Real Survival Stories - Swept Downstream: Mountain Biker in Costa Rica

Episode Date: June 11, 2025

Mark Lyons enters an epic mountain bike race through the heart of Costa Rica. Its fearsome reputation is well deserved. The father of two will end up caught in a river current and swept downstream for miles - deep into the jungle. Even if he can escape the water, with no GPS, no phone and no shoes, survival will still require a superhuman effort… A Noiser production, written by Joe Viner. For ad-free listening, bonus material and early access to new episodes, join Noiser+. Click the subscription banner at the top of the feed to get started. Or go to noiser.com/subscriptions If you have an amazing survival story of your own that you’d like to put forward for the show, let us know. Drop us an email at [e-mail] Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Get unlimited grocery delivery with PC Express Pass. Meal prep? Delivered. Snacks? Delivered. Fresh fruit? Delivered. Grocery delivery? On repeat for just $2.50 a month. Learn more at PCExpress.ca. It's November the 6th, 2015. In the western lowlands of Costa Rica, the Carrara National Park is a 50-square-mile

swathe of lush, dense rainforest. Steam rises from the jungle canopy, where howler monkeys and scarlet macaws flit among the vines, filling the humid air with their screeching chorus. At the bottom of a deep ravine, a river twists and turns, thundering over rapids and tumbling into sparkling plunge pools. Crocodiles lurk in the slow-moving stretches of black water, hungrily waiting for an unsuspecting mammal to linger too long on the banks. Downstream from where the river forks, a fallen tree has become lodged against a cluster of large rocks.

And there, half concealed among the tangled branches, is a shiny black and yellow mountain bike, its chrome handlebars glinting from the hot sun. Meanwhile, about a mile away, 55-year-old Mark Lyons is being torn and tumbled through the rapids. Born along by the swift current, his cycling helmet is barely visible amid the white water's peaks and troughs, a dark speck in the muddy churn. It was really scary, because I'm not a water person. I'd go under for long amounts of time, and then as I would feel the air on my face, I'd take a big breath and boom, I would be underwater again.

This river has mark in its clutches and is showing no signs of letting go. Pain sears through his body as it glances off large underwater boulders, each blow forcing more precious air from his lungs. With his feet downriver and his face pointed up, Mark can see shards of blue sky flashing through the jungle canopy as he is dragged deeper into the rainforest. I remember at one point saying, is this really the way I'm going to die in a river in Costa Rica? It got real scary there at points where I thought I was going to drown

because I was underwater for so long. Ever wondered what you would do when disaster strikes? If your life depended on your next decision, could you make the right choice? Welcome to Real Survival Stories. These are the astonishing tales of ordinary people thrown into extraordinary situations. People suddenly forced to fight for their lives. In this episode, we meet Mark Lyons. In November 2015, the keen cyclist has entered La Ruta de la Conquistadores,

an epic mountain bike race through the heart of Costa Rica. It's a grueling endeavor, regarded by many as the toughest race of its kind. And Mark will soon learn why it has such a fearsome reputation. The father of two will end up caught in a river current and swept downstream for miles, deep into the jungle. I just remember things moving around the trees.

I know there's big snakes and there's a lot of nasty things out there, but mainly big snakes is what I thought about. And even if he can escape the river, survival will still require a superhuman effort to find his way back to the road with no GPS, no phone, no shoes, and no idea where he's going. But with the odds, and seemingly an entire rainforest against him, Mark will remain resolute. Nobody saw me come down that river, so I'm going to have to get out of this myself because nobody saw me. So it's all me.

I'm John Hopkins from the Noiza Podcast Network. This is Real Survival Stories. It's November 4, 2015 in San Jose, Costa Rica. A group of six friends are cycling around the parking lot of a small hotel. It's after sundown and the city is coming alive. Latin music floats from a cantina across the street, mingling with the smell of fried plantain and sizzling empanadas. In the distance, beyond a row of low-rise apartments, cars honk lazily on the main road into the city. After a couple of laps, the cyclists stop and get off their bikes. It's late, they have an early start tomorrow. Better get some rest.

