Page 39 of The Big Race
Muscle Memory
W e unfolded the clue, eager to see what challenge awaited us next.
My clothes were damp with sweat, canal spray, and rainwater, my muscles ached from the constant paddling, but I felt oddly energized.
Together, we’d mastered not just the urban waterways of Bangkok, but something more important between us.
“Detour,” I read aloud. “Rice or Spice.”
Ray groaned. “Another challenge? I was sure we were heading to the finish line.”
“Looks like we’ve got to choose between harvesting rice in a traditional paddy field or grinding and mixing a specific Thai spice blend that passes a local chef’s taste test.”
“Spice,” Ray said immediately. “It can’t be as bad as that durian, and I’d rather not wade through a rice paddy.”
I nodded in agreement. “Spice it is.”
Cody rejoined us, and we followed the directions to a small, open-air cooking school tucked between two larger buildings. The air was thick with the scent of lemongrass, galangal, and chili—a perfume that made my mouth water despite our exhaustion.
"Muscle Memory Challenge," Ray read from the clue. "Teams must master the traditional Thai technique of crafting Nam Prik paste, demonstrating perfect consistency across multiple samples to satisfy local culinary experts."
A smiling Thai woman in a crisp white apron greeted us. "Welcome to Chao Thai Cooking School. I am Chef Malida. Nam Prik is cornerstone of Thai cuisine, passed down through generations. Today you learn not just recipe, but proper technique that becomes part of your body's memory."
She led us to a wooden workstation where a large stone mortar and wooden pestle waited, alongside small bowls containing various chilies, garlic, shallots, lime leaves, and other ingredients I couldn't identify.
"In Thailand, we say good Nam Prik comes not from recipe, but from rhythm of grinding," Chef Malida explained.
"You must make three identical batches. Each must match sample in texture, color, and taste.
" She pointed to a small bowl containing a vivid orange-red paste with a glossy sheen.
"This is standard. Your pastes must match exactly. "
I noticed Gemini and Blaine, the sorority sisters, at the station next to ours. Gemini was already organizing their ingredients in neat rows while Blaine studied the recipe card with the intensity of someone planning a rush week event.
"This is just like coordinating a charity bake-off," Gemini declared confidently. "We've got this, hon."
Chef Malida assigned each team an experienced Thai grandmother as a judge. Ours was a tiny woman with a deeply lined face and sharp eyes that missed nothing. She introduced herself as Khun Yai Pranee.
"She has made Nam Prik every day for sixty years," Chef Malida translated. "Her hands know perfect paste without thinking. Your hands must learn same wisdom."
Ray studied the recipe card while I surveyed the ingredients. "It says we have to toast these dried chilies first, then grind everything in a specific order, maintaining precise pressure and rhythm."
"Let me handle the grinding," Ray offered, flexing his arm muscles. "All those years of athletic training should be good for something."
I smiled. "And I'll measure and prep each ingredient as you need it."
We quickly fell into a rhythm. I toasted the chilies in a small pan over an open flame, careful not to burn them, while Ray observed the demonstration by another chef, mimicking the grip on the pestle and the circular motion used.
"These are seriously hot," I warned, transferring the toasted chilies to a small bowl to cool slightly.
"That's why I volunteered for the grinding part," Ray grinned. "Your delicate programmer's hands wouldn't survive this."
Ray began grinding the chilies with powerful, rhythmic strokes of the pestle. Chef Malida immediately shook her head and corrected his technique.
"No, no. Not with arm strength. Wrist movement, body weight," she demonstrated again, showing how the entire body participated in the grinding action. "Find rhythm like heartbeat—steady, never stopping."
Ray adjusted his stance and grip, focusing intently on matching her movements exactly. The motion was deceptively complex—not a simple pounding but a combination of grinding and pressing that required the whole body to work in harmony.
At the next station, Blaine was attempting the grinding while Gemini read instructions aloud from the recipe card.
"Step one, toast chilies for exactly two minutes," Gemini recited. "Step two, add garlic and salt. Blaine, honey, you need to press harder."
"I am pressing hard!" Blaine huffed, her perfectly styled hair beginning to wilt in the humidity. "This thing weighs more than my laptop bag!"
Our first batch was taking shape as Ray found his rhythm, the ingredients slowly transforming from distinct pieces into a cohesive paste. The spicy aroma intensified, making us both cough occasionally.
"Next ingredient?" Ray asked, not breaking his tempo.
"Garlic and salt," I replied, quickly peeling cloves and adding them to the mortar along with a pinch of coarse salt.
