The Tlingit people of southeastern Alaska have a word, Shgagwei, meaning "a windy place with white caps on the water." Welcome to Lake Havasu's February 28, 2009 Mark Hahn Memorial 300 - a race run in conditions the Tlingit would have understood.

The schedule: 300 miles or six hours, whichever comes first. Because I was running the event solo on my rented Yamaha VX110, and since I'm relatively new to this long distance offshore-type deal, I knew I needed a disciplined game plan if I was physically going to last the full distance. My answer: "Five-Hour Hands." I've heard people say that the legs go first in offshore racing, but I figured it would be my hands. In its previous four editions, this race had never gone past five hours. So I decided the weakest link in my physical chain, my hands, would be my strength gauge for lasting five hours. I had to keep my hands as relaxed as possible at all times. That meant that, from the get-go, I'd have to maintain a settled pace that would let me hold on for 300 minutes or 300 miles. I didn't think that would be a problem; I'd been in Havasu since the Thursday before the race and the weather had been Chamber of Commerce perfect around a lake as smooth as polished silver. Thursday afternoon I did an hour's pre-race running on water so placid I could count the sky's few clouds reflected on its surface.

Then Saturday arrived. Editor Kevin Shaw's race report in the May issue of Personal Watercraft Illustrated described the conditions as "looking like Ultra water...winds to 35 mph, dropping the temperature and churning the once placid Lake Havasu into a boiling cauldron of white-capped three- to four-foot swells and crashing surf." All very ‘shgagwei', as the Tlingit would say. When we rubber-suited people gathered in the parking lot at 6 am, there were a lot of concerned faces.

Racers get ‘Red Mist' disease at the drop of a green flag. They are happiest with throttles full on - anything else is a waste of time. But in this case, from lap one, every time I'd feel racy and start jumping white cap to white cap, I'd think about my hands and ask myself if I could maintain that grip for 300 miles. Then I'd dial it back to a five-hour-grip pace; not fast and glamorous, but it just might keep me in the game. I hadn't traveled all the way from North Carolina to bail out and sit on the beach and watching everybody else have fun.

When I came in for my first fuel stop, the good guys from Skiwi Rentals (skiwirentals.com) had the trailers and fuel dump jugs ready for the six boats they were running. Because the fencing they had laid down for shore traction had already been beaten into the sand, they yelled for me to get off the boat so the 4-wheeler could pull the load. I tried to jump off but after an hour of racing my legs moved slower than my brain. I crashed to the ground flat on my back under a crowd of feet. By the time I got up, the fuel was in so off I went.

Running my five-hour-hands pace, I started noting the changing shadows on the turn boats and checking the movement of the sun across the sky to get some idea of the passing time. I had a watch on my wrist under my wetsuit, but my hands were so busy trying to hold me on the Yamaha and keep me out of the lake, there was no way to get to it. The wind was such that on the approximately 2.5-mile northern leg, across the wind between turns two and three, it was necessary to steer noticeably north of the turn three marker boat to avoid being blown south of it.

The laps pounded on and, by the second fuel stop, my energy level and concentration had both dropped. I needed the half bagel and Gatorade I had in my kit bag. This time I didn't fall getting off the boat, but I did walk like a drunk, bumping into people, fences, and the lone tree.

Back in the saddle, it was tempting to peg the throttle and go for it but my hands kept screaming "NO." I watched both the sun and my fuel level sink lower. It wouldn't be a lie to say I was hurting by now. My knees were barking and my fingers were numb from cold and strain. I had to look at my hands to place my fingers on the throttle lever. Both thumbs hurt like hell after being bent back against the joint by the hammering of the boat. I've had three back operations, so I had to be careful how I sat and held my back. One time on Lake Norman, north of Charlotte, NC (where I live), I jumped a boat wake on a Sea-Doo, landed wrong, and walked a little bent for over a month.

I don't point out all these aches and pains to wave my macho banner; I do it to emphasize how much fun events like the Mark Hahn Memorial 300 truly are. As the race miles bounced by I'd laugh, telling myself it's a good thing I really like riding PWC, because otherwise I'd be majorly uncomfortable and pissed off by the unexpected conditions.

When I judged I'd been running about four hours, I came in for my third fuel stop, figuring a full load at that point would get me to the magical fifth hour. As the four-wheeler dragged me and the boat the required-for-refueling 20 feet from the water line, I noticed one of the Skiwi crew guys pulling on his helmet and gloves. They think I'm going to get off? Are they crazy? I yelled, "Fuel, fuel, fuel!" Someone leaned in, shouting, "We thought you wanted to get off!" I shook my head and pounded on the filler cap. As the fuel went in somebody held up two fingers, shouting, "Two laps to go!"

I hit the water thinking, "Two laps? Twenty measly miles? Is that all? Piece of cake!" I squeezed the throttle, thinking at last I could stand up and do some jumping since this whole deal was almost over. I tried to stand up three times, really tried, but no way could I do it. It was only then I realized my legs had given up long ago but I hadn't noticed because I'd been concentrating on my hands so much.

Two laps later, checkered flag. Due to the conditions, the race had run the full six hours, one hour past my five-hour-hands target time. I got to the beach and had to ask someone to undo my helmet and pull it off my head. I didn't have the strength. When I got my gloves off, I found both thumbs bleeding and swollen. I was totally depleted physically, and couldn't stop shivering. I found bruises on my hands and legs and in places I'd let only a proctologist see. The Skiwi guys gave me a candy bar, loaded me into a parked car, cranked the heater full blast, and rolled the windows up.

Recovering in the car, I had three thoughts:

1) That was the most fun I'd had in a long time
2) When you do the distance solo, the race organizers call it going ‘Ironman', but I felt more like crinkled tin foil
3) Rodeo guys win awards by staying on the bull for eight seconds - I say let's bring them to our world to see what they can do. I'd trade eight seconds of bull for 300 miles of fun any day.