The heat of the day rises from the tarmac in sticky, fragrant waves, as the friends wheel their bikes inside the hotel lobby. 55-year-old Mark Lyons locks his bike up with the others in the storage room. He does so with just a hint of frustration. Tomorrow he and his buddies are competing in an epic cross-country mountain bike race from one side of Costa Rica to the other. It's the toughest challenge that Mark, an experienced cyclist, has ever attempted. Knowing that he will be pushed to his limit, both physically and mentally, he would ideally go through his usual pre-race routine.

But this evening has been hectic. Getting their bikes together took longer than expected, and there hasn't been time for the usual full-length training ride. It's thrown him off. You know, I know how my body works. I know how I train. And before a race, the day before I like to go out and I like to spin my bike for a good hour or something. Just loosen up my legs and and kind of get the heart rate up a little bit but not too much and so on. So I was kind of upset because I thought we would have the time to go out and spin for an hour or something. It's one of the things I always did. So you know I have I have that, I think, in the back of my head.

In his hotel room, Mark flops onto the bed and kicks off his shoes. Hopefully he won't come to regret skipping his customary hour-long spin. Best not to dwell on it. What's done is done done and it's not like he's racing for prize money. He cycles for the joy of it, not competition. I've been cycling almost 40 years now. I've done a little of everything. I used to road bike a lot, mostly mountain bike these days for the last couple decades, and still do it very regularly. I ride about five days a week, you know, depending, two, three hours a day. I love it.

I've been doing it forever. It's done a lot of good for me. Originally from California, Mark has lived most of his life in Colorado, where he's the co-owner of a thriving family-run pizza business. Ten years ago, when the youngest of their two daughters went off to college, he and his wife moved up the mountains into a house they built themselves. It was a big moment. There was a time when owning a business and a beautiful home seemed like distant fantasies,

the way the other half lived. But that was before Mark discovered a hobby that ushered in a mindset shift. A gear change. Because as I grew up in a lower middle class, that was never a mindset. It's like, oh, you're going to own your own business. You're going to be able to do this. I mean, that really was not a mindset. I feel that cycling, you know, as far as that type of exercise

just keeps your mind sharp. It keeps you positive thinking. So I could actually think that, yeah, I could do this. I could go into business on my own. I think it made me think even more positively. Cycling is Mark's gym and his therapy. When he's facing challenges at work, he mounts his bike and sets off into the mountains, invariably returning with a fresh perspective.

It's also a social activity. He belongs to a community of recreational cyclists in the Denver area, a group of enthusiasts who get together on weekends to explore local trails and occasionally to compete in organized race events. At 55, Mark is a good 15 years older than some of the guys he rides with, but he's in excellent shape and can more than hold his own. Still, when one of his friends proposed they travel to Costa Rica to complete in a notoriously challenging mountain bike race, he initially had his doubts. La Ruta de los Conquistadores has a fearsome rep, and with good reason.

It was noted as at one point the hardest race on the planet. I think there's been a couple others that now are considered harder, but at that point it was still among the hardest races. So I was a little nervous about it. In English, the race translates as the Root of the Conquistadors. As the name suggests, it follows a path once traveled by Spanish colonizers in the 16th century. An unforgiving route that incorporates miles of muddy jungle trail, steep hill climbs, and whitewater rivers.

Over three grueling days and 135 miles, the race participants must traverse this merciless terrain as temperatures soar into the high 30s. Water stations and first aid tents are positioned periodically throughout the race, but if a rider suffers a serious accident, getting them out can be a problem. Four-wheeled vehicles can't navigate the narrow jungle tracks, and the density of the rainforest canopy renders airlift by helicopter an impossibility. It means that for large portions of the route, the riders are on their own. It was a tough race.

I was definitely nervous about doing it, but I thought I was in pretty good shape at that point. I mean, I was, I don't know if I was at my peak, but it was right after my peak. So I thought I was ready for it. It's the following morning. In the town of Jaco, on Costa Rica's Pacific coast, a crowd of cyclists and spectators swarm around the starting line of La Ruta. Among the 600 competitors are some of the world's best mountain bikers. Deep within the pack, far from the elite riders at the front, are Mark and his five friends,

Jeremy, Ben, Todd, John and John's intrepid teenage daughter, Madeleine. They chat nervously as they await the starting klaxon. Mark takes a swig from his water bottle. It's only just gone 6am, but already the heat is getting up. Bright morning sunshine cascades over the sea of bobbing helmets. He anxiously squeezes his handlebars and taps his foot against the pedal. For a race like this, a trusty steed is essential. This bike is his pride and joy.

