Page 20 of The Big Race

The park was lush and vibrant, with tropical plants creating a canopy overhead and colorful birds darting between trees. Under different circumstances, it would have been a lovely place to stroll and admire the biodiversity, but the race allowed no time for sightseeing.

We reached a clearing where a series of platforms had been constructed in the trees, connected by rope bridges and zip lines that stretched across ravines and over a small river.

We looked up as a race official approached with equipment in hand.

“In this challenge, one team member must navigate the jungle canopy course while wearing these,” he said.

He held up a pair of goggles with heavily frosted lenses that allowed only vague shapes and light to penetrate.

“The sighted partner must guide them using only verbal instructions. Halfway through, you’ll switch roles. ”

I stared up at the swaying rope bridges with apprehension. The nearest one was perhaps forty feet off the ground—not skyscraper height, but certainly high enough to cause serious injury in a fall.

“You don’t have to do this,” Ray said. “We could forfeit the challenge.”

Teams were allowed to forfeit any challenge they didn’t want to do, but would suffer a two-hour penalty.

“No,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “I can do it. I’ll guide you first, then you guide me.”

We were fitted with safety harnesses and head-mounted cameras and given brief instructions. Adrienne and Fletcher were already on the course, with Fletcher wearing the goggles and Adrienne calling out instructions that echoed through the jungle.

“Ready?” the official asked, holding out the goggles to Ray.

Ray nodded, slipping them over his eyes. “Can’t see a thing,” he confirmed, waving his hand in front of his face.

“That is the idea,” the official smiled. “Your partner’s voice is your only guide.”

We climbed the ladder to the first platform, where a guide hooked our safety lines to a cable above the bridge. Ray stood at the edge, his normally confident posture now hesitant.

“Okay,” I said, keeping my voice calm and clear. “The bridge is about two feet wide. There are wooden slats with small gaps between them. First step straight ahead, about ten inches.”

Ray extended his foot cautiously, finding the first slat. “Got it.”

“Good. Now another step, same distance. The bridge will sway—that’s normal.”

He followed my instructions, moving slowly but steadily. When the bridge swayed, he tensed, gripping the rope sides.

“You’re doing great,” I assured him. “Just keep moving forward. I won’t let you fall.”

“I know,” he said, his voice tight but trusting.

From behind, I guided him step by step across the bridge, describing each movement needed, warning of dips or particularly wobbly sections. About halfway across, Ray began to move with more confidence, trusting my directions without hesitation.

“Platform coming up in three steps,” I called. “Step up about six inches at the end.”

Ray made it to the second platform, letting out a breath of relief. “One down. How many more?”

“Two more bridges and then a zip line before we switch,” I said, consulting the course map. “The next bridge is narrower.”

I continued guiding Ray across increasingly challenging bridges, watching with pride as he navigated obstacles he couldn’t see based solely on my instructions. Our communication developed a rhythm—I would describe what was coming, he would acknowledge, then execute the movement.

When we reached the zip line station, Ray hesitated. “How exactly do I do this blindfolded?”

“You stand here,” I positioned him carefully. “When I say go, just step off the platform. The line will catch you and carry you across. I’ll be right behind you on the next line.”

“Just step into nothing. Sure, no problem.” He laughed nervously.

“Trust me,” I said, squeezing his shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

Ray took a deep breath and stepped forward when I gave the signal, disappearing into the jungle canopy with a whoop that transformed from fear to exhilaration midway across. I followed on a parallel line, arriving at the switching station where Ray waited, already removing his goggles.

“That was incredible,” he said, eyes bright with adrenaline. “Terrifying but amazing. Your turn.”

I swallowed hard as he slipped the goggles over my eyes, and the world disappeared into a foggy blur of shapes and shadows.

“Don’t worry,” Ray’s voice came clearly through the darkness. “I won’t let you fall.”

Now the roles were reversed, and I experienced the unsettling sensation of moving through space without visual feedback. Each step required absolute trust in Ray’s guidance— trust I wasn’t entirely sure I was ready to give him again after his betrayal.

“Small step to your right,” Ray directed. “The bridge turns slightly.”

I hesitated, my foot hovering over what might be solid footing or empty air.

“Jeffrey,” Ray’s voice softened. “I know what you’re thinking. But I promise, I will not let you fall. Not here, not at home. Never again.”

Something in his tone reached past my fear and doubt. I took the step, finding solid footing exactly where he’d said it would be.

With each successful movement, my confidence in his guidance grew. By the final bridge, I was moving almost naturally, supported by the steady stream of precise instructions from Ray. When it came time for the zip line, I stepped off the platform without hesitation when he gave the signal.

We completed the course successfully, and the guide at the final platform handed us our next clue as I removed the goggles, blinking in the sudden light.

As we headed down the trail toward the next part of the course, I felt a shift between us. A restoration of something vital that had been missing.

“You trusted me back there,” Ray said quietly as we walked.

“Yes,” I replied. “I’m getting there.”

“One step at a time,” he said, echoing our bridge-crossing mantra. “That’s all I ask.”

“As long as you keep giving me the right directions,” I said with a small smile.

“Always,” he promised. “From now on, always.” This brought a laugh from both of us, easing the tension.

Even though we had cameras attached to our heads, it was easier to talk out there in the middle of the forest, without Cody always around us.

As we moved to the next challenge – another zip line, this one much longer and across a ravine – I felt a strange exhilaration.

The initial drop made my stomach leap into my throat, but once I was gliding, the sensation was almost peaceful – until I realized I needed to brake before crashing into the next platform. Ray’s shouted instructions helped me manage a somewhat graceless but safe landing.

We continued through the course, each bridge and zip line slightly less terrifying than the last. Ray remained supportive throughout, offering encouragement without pushing. By the final zip line, the longest and highest of all, I felt almost confident.

“Look at you,” Ray said as I prepared to launch. “From terrified to zip line pro in under an hour.”

I managed a smile. “I wouldn’t go that far, but at least I’m not hyperventilating anymore.”

The final zip line deposited us near a small waterfall, where a race official waited with our next clue. Adrienne and Fletcher were long gone, but we’d maintained our position ahead of the other teams.

“Make your way to Orinoco Falls Viewpoint,’ Ray read from the clue. “For a Checkpoint Challenge.” He looked at me. “How are you doing?”

I thought for a moment. “You know, not bad. How about you?”

He smiled and squeezed my hand. “Not bad either.”