Page 33 of The Big Race
Terminal Velocity
W hen we returned to the Nice airport Saturday morning, our direction card told us to fly to Bangkok, Thailand.
We had two travel choices. The first flight went to Paris, where teams had to change planes for a direct flight to Bangkok.
The other option was to fly from Nice to Rome and change planes there.
Looking at the flight board, Ray pulled me aside. “The Paris flight lands at Orly,” he said. “See? ORY.”
“And? I asked.
“When we flew in from Caracas, we landed at Charles de Gaulle airport. We were lucky to book on an Air France flight to Nice, because it left from the same airport. But the flight we can take to Paris lands at Orly and the flight from Paris to Bangkok is going to leave out of CDG. We’d have to take a train from one airport to the other.
I did that five years ago, remember, when I did that triathlon in Marseilles? ”
I looked at the teams all lined up to get their tickets to Paris. “The other teams might not know that, do you think?”
“I think at least one or two might be confused.”
Though the flight to Rome left a half-hour later, the connecting flight from Rome to Bangkok would arrive an hour earlier. “ Ciao , Roma,” I said.
One thing you never see on TV is the negotiation to get your cameraman on the same flight. Often when the agent says, “Only two tickets left on this flight,” he or she really means three—including the cameraman.
Cody stayed with us as we watched the other teams get on the flight to Paris, and we boarded the one to Rome. The flight gods were with us, and we landed on time and were able to transit easily.
The overnight flight from Rome to Bangkok was long enough that we got some rest, though Ray kept fidgeting in his seat, getting up to walk the aisles and stretch. When we landed, it was early Sunday morning local time, and the air was already thick with humidity.
Cody filmed us as we found the clue box and read the card inside.
We were to go to Chatuchak market and find the marked produce stall.
As we hurried out of the airport, we checked the arrivals board.
The flight from Paris wasn’t due for another hour and a half.
“I can’t believe we’re in first place again,” I said as we raced through the airport.
“I never thought we’d make it this far.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Ray said, but he was grinning.
All around us, travelers moved with purpose, none of them wearing masks now. The world had moved on from the pandemic, but I wondered if Ray and I had ever processed how it had changed us—how it had accelerated the drift between us while simultaneously hiding it under the guise of a shared crisis.
Outside the terminal, the heat hit me like a physical force, a wall of dense, wet air that filled my nostrils and throat. The sun was barely up, but already the temperature must have been pushing ninety degrees. Ray and I exchanged a look as we flagged down a taxi.
Our driver was a cheerful man named Somchai with a dashboard adorned with small Buddha figurines that swayed with every turn.
His taxi was blissfully air-conditioned, though the cool air carried a faint perfume of jasmine from the garland hanging from his rearview mirror, mingled with something deeper and spicier—cardamom maybe, or star anise.
“First time Bangkok?” Somchai asked as Cody slipped into the front seat.
“Yes,” Ray replied, already peering eagerly out the window. “Going to the main market area.”
“Chatuchak Market. Very good, very big.” Somchai nodded enthusiastically. “Sunday best day. Everything you want, you find.”
As we left the structured environment of the airport behind, Bangkok began to unfold around us in a riot of color and chaos.
The highway was packed with vehicles of every description.
Sleek sedans jostled for position with tuk-tuks, and motorbikes wove between lanes with seemingly suicidal disregard for traffic laws.
Each time a motorbike zipped past with a family of four balanced precariously on its frame, I felt my heart leap into my throat.
“They’re like schools of fish,” Ray observed, fascinated. “Moving together, never touching.”
I reached for his hand without thinking, finding comfort in his solid presence as our taxi dove into the flow of traffic like it was joining some complex underwater choreography.
The cityscape transformed as we entered the downtown, modern high-rises giving way to older, more chaotic architecture.
Multi-lane highways narrowed into crowded streets lined with vendor carts and makeshift stalls.
I lowered my window slightly, and a barrage of new smells rushed in: the rich, caramelized sweetness of grilling bananas, the sharp tang of fish sauce, and an earthy musk that made my nose wrinkle involuntarily.
“Oh God,” I said. “What is that?”
Somchai laughed. “Durian. King of fruits! Smell like hell, taste like heaven.”