It was a Scott 900 RC, which was pretty much top of the line race bike at the time. I mean, just super nice, all carbon bike, top of the line components. It was a sweet bike, really nice bike. At 10 past six, the klaxon sounds. Mark joins the flood of bikes surging across the starting line. The nerves instantly recede, drowned out by the exhilaration of setting off.

Alongside John and Madeleine, Mark quickly falls into a pedaling rhythm. The first stretch follows a flat, paved road. The cyclists glide smoothly over the sun-baked tarmac, waving at the locals who have woken early to cheer them on. After a couple of miles, the outskirts of the town give way to jungle. The route turns off the road and onto a steep mud track into the forest. And so it begins. Almost immediately, the race's reputation starts to make sense. The hill is practically vertical.

I live in the mountains, I'm in the mountains all the time, but this was completely different. Their terrain was a lot different. The sides of their hills were ridiculously steep. The first hill we got to, it was so steep that people were having to get off their bikes and walk up the hill. So that was kind of a slap in the face right from the beginning.

Huffing and panting, Mark struggles to the top of the hill, the first of many. And from there, the morning wears on. It's already 30 degrees, and the humidity is nearly 90 percent. the morning wears on. It's already 30 degrees, and the humidity is nearly 90 percent. The warm air saturated with a sticky moisture that swaddles the riders like a wet wool blanket. The terrain is brutal. A slippery bog that slows Mark down and sucks his energy. We're talking some place a foot deep of slimy mud where your feet would go down into him. And it felt like when you pulled your foot out, pull your shoe off with it, like the suction of that mud.

Mark tries to find his groove as the race continues, but it's a struggle. He's sluggish and rickety. His body aches. His quads are on fire. He tries to keep up with John and Madeline, taking every opportunity to stop and hydrate. I knew I wasn't doing well. I felt like crap that day. One of the worst days I've ever felt right. And it was just I was not adapting to the heat, the humidity. So I was just dragging and suffering. At one rest station, Mark is sitting on the verge, his head between his knees. When John approaches, looking concerned, he urges Mark to take on some nutrition. He took a potato and he just dumped a pile of salt on it and says, eat this, you need

to eat this. It's like, I don't eat a lot of salt anyway. So I took it and I choked it down. It was, it was tough. I mean, just a pile of salt on it. And I felt a little bit better. I mean, so you could tell I was getting dehydrated because that salt kind of gave me some energy a little bit. Didn't last long, but it helped.

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tries to escape the engine room. We'll hear the harrowing tales of the victims and the testimonies of the lucky survivors. I saw that ship sink and I saw that ship breaking off. Titanic Ship of Dreams. Listen wherever you get your podcasts. Mark battles on. Perspiration coats him. The saddle feels hard as rock as he bounces over mud and tree roots. Two more days of this is a grim prospect.

All morning and into the afternoon, the race continues, deeper and deeper into the jungle. They're currently winding their way into the Carrara National Park, a 50 square mile nature reserve. This forest is one of the most ecologically diverse places anywhere on Earth, home to poison dart frogs and spider monkeys, boa constrictors, pumas, and three-toed sloths. Its rivers teem with giant, hungry reptiles, and its skies are bejeweled with birds of paradise, horn-billed toucans, parrots and scarlet macaws with their rainbow-colored plumage.

Not that Mark has the energy to appreciate the local wildlife. He can barely keep himself upright on the saddle. In the early afternoon, they reach a steep hill slicked by a recent mudslide. As he embarks up it, Mark spots a fellow contestant having some difficulties. And there was this one girl that was really struggling. I felt bad for her. So I put my bike down and went back to help her. And John and Madeline had got up to kind of the top of it out of the mud and said,

hey, let's go. And it's like, just give me a minute. And he said, oh, I'm going to take off and we'll meet you up the trail. After waving John and Madeline on, Mark helps the struggling contestant up the hill. The contestant thanks him, then continues on her way. Mark picks up his bike and pushes it to the summit, then gently rolls down a short slope to where the route crosses a shallow, fast-flowing river. Then he gets off his bike again. His legs feel like jelly. like jelly. Stumbling slightly, as if drunk, he wheels his bike to the riverbank. He kneels down and splashes some water on the mud-kicked gears and chain. Sun streams through the rainforest

canopy, twinkling like diamonds on the river's surface. A cacophony of birdsong fills his ears. Having cleaned the thick mud of his bike, Mark picks it up and starts pushing it through the calf-deep water. The cold liquid soothes his burning ankles. It feels good. So good, in fact, when his foot slips. Mark's initial reaction upon hitting the water is one of relief. Ah, that feels so good.

