I’m a Rebelle Rally Competitor. Here’s What it Taught Me About Life, Endurance, and Death
As it turns out, you learn a lot more from competing in the Rebelle Rally than just navigating and off-road driving. In fact, I'd say it made me a better person. Here's how.
My entire life, my dad was always my biggest cheerleader. The person I’d bounce hard decisions off of. In his eyes, there was nothing I couldn’t do if I set my mind to it, though sometimes I rarely believed it myself. Now that he’s passed, I have these internal dad-like pep talks myself quite often.
I’d learned about the Rebelle Rally before my dad got sick, but I never had the chance to tell him about it. How they take away your GPS and phone, give you a paper map and compass, then turn you loose in the desert to not get lost.
If I had, I’m sure he would have said, “Go for it.” I probably would have countered with, “It looks really hard. I don’t know how to camp or navigate, use a compass, or tell the difference between north and south. Oh, and I’m not going to be able to get a proper shower for eight days.”
To which he would have said, “And? You’ve done hard things before. You can do this, too.” So, I did the hard thing. In the last four years, I proved it by competing in the Rebelle Rally three times while I watched my dad die a slow death. And I took so much more from it than just navigational skills.
This story is 100% human-researched and written based on actual first-person knowledge, extensive experience, and expertise on the subject of cars and trucks.
I Carry My Dad’s Wisdom With me Every Time I Compete in the Rebelle Rally
For me, my Rebelle Rally journey will always irrevocably be linked to my dad’s journey with Lewy Body Dementia, as one helped me deal with the other and vice versa. Both gave me perspective—not only on life but also on what really matters. They showed me how bad a day really can be and how most bad days are actually good days in disguise.
The Rebelle Rally is a women’s-only navigational off-road competition. It traverses more than 1,500 miles of some of the most desolate and beautiful landscapes you’ll see in the United States, and you have to find your way through it without modern conveniences like an iPhone or your vehicle’s GPS. You camp in a tent that you put up or take down yourself, and you have limited access to things like running water and showers.
You get a series of longitude and latitude points, representing checkpoints, that you plot on a map and then drive to—kind of like a modern-day scavenger hunt. Some are marked with a green or blue flag, and some are unmarked—you just have to know where you are and that you hit the point you plotted on the map. Each Rebelle Rally checkpoint you get earns you points, and at the end of the rally, the team with the most points wins.
The competition lasts eight full days, and usually, somewhere around day 3, you have a no-good, very bad day. It could be that you’re tired and get lost. Or it could be that you and your partner are getting on each other’s nerves. Either way, you have to find your way to the other side of that day.
Here’s What I Learned Makes an Actually Bad Day
The infamous day 3 of the Rebelle Rally hit us hard in 2024. What started well with amazing vistas and the feeling of crossing a path no one else has traveled inspired awe and a little excitement. The rocks became rockier, but we were confident our truck could handle, well, anything. If there was a 400-pound boulder in the way—and there was—we used our brute strength and moved it. We were empowered. On top of the world. Enjoying the day.
Until we weren’t. I’ll spare you the gory details, but there was a no trespassing sign we thought we couldn’t cross in the direction we wanted to go, and after several misdirections, a call to base camp on our sat phone, and a mine shaft we narrowly avoided, we learned we could, in fact, trespass—as long we stayed on the path. So, we lost about an hour and a half, which is a BFD in the rally, and our day spiraled.
We lost our confidence, and I took a wide-miss penalty to access our coordinates and verify we were heading in the right direction—only to learn we were about 100 meters from the green check point, which we got to with seconds to spare. We knew we needed to get to the next green checkpoint as quickly as possible, but we also knew the course directors put us on a path for a reason. So, we debated taking a straight line to the green or following the path.
This Day Put All Other Bad Days Into Perspective
We followed the path. That was not the right choice. The next several hours were filled with frustration and impatience. Our wide truck traversed narrow paths lined with Joshua trees, and I stopped counting how many times our side mirrors thwapped a tree after the first 20. I wanted to take a beat, figure out where we were, where we were going, but my driver had hit the boiling point. I could see the panic and frustration. And I knew some of that was directed at me because I’m a good navigator, but, if we’re being honest, I’m not a great navigator. I’m not fast enough. I have to think about which way is north – even when I’m sitting at home in my office. I have to think about it.
I knew short of being able to make a correct snap decision with my directions, there was nothing I could do to calm or placate my driver.
