Page 44 of The Big Race
The Losers’ Club
T he flights from Luang Prabang to Vancouver felt like traveling between worlds.
We began in the sweltering heat of Laos, and many hours later we were landing in the crisp mountain air of British Columbia.
A production assistant met us at the airport, holding a sign with our names and the familiar race logo.
“Welcome to Vancouver,” she said, with the practiced cheerfulness of someone who’d already greeted several other eliminated teams. “You’ll be staying at the Fairmont Pacific Rim until the finale.
The remaining three teams are still racing, and they’re on their way here.
But you won’t be able to communicate with them until after all three teams cross the finish line. ”
Ray shifted his backpack to his other shoulder. “Are the other eliminated teams already here?”
She nodded. “George and Ernie were hoping to see you in the final three. I know they’ll be happy to see you—but disappointed you didn’t make it all the way.”
I smiled, genuinely pleased. “It’ll be good to see them again.”
The production assistant led us to a waiting SUV, explaining the rules for our sequestered stay.
We couldn’t contact anyone from home—no calls to Leo, no social media updates, nothing that might reveal who had been eliminated before the show aired.
In exchange, we were being treated to luxurious accommodations and daily excursions around Vancouver.
“Think of it as a paid vacation,” she said brightly. “Just with cameras occasionally following you around for reaction shots and interviews.”
Ray squeezed my hand as we drove through downtown Vancouver. “A week of relaxation sounds pretty good right about now.”
“After being attacked by monkeys and then stressing over dance routines? Yeah, I’d say we’ve earned it.”
The Fairmont Pacific Rim was every bit as impressive as its reputation suggested—a gleaming waterfront high-rise with stunning views of the harbor and North Shore Mountains. As we checked in, the front desk clerk slid an envelope across the counter.
“This is your schedule for the next two days,” she explained. “The production team would appreciate your participation for filming purposes.”
We were scheduled for a cruise around the harbor the next day, with relaxing time in the afternoon and evening.
Then the day after that we would be expected to line up at the finish line starting at approximately three o’clock.
There was no guarantee how long we would be there, so we were advised to be prepared for a long wait.
Our room was on the twentieth floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. After weeks of racing around the world, sleeping in everything from luxury hotels to communal tents, the elegant simplicity of the space felt almost jarring.
“I could get used to this,” Ray said, testing the bed with an appreciative bounce.
I moved to the window, watching seaplanes take off and land on the water below. “It doesn’t feel real yet, does it? Being out of the race.”
“I know what you mean.” Ray came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Part of me is still thinking about the next challenge, the next destination.”
“Or who’s going to be eliminated next.”
He rested his chin on my shoulder. “Do you regret it? Coming on the show?”
I turned in his arms to face him. “Not for a second. Even with all the stress and exhaustion and, yes, monkey poop, I wouldn’t trade what we’ve found again for anything.”
We were interrupted by a knock at the door. Ray answered it to find Ernie and George standing there, grinning widely.
“There you are!” Ernie exclaimed, enveloping Ray in a bear hug that lifted him off his feet.
George gave me a more restrained but equally warm embrace. “Welcome to the losers’ club,” he joked. “Best damn club in Vancouver right now.”
“We were just about to head down to the hotel bar,” Ernie said. “The NBA wives and the professors are already there. You guys in?”
Ray looked at me questioningly. After weeks of competition and rushing, the thought of simply sitting in a bar with friends—friends we’d made on this strange journey—sounded perfect.
“Absolutely,” I said. “Give us ten minutes to freshen up.”
The bar was housed in a striking space with soaring ceilings and an impressive wall of backlit bottles.
As promised, several of our fellow competitors were gathered around a large table.
Desiree and Cherisse, the NBA wives, waved us over enthusiastically.
Cherisse had her broken leg in a bright blue cast, already signed by the other players.
“Finally!” she called out. “We need more men to balance out the table.”
Professors Walter and Vivian, the oldest team in the race, were sipping martinis and looking far more relaxed than the last time we’d seen them. Vivian patted the seat beside her.
“Jeffrey, Ray, come tell us about Southeast Asia. We’ve been dying to know who knocked you out of the race.”
As we settled in, a waiter appeared with a tray of champagne flutes. “Courtesy of Mr. Ernie and Mr. George,” he announced, distributing the glasses.