That cool water all over my body. And in that second or two that I did that, there was a little shoot between two rocks and I shot down that shoot. The shoot leads to a deeper, faster stretch of river. Muck plunges beneath the surface. For a fleeting moment, the race, the heat, the discomfort, all of it fades, swallowed up by the cool, dark nothingness.

Then he resurfaces, and it all comes roaring back. But before he has time to cry for help, he is being swept downstream, carried along by the current, away from the race, away from his friends, and into the dense, hisssy, snarly jungle. And I'm starting to pick up speed and I think, okay, no big deal, I'll go down and feed and get to a shallow area and then just get back up. Well, that never happened. I kept going faster and faster and it's like, hey, this is not good.

Mark cannot escape the river. His already exhausted limbs wobble uselessly in the bouncing, bubbling water. I wasn't slowing down, and so I let go of my bike. That was definitely a turning point of, yeah, this is getting kind of serious. As soon as he lets go, Mark's bike is ripped downstream, colliding with a rock and sliding beneath the turbulent surface. But he doesn't have time to mourn the loss of his beloved two-wheeler. He's got bigger problems.

I'm bouncing off of large boulders. Sometimes it's I'm hitting my shoulders. Sometimes my feet every once in a while, like hit a rock just right and it would start like spinning me around. And the first thing in my head is, you know, get back around get my feet down the river because I'm still moving. So I would fight to do that. But as I was doing all that I was going underwater for

long amounts of time. And it was really scary because I'm not a water person. I remember at one point saying, is this really the way I'm going to die in a river in Costa Rica? I thought I was going to drown because I was underwater for so long. on. It's mid-afternoon in the Costa Rican jungle. Day one of La Ruta de los Conquistadores is in full swing. Startled birds take flight, and monkeys scramble to the highest branches as the riders tear through the jungle. Meanwhile, about a mile south of the track, Mark Lyons is racing in the wrong direction, pulverized by the churning rapids of the Whitewater River.

He manages to rotate his body so that his cycling shoes are pointing downstream. Then he folds his arms across his chest and lets fate take its course. I'd go under for long amounts of time and then as I would feel the air on my face, I'd take a big breath and boom I would be underwater again. He doesn't even try to swim for the bank. His body is so run down. It requires all his strength just to keep his head above water. Besides there isn't really much of a bank to speak of. The sides of this river are sheer rock walls making escape impossible.

Further and further down the river he goes, deeper and deeper into the rainforest. Mark loses old sense of time as he speeds along, the walls of the gorge streaking past in a greyish-green blur. It feels like hours pass, until suddenly, it comes to a stop. He has managed to plant his feet against a log, anchoring him in place.

He looks around. The river is green and murky, with slimy weeds texturizing the surface. The water parts around him and fans out in widening V-shaped ripples. The current has eased, allowing him a moment to catch his breath. And with the arrival of calm comes an opportunity to assess his situation. Nobody saw me come down that river so I'm gonna have to get out of this myself because nobody saw me so it's all me. In other words I knew I had to get myself out you know from the beginning but I knew I had to.

But where to even begin getting out of this mess? The sides of the gorge still loom above him, impossibly steep and high. By then I was really beat up. I had been bouncing off a rock. So I mean, by then I had no energy at all. The least amount of energy I've ever felt in my life. Slowly, Mark turns his head to the right.

And there he sees something, something that could be the key to his salvation. I was lucky because the sides of that river were like rock walls. So there was almost no way to get out of that river. But right next to where I was, instead of it being straight up, just had a little bit of a tilt to it. Mark is just feet away from the sloping bank, within touching distance. But he doesn't want to move his feet from this log. In his depleted condition, even this gentle current could sweep him downstream like a twig. He'll have to wait until his energy returns.