Ray leaned toward my open window, inhaling deeply, then pulled back, coughing.
I had always been adventurous with food in a way Ray never managed.
He was more concerned with calorie intake than in experimenting with different foods.
I remembered how I’d convinced him to try alligator on our third date, how hesitant he’d been until he took a tiny bite.
Mostly he survived on protein shakes and nutritional supplements. He hated all vegetables except corn and mushrooms. Couldn’t stand the smell of fish cooking. Made me turn my plate away if I ate Brussels sprouts.
The sounds of the city flooded in through the window too: the constant symphony of horns—not angry like in New York, but conversational, little toots that seemed to say “I’m here” or “I’m coming through;” the calls of street vendors hawking their wares in sing-song Thai; the occasional burst of music from a storefront or passing vehicle—pop music layered with traditional instruments I couldn’t name.
As we ventured deeper into the city, Somchai turned off the main road onto smaller side streets, expertly navigating through alleys so narrow I could have reached out and touched the buildings on either side.
People on foot moved like water around obstacles, barely pausing in their determined progress.
Everything seemed to be in constant motion.
“Look at that,” Ray said, pointing to a tiny spirit house perched on a concrete pillar outside a modern office building, fresh flowers and small figurines arranged carefully at its base.
I’d read about these in our guidebook—miniature temples where spirits displaced by construction could reside, appeased by daily offerings.
The juxtaposition struck me—ancient beliefs coexisting peacefully with glass-and-steel modernity.
The same contrast appeared everywhere I looked: saffron-robed monks chatting on smartphones, street food stalls with QR codes for payment, centuries-old temples sandwiched between neon-lit shopping centers.
The taxi slowed as we approached a canal—a klong , Somchai called it—where long, narrow boats loaded with produce and goods moved through murky water the color of milky tea.
The smell here changed again, the food aromas mingling with the earthy, slightly metallic scent of the canal water and the diesel from boat engines.
“Water city,” Somchai explained. “Before roads, only boats. Bangkok is Thai Venice.”
A splash of water hit my arm through the open window as we crossed a bridge, cool against my skin for a brief moment before the humidity reclaimed it. Ray laughed at my startled expression.
“Told you this would be an adventure,” he said, his eyes reflecting the kaleidoscope of colors from a row of hanging textiles we passed.
Traffic slowed to a crawl as we neared the market area, our taxi hemmed in by other vehicles and waves of pedestrians crossing wherever they saw an opening.
Somchai turned down the air conditioning, and the sounds and smells of the city intensified.
The sweet tang of ripening mangoes from a fruit cart, the savory aroma of meat grilling on skewers, the sharp scent of chilies and lemongrass, all layered over the base notes of exhaust fumes and humanity.
My stomach growled audibly, and Ray laughed. “Hungry already?”
“Starving,” I admitted, eyeing a vendor frying something that looked like little pancakes filled with green onions. “I want to try everything.”
Somchai pulled over as close to the market entrance as he could get. “Chatuchak,” he announced, gesturing toward a sprawling complex ahead of us. “Many shops, many people. You get lost easy.”
As I paid the fare, adding a generous tip that made Somchai beam, the stifling heat enveloped us again. The concrete beneath our feet radiated warmth, and the air was so thick with moisture it felt like breathing through a wet cloth.
The market loomed before us—a labyrinth of narrow lanes and covered stalls extending as far as I could see.
The crowd moved like a living organism, pulsing and flowing, conversations in a dozen languages creating a constant buzz that vibrated in my chest. A child ran past us, sticky with what looked like mango juice, laughing as his mother called after him in musical Thai.
Ray turned to me, eyes bright with excitement. “Ready to dive in?”
I nodded, taking a deep breath of the fragrant, overwhelming air—a complex mixture I couldn’t begin to identify but that would forever mean “Bangkok” in my memory.
“Ready,” I said, and together we stepped into the swirling current of humanity, letting Bangkok sweep us into its heart.
The narrow lanes were already crowded with vendors setting up their stalls, the air rich with the smell of fresh herbs and cooking food. And something else—something that made my nose wrinkle.
“Oh God,” I said, as we found the challenge station. “Is that durian?”