Page 18 of The Big Race

“Just working out some kinks,” Ray said diplomatically.

The elevator ascended to the rooftop, opening to reveal a spectacular view of sparkling water. Julie stood on a mat at the far end, accompanied by a man in a naval uniform.

We all sprinted for the mat, the garbage collectors keeping pace. In the end, Ray and I stepped onto the mat just seconds before them.

“Ray and Jeffrey,” Julie announced, “you are team number three!”

Relief washed over me. Not first, but safely in the middle of the pack.

“Welcome to Panama, home of the Panama Canal,” the man in uniform said.

“George and Ernie,” Julie continued, “you are team number four.”

Over the next hour, the remaining teams checked in. The sorority sisters were fifth, followed by the male models. The second flight teams trickled in: the gay friends, the mother-son duo, the doctors, the NBA Wives, and the chefs.

We stood at the edge of the roof, looking out at the skyline, as Jenny and Carlos, the food truck owners joined us.

“A lot like the Miami skyline,” Carlos said.

I heard the remnants of a Spanish accent; he had probably come to the US from somewhere in Latin America as a kid.

I'd noticed them at the starting line but hadn't had a chance to talk—they'd seemed focused and a bit tense even then.

Jenny was a petite Latina woman with intricate tattoos covering her forearms and her dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Carlos was stockier, with salt-and-pepper stubble and the kind of permanent tan that came from working outdoors.

"You guys are from Miami too, right?" Ray asked, recognizing their team introduction from the first night.

"Our business is called Havana Dreams," Carlos confirmed, wiping sweat from his forehead with a bandana. "Been running our truck all over Dade and Broward for eight years."

"Havana Dreams," I said, the name clicking. "I've seen you at the food festival in Young Circle Park in Hollywood. Those Cuban sandwiches?"

Jenny's face lit up for the first time since I'd seen her. "That's us! You’ve been to our truck?"

"A few times," Ray said. "Your empanadas are incredible. I always get extra for lunch the next day."

"Those are my abuela's recipe," Jenny said proudly. "Carlos does the sandwiches, I handle the sweets and sides."

"Must be interesting, working together and being married," I observed, genuinely curious about their dynamic.

Carlos and Jenny exchanged a quick look—not the warm glance Ray and I had been sharing lately, but something more guarded.

"It has its challenges," Carlos said diplomatically.

"We've got different approaches," Jenny added, her tone carefully neutral. "Carlos likes to stick with the classics—Cubano, media noche, croquetas. I want to experiment more, add fusion elements."

"Fusion doesn't sell to our customers," Carlos said, and I caught the edge in his voice that suggested this was an ongoing argument. "They come for authentic Cuban food, not Korean-Cuban whatever."

"But we could expand our market," Jenny countered. "The younger crowd, the food bloggers. There's this truck in Wynwood doing Peruvian-Japanese that's killing it."

Ray and I watched this exchange with growing discomfort. It was like watching a familiar fight play out—the same kind of disagreement Ray and I used to have, where we'd dig into our positions instead of really listening to each other.

"How do you handle disagreements when you're working?" I asked, hoping to steer the conversation somewhere more constructive.

"We don't, usually," Jenny said with a bitter laugh. "He's the 'business manager,' so he gets final say on the menu."

"Because I handle the books," Carlos said defensively. "I know what sells and what doesn't. The food festivals are different. People there want to try new things. But our regular customers at the truck? They want consistency."

"You know Versailles?" Ray asked, mentioning the famous Cuban restaurant. "They've been doing the same menu for decades."

"Exactly," Carlos said, shooting a pointed look at his wife.

"But look at places like Coyo Taco," I countered, thinking of the modern Mexican spot that had exploded in popularity. "They took traditional concepts and made them fresh. Sometimes evolution keeps you relevant."

Jenny nodded enthusiastically. "See? Even the computer guy gets it."

I winced slightly at being called "the computer guy," but pressed on. "The key is probably finding the balance, right? Keeping your core offerings but maybe testing new items as specials?"

"That's what I keep saying," Jenny said. "But Mr. Conservative here won't even let me try a mango habanero empanada."

"Because the profit margins are already tight," Carlos said, his voice rising slightly. "Every ingredient that doesn't sell is money down the drain."

An uncomfortable silence fell over our group. Ray cleared his throat.

"You know, Jeffrey and I have had similar disagreements about his work," Ray said carefully. "He wants to take on more challenging projects, I worry about the financial risk if they don't work out."

"How do you handle it?" Jenny asked, seeming genuinely interested.

Ray and I looked at each other. How did we handle it? For years, we hadn't—we'd just retreated to our separate corners until one of us gave in or the issue became irrelevant.

"We're still learning," I admitted. "But lately we've been trying to actually listen to each other's concerns instead of just defending our own positions."

"Easier said than done," Carlos muttered.

"Definitely," Ray agreed. "But the race is already showing us that our different approaches can actually work together if we let them."

Jenny studied us with new interest. "You two seem to have your communication figured out."

Ray and I exchanged another look—this one tinged with irony. If only they knew how close we'd come to not communicating at all.

"Trust me," I said, "we're still working on it. Every day."

Behind us, we heard the familiar sound of another team arriving, breaking up our conversation.

As Jenny and Carlos moved away to watch the next arrival, I caught Carlos putting his hand on the small of Jenny's back—a tiny gesture, but one that suggested their partnership, despite its tensions, still had foundation.

"Think they'll make it?" Ray asked quietly.

"In the race or in general?" I replied, watching them stand slightly apart as they waited.

"Both."

I thought about their dynamic, the way they seemed to argue past each other rather than with each other. "The race is going to put a lot of pressure on whatever cracks are already there."

"Like it did for us," Ray said softly.

"Except we came in already knowing our foundation was shaky," I pointed out. "I'm not sure they realize how serious their problems are."

Ray nodded, and we both turned our attention back to watching for the remaining teams, each of us probably thinking about the delicate work of partnership—in business, in marriage, and in the strange adventure we'd embarked on together.

As the sun began to set, only one team remained out in the wild: the professors. When they finally arrived, they were visibly exhausted, the older couple struggling with the tropical heat and physical demands of the race.

“Vivian and Walter,” Julie said solemnly, “you’re the last team to arrive. I’m sorry to tell you that you have been eliminated from the race.”

The professors accepted the news graciously, expressing gratitude for the opportunity and pride in what they’d accomplished despite their elimination.

As I followed Ray into our room, I wondered if our marriage would last as long as theirs had. And if we were kicked off The Big Race, as we most likely would be, could we do it with similar grace?