With the water holding him in place against the log, he's barefoot. His cycling shoes must have been ripped off in the rapids. Gone, too, are his phone and GPS. Both were attached to the bike. That leaves him with the contents of his backpack. A water bottle, a lightweight rain jacket, and a few sachets of energy powder called two hours have passed. Finally, Mark has recovered enough strength to make an attempt for the bank. Before leaving the safety of the log, he decides to give himself an extra boost by swallowing that Cytomax down the hatch. And that's kind of what I did.

I ate about half that pack just straight and they gave it a few minutes and I just started grunting and groaning and just everything I had. Mark grits his teeth and lunges for the bank. He digs his fingers into a crack in the rock and lunges for the bank. He digs his fingers into a crack in the rock and heaves himself up. He's done it. He's back on dry land. But just that one small action has taken its toll. After I flopped myself onto the side, I laid there the rest of the day. I mean, I couldn't even get up to stand up. I couldn't walk.

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It's about an hour later. Mark lies sprawled on the riverbank, his chest rising and falling. Nobody witnessed him being swept away, so it's hugely unlikely a rescue party will be coming anytime soon. He'll have to get himself back to the road. Best estimate is that he's floated about two miles downstream. He'll need to trek back upriver until he reaches the track again, however long that takes. Right now though, he's utterly diminished. He needs rest.

And so with the late afternoon sun already slunting through the trees, his trek will have to wait till morning. Despite the evident danger he's in, Mark remains upbeat. Remarkably, he's even able to see the funny side of the situation. With nothing else to pass the time, he removes the GoPro camera strapped to his helmet and records a video diary, grinning sheepishly into the lens. I turned it around and turned it on and like narrated into it. Okay, here's my situation. I'm laying here.

I can't do anything today. I have no energy. But I was kind of chuckling at the same time. It's like, so here I am. You know, because to me me it was no big deal. It was almost like just a bump in the road. An understatement, surely. Unable to move, lost in the jungle is certainly more than just a bump in the road. But then to anyone who knows Mark, this breezy outlook would

come as no surprise. I try to be positive. I joke around a lot. So I was almost joking to myself. There's just like hey, here's my situation, you know, don't have anything to eat, you know, I forgot what I said, but it's like this is going to be interesting, you know, or something like that. After recovering some more strength, Mark decides to climb a little higher up the bank,

to put some distance between himself and the water before nightfall. Just before setting off, he finishes the remaining Cytomax energy powder and carefully places the empty packet on a rock near the bank. Perhaps if anyone comes looking for him, they'll see it and know that he was here. Then he starts moving, but at a snail's pace. I kind of clawed my way halfway crawling, halfway army crawling, whatever, up the slimy mud hill, probably 15 feet up.

I don't know. It wasn't that far up. And I found this tree, and I just got up there. Now I'm looking down on the river, so at least I'm higher up. The tree grows diagonally from the slope, offering a stable spot to rest. Mark swings a leg over the trunk

and fastens himself in place with his backpack strap. So steep I was worried that I would slide back down that hill into the water. And the water is what scared the crap out of me the worst. And that's the last thing I wanted to do was get back in the water. So yeah, I strapped myself to that tree basically and kind of straddled it and just stayed there and tried to sleep all night but never slept. water. So yeah, I strapped myself to that tree basically and kind of straddled it and just stayed there and tried to sleep all night, but never slept. It's early the following morning. Dawn leaks through the rainforest, heralding an end to

the sleepless night. For the last 10 hours, Mark has been listening to the sounds of the jungle, flinching at every snapped twig and rustled branch. Stiff, sore, and bleary-eyed, he unties himself from the tree. His throat feels like sandpaper, so he takes a sip of water from the little that remains inside his bottle. Then he turns and looks up towards the ridge above the gorge. He needs to follow the river upstream, but due to the sheerness of the bank, he will have to follow its course from the vantage point of the ridge. This is still a grueling climb away through many meters of thorny bush.

It was so steep that I was using like vines to almost like a mountain climb up it. But every once while I grabbed vines and they were like these these things that were just full of needles. So I would grab these get a handful of these needles. I mean just trash your hand it was bad. full of these needles. I mean, just trash your hand, it was bad. Hands pin cushioned with black spines, Mark slogs to the top of the ridge. The river is below him and to the right, pointing the way back to the road.

