As The Bulletin’s outdoors writers, we thought readers might be amused to read about a test of our outdoor endurance sports mettle. And what better way to do that than compete as a pair in the 41st Pole Pedal Paddle?

Our team name, The Bulletin Regrets These Errors, alludes to the corrections we’re loath to write and foretold the errors we were certain to commit during the six legs of the PPP.

We divvied up sports and disciplines according to who is less inept at each. Mark is a longtime downhill skier and snowboarder, so he took the alpine. Peter just learned how to skate ski last December; still, he was better off fumbling his way through the nordic section than Mark.

Peter also handled the cycling leg. His bike messenger background and membership in a local racing club gave him the edge. As for the PPP’s last half, Mark pounded out the 5-mile run before jumping in a kayak he’d barely test-paddled before Peter made some high-pitched wheezing sounds as he brought it home in the 800-meter dash.

Editor-in-chief Erik Lukens was also in the field, competing in a men’s pair.

Alpine ski (Mark)

I have covered the PPP for The Bulletin every year since 2005, but this time I would finally be a participant. One might assume I would use my vast knowledge of the race to my advantage, but that sort of went out the window on the icy slopes of the Leeway run at Mt. Bachelor ski area.

At some point in my race planning, someone mentioned not gassing myself on the 200-foot uphill sprint to my skis, which starts the race. I took that advice and dug my ski boots into the snow and ran as hard as I possibly could.

I also knew that the alpine leg really couldn’t win the race — but it can lose the race if a person pushes too hard and crashes on the course.

So after reaching the top of the climb, I stepped into my skis and tore down the hill faster than I’ve ever gone on my Salomon Pocket Rockets. Careening through the gates, my adrenaline spiked as the snow turned from ice to soft mush at the bottom, and I soon spotted Peter waiting on his nordic skis.

Instead of slowing down and handing him the transponder — the usual method teams and pair members use to pass the device that records their times — I envisioned handing it off to him as I sped by. That didn’t work. Instead, I passed straight by him and ended up on my butt in the snow in order to stop and hand him the transponder.

8K nordic ski (Peter)

At least Mark fell down after he’d completed the stage, not during.

I didn’t want to wipe out in the PPP like I had during the twisty downhill sections of nordic ski races I’d done in recent months.

To prepare, I’d skipped weekend group bicycle rides to practice my V2 skating technique and my steppy-steps around steep corners. The PPP taught me that that preparation wasn’t enough.

While the mashed potato-y snow was generally slow, it was also crusty and slick in the tree shade, and I fell twice on the early downhill sections on Blue Jay’s Way and Upper Devecka’s Dive. I can slide really far in my Lycra cycling kit. While the padded chamois saved my butt some damage, it did zilch for my knee, which earned an impressive strawberry. Who knew snow could cut! I made up some of my lost momentum by pacing myself well on the gradual climb back to the nordic/bicycle exchange, where I passed skiers on soupy inclines near the finish.

22-mile bicycle ride (Peter)

I swapped my Justin Bieber-worthy skate ski boots for my Euro-tastic cycling shoes and straddled my road bike, which is made of neither titanium nor carbon fiber. I rested during the rollout, exhaling bits of the energy gel blocks I gobbled while recovering my breath.

After I squirted a water bottle mostly into my mouth, I settled in for my favorite Central Oregon descent: a slow-burning screamer that blows up anyone who thinks they can sprint its 22-mile length just because it’s downhill and at times you’re riding more than 40 mph.

Abiding by the PPP’s nondrafting rule was a challenge, as I would have liked to grab onto the wheels of a few racers who zipped past me on aerodynamic triathlon bikes. We experienced a buzz-killing headwind, which kept me from reaching 50 mph, a speed I would have loved to nonchalantly drop in this article. Alas, I can only relay with a bit of awe how a triathlon-bike rider later said he topped 60 mph on the descent. Sigh.

5-mile run (Mark)

Part of the logistical excitement (stress?) of competing as a pair is wondering what the other team member is doing. As Peter tore through the nordic and biking legs, I prepared for the drive back into Bend.

Macy Crowe, our support person, was ready for me with trail mix and water, and to calm me down from my adrenaline rush after the rip-roaring alpine leg. She was an incredible asset to us at every transition.

I jumped into my car and began the drive back into Bend along Century Drive, where I would meet Peter at the bike-run transition. As I drove, I developed a ravaging thirst and a deep bronchial cough. Was I coming down from the adrenaline high?

Luckily I settled down in time and drank plenty of water, and I was ready when race organizers called out our bib number, signaling to me that Peter was at the transition. He handed me the transponder, we exchanged some words of encouragement and I was on my way.

I was hoping to run 8-minute miles, so of course I set a hard 7-minute-per-mile pace up the trail toward Mt. Bachelor Village. At about the 3½-mile mark along the Deschutes River Trail, I consciously slowed the pace in order to save myself for the paddling stage.

As I slogged into the run-paddle transition and took in the crowds that lined the barriers, I almost ran over Macy, who was trying to hand me some water.

1½-mile paddle (Mark)

Macy helped me get the kayak into the water, gave me a push, and I was off.

I had been dreading this stage for the entire two months since we planned it. The experience was nearly as awful as I imagined. The first upstream stretch to Bill Healy Memorial Bridge started out OK, but I soon realized everybody was passing me in their long, slim boats, while I flailed about in my shorter, fatter boat. Did I mention, I’ve never really paddled a kayak?

I was hoping for a break on the downstream portion. But the wind was blowing in my face, and the water was choppy.

On the way back upstream toward the takeout, another boat bumped me into the bank, and I came to a complete stop. I frantically got the boat moving again, and with great relief, finally made it to the takeout.

I jumped out and ran the transponder to Peter, who yelled: “They’re five seconds ahead!”

I thought to myself, “Who is he talking about?”

800-meter sprint (Peter)

I stood waiting near the paddle/dash exchange next to, gulp, our editor-in-chief, and thought we should have been far, far ahead. Mark and I were competing in the 35-39 age group, and Erik was in the 50-54 age group.

What if Mark and Erik’s teammate emerge from the Deschutes River at the same time, and Erik and I have to dash neck and neck to the finish?!

“Don’t worry, I’m trashed,” said Erik, who was still damp from the 5-mile run he’d just completed. His teammate soon scurried up from a kayak, and Erik grabbed the transponder and took off.

Where’s Mark?

When he appeared, I hurried him, saying, “They’re five seconds ahead!” Zonked, Mark had no idea who I was talking about. As I “dashed,” my legs felt swollen with lactic acid, and although I soon passed my boss (I offered encouragement), my pace sagged until I spied another runner in the last 100 meters who was wearing cut-off jean shorts!

While a great look, I couldn’t let someone beat me who intentionally handicapped himself with nether-regional chafing. The retro rubber and I went back and forth as we rounded our way to the Les Schwab Amphitheater lawn. As I held onto the lead, I made the same screeching sounds I had made as a high school cross-country athlete. When I finished, I realized I wasn’t terribly far off from my high school 800-meter personal record.

We finished seventh out of 12 teams in the male pairs 35-39 age group, with a time of 2 hours, 26 minutes, 4 seconds.

Ah, PPP, you made the hurt feel so, so good.