George raised his glass. “To the race that kicked our asses but brought us together.”
“Hear, hear,” came the chorus of responses as we clinked glasses.
“So,” Vivian leaned forward, her academic curiosity evident, “what was it that finally got you eliminated? From what we’ve heard, you two were on quite a streak.”
“A torrential downpour and a Buddha shop,” I explained. “We got caught in a torrential downpour in a small town outside Luang Prabang, in Laos, and by the time we were able to make it to the Stop’n’Go, we were in last place.”
“Brutal,” Walter nodded sympathetically. “Geography is a harsh mistress.”
“I don’t know about your pride, but my leg is still mad at me,” Cherisse chimed in, gesturing to her foot. “Snowshoes are the devil’s invention.”
“Speaking of devils,” Ernie said, lowering his voice dramatically, “have you seen Tyler and Brandon yet? The gay friends?”
Ray shook his head. “They were eliminated before us.”
“Yeah, they arrived two days ago,” George confirmed. “And Gemini and Blaine after them. They lost on some sort of spice challenge.”
“No one’s seen much of them,” Desiree added. “They’re holed up in their rooms, probably still fighting about who screwed up what.”
“What about the food truck owners?” I asked, trying to remember who else had been eliminated.
“Jenny and Carlos?” Ernie snorted. “Those two could barely stand each other by the time they got here. Word is they’re dissolving their partnership when they get back to Miami.”
“That’s sad,” Ray said. “Their empanadas were amazing—we tried them at a food festival last year.”
“The race has a way of exposing cracks in relationships,” Vivian observed, the professor in her emerging. “Put people under enough stress, in unfamiliar environments, with limited resources, and you see who they really are.”
“Or who they can be,” I countered, thinking of how Ray and I had found our way back to each other through the challenges.
“Exactly,” George raised his glass to me. “This guy gets it. The race showed Jenny and Carlos they weren’t meant to be partners. But it showed Ernie and me that thirty years of friendship can survive anything.”
Laughter rippled around the table.
“What about you two?” Desiree asked, her gaze moving between Ray and me. “You mentioned at the start that you were having... issues. Did the race help or hurt?”
I exchanged glances with Ray, silently communicating about how much to share. He nodded slightly, giving me the lead.
“It helped,” I said simply. “Not because racing around the world is some magical cure for relationship problems, but because it forced us to face things we’d been avoiding. To remember why we chose each other in the first place.”
“And to find new reasons to choose each other again,” Ray added, his hand finding mine under the table.
Ernie raised his glass again. “To choosing each other, again and again. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”
The conversation flowed easily after that, with teams swapping stories of their most embarrassing moments, near misses, and favorite experiences from the race.
The NBA wives had almost been arrested in Panama when Cherisse tried to bribe a local official.
The gay friends eventually joined us and revealed that they had accidentally joined a Buddhist meditation retreat in Bangkok and spent four hours in silence before realizing they were in the wrong place.
“What’s your best memory from the race?” Walter asked us.
Ray and I looked at each other, dozens of moments flashing between us. The bungee jumping in Venezuela, the parasailing in Nice, the dance challenge in Bangkok. But one stood out above all.
“For me,” I said, “it was a moment in the French Alps. We were snowshoeing across this pristine field, and Ray stopped to show me how to look for animal tracks in the snow.” I smiled at the memory.
“It wasn’t a big moment, not something that would make good TV.
But it was us, together, sharing something beautiful without competing or rushing. ”
Ray’s eyes softened. “I was going to say the same thing, except it was watching Jeffrey on that zip line in Venezuela. He was terrified of heights when we started the race, and there he was, flying through the air with the biggest smile on his face.”
“You guys are making me nauseous,” George groaned, but his eyes were kind. “In a good way.”
“What about you, George?” I asked. “Best memory with Ernie?”
He thought for a moment. “Probably when he saved my life in Venezuela.”
This was news to us. “What happened?”
“We were on those rickety bridges in the jungle,” George explained. “I slipped and would have fallen into the ravine if this guy hadn’t grabbed me.” He clapped Ernie on the shoulder. “Twenty years of hauling garbage bins built some serious arm strength.”
“You never told us that,” Ray said, impressed.