As Ray continued grinding, I noticed his movements becoming more fluid, less deliberate. His body was learning the rhythm, the way his muscles needed to move to achieve the right consistency.
When our first batch was complete, Khun Yai Pranee inspected it critically, comparing it to the sample paste. She dipped her finger into our creation, tasted it, and immediately shook her head.
"Too coarse. Chilies not ground fine enough first. Start again," Chef Malida translated.
Ray's face fell. "But I thought?—"
"Muscle memory takes repetition," I reminded him. "Let's analyze what went wrong and adjust."
Meanwhile, Gemini's Southern charm was in full effect as their judge rejected their first attempt.
"Now, darlin', I know we can do better than that," she drawled to the unimpressed Thai grandmother.
"Back home in Alabama, I can organize a three-hundred-person gala, surely I can manage a little cooking. "
"This isn't about organization, Gem," Blaine said, wiping sweat from her forehead. "My arms are killing me. How do these little old ladies do this every day?"
For our second attempt, Ray adjusted his grinding technique, applying more pressure during the initial phase with the chilies and creating a finer base before adding other ingredients. I stayed focused on the preparation, measuring and adding each element at precisely the right moment.
"It's all about finding the perfect balance," I said as I watched Ray work. "Between technique and feel, between following instructions and developing instinct."
Ray nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Like relationships."
The observation surprised me. "How so?"
"Well, there's the formula—the things everyone tells you make a good relationship—communication, honesty, compromise. But then there's the rhythm you develop together, the unspoken patterns that just work for your specific partnership." His hands never stopped their steady motion as he spoke.
Our second batch came closer to the standard, but Khun Yai Pranee still identified subtle differences in texture. She demonstrated again, her gnarled hands moving the pestle with practiced ease despite her age.
"Ray, try leaning into it more," I suggested. "She's using gravity to add pressure, not just muscle."
For our third attempt, Ray incorporated this insight, allowing his body to work in concert with the tool rather than fighting against it. The transformation was remarkable—the ingredients yielded more readily, breaking down into a smoother, more consistent paste.
By now, Gemini and Blaine were on their fourth attempt, their earlier confidence completely evaporated. Blaine's arms were shaking with fatigue, and Gemini was frantically consulting the recipe as if it held some secret they'd missed.
"Y'all, this is impossible," Gemini complained to their judge. "We're following every single step exactly like it says!"
"Recipe is map, but hands must know path," their Thai grandmother replied through the translator. "Cannot think paste into existence. Body must learn."
Blaine looked close to tears. "But we've organized dozens of events together. We know how to follow instructions!"
As Ray worked on our third batch, I noticed a change in his movements. His face had relaxed, his breathing synchronized with the rhythm of grinding. He was no longer overthinking each step but allowing his muscles to guide the process.
"I think I've got it," he said quietly, his eyes half-closed in concentration. "It's like when you find your stride on a long run—suddenly your body just knows what to do."
When we presented this batch to Khun Yai Pranee, she dipped her finger in, tasted, and gave a small, approving nod.
"Good base," Chef Malida translated. "Now make two more exactly the same."
Without complaint, Ray began again with fresh ingredients. His body had internalized the movements, developed the muscle memory necessary to recreate the same result. I found my own rhythm in the preparation, anticipating when each ingredient would be needed.
Our fourth and fifth batches matched perfectly. When we presented all three pastes side by side to Khun Yai Pranee, she inspected them carefully, tasting each one.
After what felt like an eternity, she smiled. "Same same," she said in English, before adding something in Thai.
"She says your hands have learned what your mind could not teach them," Chef Malida translated. "This is true mastery."
We high-fived, both of us exhausted but triumphant. As we prepared to leave, I felt a twinge of sympathy for Gemini and Blaine, who were still struggling with their sixth attempt, their judge shaking her head once again.
"Should we give them some advice?" I asked Ray quietly.
He considered it for a moment, then nodded. We approached their station, where Blaine was starting yet another batch with trembling arms.
"Try switching roles," Ray suggested gently. "Fresh muscles might help."
"And remember, it's not about following the recipe perfectly," I added. "It's about finding the rhythm. Let your body learn the motion."
Gemini looked at us gratefully, her usual confidence replaced by genuine appreciation. "Thanks, y'all. You guys make this look so easy."
"Twenty-five years of practice," Ray said with a smile. "It eventually becomes second nature."
We wished them luck, but as we headed for our next destination, I had a sinking feeling that our advice wouldn't be enough to save them from elimination.