "Fragment C: '...where mountains of water lift giants from the depths...'"
The strip I grabbed at my first buoy read: "Fragment A: 'I am a ladder with no rungs...'"
Another fragment: "Fragment D: '...yet I flow without moving, connecting what God divided.'"
And the final piece: "Fragment B: '...I swallow ships and birth them anew...'"
My arms were already aching, unused to this specific type of exertion despite our training. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, and sweat dripped into my eyes. I nearly lost my balance attempting to reach a particularly difficult buoy.
“Careful!” Ray called, paddling over to steady me. “We’ve got all the fragments now. Let’s head back and try to complete the riddle.”
We returned our paddleboards, vests, and headset cameras, and walked over to a table where we laid out the fragments. "I am a ladder with no rungs, I swallow ships and birth them anew, where mountains of water lift giants from the depths, yet I flow without moving, connecting what God divided."
"It has to be about water," I said, thinking aloud. "Ships, flowing, mountains of water..."
"But a ladder with no rungs?" Ray puzzled. "And 'connecting what God divided'—that sounds geographical."
"Wait," I said, the pieces clicking together. "Mountains of water that lift ships—locks! It's the Panama Canal!"
Ray's eyes lit up. "Of course! The canal connects the Atlantic and Pacific—what God divided. And it's like a ladder because ships go up and down through the locks, but there are no actual rungs."
We handed the completed phrase to the judge. He studied our work carefully, checking that we had the right answer. Finally, he smiled and handed us our next clue.
“Great teamwork,” Ray said as we hurried away. “Your clue-solving skills and my paddleboarding – perfect combination.”
He tore open the next clue. “Make your way to the Stop’n’Go’,” he read. “Warning: the last team to check in may be eliminated.”
The clue directed us to a nearby hotel rooftop, which would serve as the Stop’n’Go for this leg of the race. While we got our bearings, I noticed Cody nearby, filming us all the time.
“We’re still in this,” Ray said as he identified the hotel and we took off at a run. “Probably in third or fourth place.”
“Unless the sorority sisters or another team finished the paddleboarding quickly,” I pointed out.
“You need to stop seeing everything so negatively,” Ray snapped. “We recovered from a setback. That’s what matters.”
The hotel came into view, an imposing structure with a distinctive angular rooftop. When we reached it we raced inside, following Big Race markers to an elevator.
“Going up?” A voice called as the elevator doors were closing. The garbage collectors, George and Ernie, sprinted across the lobby toward us, followed by their cameraman. We held the doors for them—an instinctive courtesy that might cost us positions.
“Thanks,” George panted as the three of them squeezed in. “Thought we were goners on that paddleboarding challenge, but Ernie here is apparently part fish.”
“Unlike me,” I admitted.
“Rough day?” George asked, noting our wet clothes and grim faces.