THERE ARE defining moments in every person’s life when he or she must decide either to be sensible and do the reasonable thing or to embark on a perilous journey through a fog of uncertainties and attractive unknowns that cannot possibly be estimated for their risk potential. Faced with such a choice, we make our best guess and then either turn back or press forward.

Those who go forward and make it through the fog-shrouded unknown to the far shore often partake of great adventures—and possibly even become famous in the doing. Those who don’t make it through in one piece often end up devastated or dead—and possibly famous, also.

For me, the afternoon of August 3, 1974, was one of those defining moments.

AN INAUSPICIOUS START

As so often seems to happen with events that change so much in a person’s life—and in our world—the day began with a conspicuous absence of fanfare. Roughly 10 minutes before the 5:00 A.M. start of the world’s premier horse endurance event, the Western States 100-Mile One-Day Ride, I approached Betty Veal, the head veterinary secretary, and Ralph and Betty Dever, the head timers, who were quietly making their preparations for the start of that year’s big event.

“Well, I guess I’ll head out now,” I said.

They said, “Good luck, Gordy,” and timed me out.

With that, I disappeared into the darkness before dawn: an endurance rider without a horse but with a good bit of running talent and savvy, sidelined for over a year by a lameness-prone steed, going for a day and night of great adventuring with my horse-riding comrades.