No time like the present. Mark starts picking his way along the jungle-clad ridge. Dense, waist-high vegetation slows his progress through the morning. He pushes his way between hanging vines and stubborn thickets, past giant orchids and immense pink flowers. Vast spider webs stretch between the trees like huge white fishing nets. With so many obstacles demanding his attention, it's difficult to keep track of the river, wending away to his right.

Often trees obstruct his view of the water below, and he's forced to use his ears instead. Then as midday approaches, the sound of the river starts to fade. I started hearing the water sound getting very faint and kind of going away. So it's like, well, something's not right here. So then I slid down the hill, which was just as tough as going up because it was so steep and rocky. And I slid down and came up on this little tiny creek. Is this the same river he came down? It doesn't seem wide or deep enough.

But then this is the river he's been following, isn't it? Perturbed, Mark continues on, sticking as close as he can to the creek. Rocks and thorns lodge themselves in his bare mud-coated feet. He tries to look where he's walking. The last thing he wants is to step on a venomous snake or a spider. At one stage, he attempts to innovate a solution. I tried to make some kind of sandals out of these giant leaves and it didn't work. I wrapped them around my feet a few times and took some other vines like twine and it didn't work.

Famished and parched, his skin aflame with cuts and insect bites. Mark plods on. After another hour, he reaches a steep section of the bank that forces him to walk sideways, picking his way along the slippery ledge. He pushes through a patch of undergrowth to reach a flatter, rocky section. And then he stops in his tracks. There, in front of him, gleaming in the afternoon heat, exactly where he left it on the river bank yesterday,

is the empty packet of Cytomax. I realized I was just like everybody in these survival shows that say they walked in a big circle because I always told myself that would never happen. There's no way I could walk in a circle. And that's exactly I spent like half the day getting back route and I was back where the site of Max was after like half a day. When I saw that, my stomach kind of dropped.

It's like crap. I'm back where I started. Mark stands there, gawping at the empty packet. The river must have forked at some point, causing him to follow the wrong branch, one that led him in a circle. Even for Mark, the eternal optimist, it's a major blow. With no other options, he slogs back up to the ridge, then retraces his steps, careful not to lose sight of the river a second time. After a while, he spots an opportunity to cross to the opposite bank. The other side was a little more flat. So I got the courage up because that's what made me probably the most nervous,

is I had to cross that river again. And in that spot, it was almost a wastey. So I was very careful and took my time and got across the river. I was really shot by then. My feet were sore. My legs were just beat. Eventually, damp and drained, Mark reaches the other bank. He has to ensure he doesn't make the same mistake again. That this time he is heading

back to the trail, not back the way he just came. He fights on, never letting the river out of his sights. But as the afternoon deepens, his physical condition worsens. He's on the ropes. I knew I was pushing my body harder than I think I ever had. Where I couldn't walk, where I literally had to almost drag each leg, you know, plant one leg, drag the other one. Literally, like, pull my own legs through, you know, I'd never been that bad on anything. So I knew I was pushing my body harder than I ever had.

With each step, Mark is running down the tank that little bit more. But as the prospect of a second night in the jungle starts to loom, he digs incredibly deep. I think people don't understand how strong your mind is. I mean, I couldn't believe that I could do that and I was able to do that. I was able to stay positive and I was drained, but I just turned the pain off. It was amazing. But Mark's ability to carry on through the pain might be the very thing he ought to fear. The more he pushes, the more his body suffers. Hours of exertion have brought on acute dehydration and fatigue. On the outside, he might feel strong enough to carry on, but inside, his vital organs need him to stop.

It's about 4pm in Costa Rica's Carrara National Park. As he drags his weary limbs through the jungle, the light around Mark starts to fade. He squints up through the trees, trying to gauge the time from the position of the sun. But the canopy's too dense. Still, judging by the dwindling light, it must be approaching nightfall. That was like, oh, you know, this sucks. I wasn't planning on spending two nights in here. One night I got no big deal.

Second night, that's not the plan. Mark arranges several branches on the forest floor, then curls up on his makeshift mattress. As he's lying there, he feels a drop of water on his face. The heavens open. Mark opens his mouth and lets the rainwater fall onto his outstretched tongue. Then, shivering in his sodden, filthy clothes, he rolls over and gives into exhaustion. But just as he is drifting off to sleep, he hears something in the distance. I thought I heard a very faint sound of a motor or an engine. Very, very faint. And

I don't know if it was in my head or if it was real, but I thought I heard it. So when it stopped raining and it started getting lighter, I realized I might still have some daylight and my plan was to get to the road today. Perhaps there's still a few hours before night fully falls. Perhaps he still has time. But the fatigue is now all consuming. It takes him five minutes just to roll onto his knees, and then another ten to summon the strength to stand.