Which made me think of my dad. There were days we could not talk him out of his delusions. He couldn’t understand why we wouldn’t take him home, even though he was sitting in his own living room. He would walk to the front door, which we had secured with child locks, and he would try to force the door open. He would swear at the door, at me. He would shove at the blinds. Kick the door and turn on me with anger in his eyes and fight in his stance. I would walk to him gently and say, “I love you, Dad.” He would snarl at me. And I would say calmly again, “I love you, Dad.” I could see the piss and vinegar draining from his stance, from his eyes. And he would look at me, lucidity returning, shoulders slumping, and he’d say, “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
I Learned to Be More Patient, Too
And so, on that very bad day, the worst in three years of the Rebelle Rally, I sat back in my navigator’s seat. Took a deep breath, smoothed my map on the map board, and let my driver work out her anger and frustration. When we finally came off the mountain and sat in the middle of a field, I had a vague idea of where we were, but I didn’t know exactly.
My driver said this was one of the worst days she’d ever had, that she was embarrassed at how poorly we were doing. She was worried about the outside world watching us and what they were thinking. I stopped caring about what other people thought about me the first time my dad threw a tantrum in a restaurant.
The funny thing about dementia is that often the people who have it don’t look like they’re sick. And my dad did not look sick. So, to see a grown man act like a two-year-old in a public place was a shock. We got nasty looks from other patrons as they judged us silently. And I’ll be honest, I gave them a nasty look right back as I tried to calm my dad and help him get out of the restaurant without accidentally hitting me or anyone else.
So, as my driver was telling me, this was a bad day. I chuckled a little bit. Probably not my best move. But I was thinking about the struggles with my dad over the past few years. And I said, “You want to know what my worst day was? It was holding my dad’s hand as he died. That was a bad f*cking day. This, this right here, is a really good f*cking day.”
We looked at each other for a moment, and we both cried. I’d like to say the day got better, but alas, it did not. I think we got 70 points total for the day (out of like 200). But our perspective shifted for the rest of the Rally.
The Rebelle Rally And My Dad’s Situation Put Everything Else into Perspective: If I Can Handle This, I Can Handle Anything
Perspective is an important and funny thing, and the Rebelle Rally helped me keep mine on the worst of the worst days with my dad. The days I would scream into a pillow or call my husband crying, saying, “This is so f*cking unfair. This is not the way my dad’s life was supposed to end.”
I often helped my dad get ready for bed when I was visiting, giving my sister respite care, and that meant helping him change his clothes. He hated that part, and he would often shove me or try to hit me. He would swear at me and tell me to get out of his house. He was obstinate, and the task seemed insurmountable. It was kind of like looking at a rocky mountain I couldn’t climb during the Rebelle Rally, so I’d look for a way around.
Sometimes, I’d be able to distract my dad by asking him questions or talking to him about something. Other times, it took all of my physical strength and a good deal of flexibility to get through the ordeal. On one particular night, I was trying to get my dad to sit down on the bidet to help clean him up before bed. As soon as he sat down, I crouched in front of him, pulling off old pants and putting on new ones. Then I hit the spray button, and he immediately stood up and said, “What the hell?”
Of course, when he stood up, the bidet spray hit me square in the face. I sputtered a bit, getting soaked before I remembered to hit the off button—all the while trying not to let my dad trip as his pants were still around his ankles.
After I got my dad’s pants up and he cast me a dirty look and stalked out of the room, I sat on the floor. Stunned at first. Water dripping from my face. Then I laughed. I laughed so hard that I cried. I literally just took a face full of bidet water. And if that wasn’t funny as s*it (kind of literally), I was going to bash my head against the wall. So, I laughed. I called my husband and laughed. I posted my experience in a dementia Facebook group, hoping to give others a laugh.
It was all about perspective. I was, and am still to some extent, pissed at the Universe, at God. This was not supposed to be how it ended. But it did. And as the Rebelle Rally taught me, I’m shaking it off and getting ready for Day 4.
I Also Learned to Look At Myself, And Be Proud of What I Can Overcome
Patience. Perseverance. Strength. Adaptability. Flexibility. Resilience. Character. These are just a few of the traits I developed in my co-mingled journey. The Rebelle Rally. Lewy Body Dementia. My dad patting my knee and holding my hand as he slipped from this world to the next.
Life sucks sometimes. But I refuse to let that bring me down. There’s so much beauty and humor. So many experiences to be had. So much life to be lived, lessons to be learned. I’m determined to become a great navigator, which may take some time, but I’m up for the journey, and I’ve learned the lessons that will put me on the right path. Eventually.
Patience. Resilience. The ability to pick myself up after falling. Again. I got that.
Rebelle and my dad gave me that.
You’ve got to shake off the bad days and see them for what they really are. If no one died, and you didn’t break the truck: It’s actually a really good day.
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