Before the World Race, I had never really experienced motion sickness. I was always happy to ride in the back of a bus, and I loved roller coasters and other amusement park rides that whipped you around like nobody’s business.
It wasn’t a problem at the beginning of the Race either – I endured many a harrowing taxi ride in South Africa, I made it from Nelspruit to Swaziland without a hitch, and I sat in the back of a van for 50-plus hours on the way to Mozambique. It wasn’t until India that things got a little problematic.
In India, my team and one other spent two weeks traveling to villages and towns all over the northeastern region of the country with a medical team, conducting clinics. This meant many long rides in a van aptly called “The Traveler” (which was actually printed on the side.) The roads in India were full of bicycles, pedestrians, cows, potholes the size of cows, and plenty of other obstacles that the driver had to swerve around.
It was sometime during these two weeks that I started to become more sensitive to every bump and turn in The Traveler. I began to gravitate towards the front of the van and spent each ride staring out the window. Eventually the rides and associated nausea became unbearable without Dramamine and the occasional peppermint tic-tac to quell my upset stomach. I couldn’t stand it – after 23 years without ever getting carsick, why now?
Now I wasn’t the only member of my team plagued with motion sickness. Since day one of the race I had watched Danny, my team leader, struggle on travel days. He always sat in the front with his headphones on whenever we were going somewhere. When we arrived at our destination, he would sometimes disappear for a little while to decompress from the ride.
I typically had two thoughts on this. First, “Glad it’s not me” and second, “I wish I could sit up front with no questions asked.” The latter was stupidly selfish – I was jealous of Danny always getting the best seat, the most leg room, and a usual guarantee of no one sitting too close. Obviously Danny’s motive was pure – no one wants to puke on a six to sixteen-hour bus ride – and I never said anything, fully aware I was being petty.
But now I was the one getting sick, and the perks I had envied became a burden. Once the teams changed and I was no longer with Danny (who had been raised up as a squad leader) I was the solitary person on my team with this particular ailment. The front seat was mine if I wanted it, and no one would object. This didn’t sit completely right with me – I didn’t feel I deserved the good seat, and as long as I was able I figured I should offer the better option to someone else. But I could either suffer through riding in the back, or do the right thing for my personal well being and sit in the front. Which I did – all the way from Kathmandu to Urlabari, Nepal on what was a miserable ride for the 11 other racers I was with. I felt a little guilty and like an inconvenience, but wasn’t going to complain. This trend has continued throughout the Race ever since – when we’re going somewhere, I sit up front if possible.
Pride gets me – I hate admitting I need help or have a shortcoming, and I always cringed whenever I had to ask a driver or worse, a teammate, if I could sit in the front. In addition, I didn’t like sitting alone and sometimes being excluded from conversation. This was no one’s fault – I could have participated if I turned around, but I had to face forward to avoid getting sick. Sometimes, especially here in Thailand, the front seat is in a completely separate compartment from the rest of the vehicle, leaving me with a driver who speaks no English whatsoever.
The good news is that after four months of this nonsense, I’ve mostly gotten over it. While I sometimes still feel silly asking for this special consideration, I’ve realized something important, which is the entire point of this post:
It’s okay to ask for the things you need.
Now the caveat to this is to be sure that a need is truly a need. But the point still stands – while it’s good to put others first, don’t make yourself physically miserable by doing it. I’m not much use to my teammates if I’m sticking my head out the window of our van, unable to talk because I’m concentrating on not throwing up. Yeah, I’m sure someone else wouldn’t mind sitting in the front once in a while, but in this case voicing my need benefits the greater good. One person’s area of strength might be another’s weakness, and although my weakness is travel, there are other things I can sacrifice to help out a teammate.
Don’t be too proud to admit you need help once in a while. That’s called being human.