But eventually, he is up and moving, staggering forward in the direction of the noise. And then finally, it had to be about five o'clock or six o'clock at night. I don't know. It was actually starting to almost get dark. It was getting dusk. And I popped out and I was on the road. Quite suddenly, almost from nowhere, Mark emerges onto a narrow, dirt road.

It cuts through the jungle, its muddy surface rutted by countless bike wheels. He looks left and right. There's no one around. But it doesn't matter. This is as far as he can go. He collapses onto the verge, any relief suppressed beneath crushing waves of fatigue. I think I was just kind of like, OK, it's over. It was like, as a matter of factly, OK, it's done.

Did my thing, I'm done. I just remember kind of thinking, oh, it's over with. I made it to the road like my goal was, and I made it here. A few minutes later, a quad bike rounds a bend and stops next to Mark. The driver is wearing a jacket marked with the word Policia. He must be out here looking for the lost cyclist. Mark uses the last of his energy to raise a hand in greeting. He explains that he is the missing biker,

not that he needs to clarify that, in his cycling helmet and ripped Lycra jersey. With a swift nod of comprehension, the police officer helps mark onto the vehicle and speeds off into the gathering dusk. Soon they arrive at a rudimentary field hospital, just a few white marquees and a couple of ambulances parked outside.

Mark is ushered into one of the tents and laid out on a bed where he is immediately fed and rehydrated. While the nurse is in the hospital, she spent about an hour picking all the little slivers because those things broke off in my hands and stuff. So I had hundreds of them in my hands. Yeah, I was bad. But scratches up and down my arms and everything. I was scratched up. And you know, I have a picture of me in the hospital and they had wrapped me all up. I mean, I had gauze all over my arms and everything because I was so scratched up.

had wrapped me all up. I mean, I had gauze all over my arms and everything because I was so scratched up. After his injuries are treated, Mark is taken to a larger hospital in the nearest town. There, he finds his friends waiting for him. Todd and Ben, Jeremy, John and Madeleine. They were contacted as soon as he was found. Mark is touched but surprised to see them. They didn't need to drop out of the race because of his little mishap. But as a doctor informs him, what Mark tried to dismiss as merely a bump in the road could have been so much worse.

My kidneys were ready to shut down. I was having a liver issue. And that was all because I was pushing my body so hard without water. So without the water, it costs a lot of issues. And they said, if I spent a second night out there, I probably wouldn't have made it. After nearly a week recuperating in hospital, Mark flies home to Colorado, where he reunites with his wife and daughters.

Despite often downplaying his ordeal, he is left changed by his experience in Costa Rica. For one, he decides that he's done with competitive mountain biking. Well, almost. I came back just to kind of get back on the horse, you might call it, and I raced the half one, which was 50 miles, 50 mile race. That was the last race I did kind of get back on the horse, you know, and then been there, done that. Okay, I'm done racing.

Today Mark still goes mountain biking as much as he can. But his relationship with it is different. Above all, he says, his brush with death reinforced his zest for all aspects of his life. Riding is still a high priority in my life, because it's my gem, as I say. That's what keeps me in shape. That's what I like to do. But back then, it was almost like it was part of me.

And it's still part of me is just that it's not, you know, there's more in life. I have grandkids. I want to, I want to live to see them get a little bit older. So, you know, it gave me a little bit different perspective. I almost feel like in a way I'm living on borrowed time. I came so close to it, then it's like, you know, I'm on bonus time now. So anything I get now is just bonus time, so I'm good. Next time on Real Survival Stories, we meet Paul Rogers. In 1989, high in New Zealand's southern Alps, a huge shift on the surface of a glacier has

tragic consequences. A thunderous melee of ice and snow sweeps the 25-year-old away before the glacier itself collapses and swallows him whole. Paul will find himself injured without equipment and with no idea what's happened to his climbing partner. And just when it seems things can't get any worse, they do. That's next time on Real Survival Stories. Listen today without waiting a week

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