A full moon pierces a veil of rising fog, and barely lights a rough trail stretching in front of me. The only other light guiding my way comes from our leader's headlamp as it bobs and weaves ahead, cutting through the darkness. It's barely 5:30 a.m., my first day of adventure racing camp, and already I'm wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into. The pace is quick as my body is just waking after a restless sleep anticipating the day ahead. And this is just the beginning.

Adventure racing is a sport, but it's also a journey into the unknown, both within your mind and in the wild nature you're thrown into. Adventure racing is attracting a growing following-- ranging from elite competitors to recreational athletes -- and camps that teach race survival skills are popping up around the country. It is the haven for endorphin junkies who love to go out to play, get dirty and push it to the limit, and who are bored by BMX biking, road races or monotonous workouts in the gym.

"Adventure racing is like a blind date," says Mike Arnspiger, a former Marine, marathoner, triathlete and relative newcomer to the sport. "You can have ideas about what to expect, and they can change. Sometimes it's great, sometimes it's not--but it can often exceed your expectations."

The presence of a strong contingent of ex-Navy Seals and Army Special Forces in the sport attests to the fortitude it takes to compete. "It's like being the last of the cowboys or Lewis and Clark," says Duncan Smith, former Navy Seal and founder of Presidio Adventuring Racing, one of the first such camps. Says Don Mann, another ex-Seal who heads a competing school, The Odyssey Adventure Racing Academy at the New River Gorge in West Virginia, "Much of the training for expedition adventure sports is the same as the Seals, except now it's 'sport'--no weapons, and you can make noise at night."

Adventure sports cover a wide range of activities from kayaking, canoeing, rafting, horseback riding, mountain biking, trail running, rock climbing and orienteering (that's finding your way in the wilderness with a map and compass). Each could be fun in its own right, but try stringing them all together in a row, for hours--or even days, and you too could discover why expending the last vestige of your athletic ability, getting dirty, sweaty, exhausted, and maybe even bruised and beaten by the elements, tests the human body, soul and spirit, and provides the ultimate feeling of accomplishment. You see the glow, gaping grins and elation as competitors cross a finish line, and can see why this endeavor to tackle mother nature has turned thousands of elite, and even recreational athletes, into eco-racing junkies--or maybe it just turns them into kids again.

But, back on my early morning run, I'm feeling very unchild-like as I wind my way to the finish. I am cold but invigorated and we arrive back at camp before sun up. After breakfast, we break into groups of four to learn to climb a 40' wall using ropes and ascenders, paddle in canoes and kayaks and learn mountain biking techniques and jumps.

Ascending is awkward. We're tightly strapped into a seated harness, loaded with caribiners, ropes, daisy chains, a "brain bucket," but a climbing ace, Jason Temple guides us expertly up the wall and talks us through the repelling descent. My arms are shaking and my heart is pounding and I've learned the ropes of another racing skill!

Over lunch we're thrilled and appalled by videos of past Raids and Eco-Challenges watching the torture that hundreds of people willingly go through--not to mention the expense--to spend endless days and nights trekking through jungles, up mountains and glaciers, through rivers and deserts--all in the name of beating the elements--of finishing the race--but many do not. We see by their faces that many ask themselves often during the race, "Why the hell am I doing this?"

The tapes give our orienteering aficionado, Captain Blain Reeves (that's active Army Ranger Captain) the opportunity to regale us with stories of his race escapades. He is an ardent strategist and emphasizes the number one priority in adventure racing--team work. "It's not just about speed," he stresses, it's about making the fewest mistakes." And he gives copious tips on how to avoid literal and figurative pitfalls, many of which revolve around having the right team mates and equipment.

If you plan to get into this sport, plan to buy a lot of toys--expensive ones. From trail runner shoes, flashlights to carry, others to wear on your head, (endurance races don't stop at night) a mountain bike with shocks, biking helmet, gloves, hydration systems to wear on your back and double as backpacks, hiking poles, technical fabric clothing and socks, lightweight sleeping bag and tent, stove, compass, rain gear, eye protection, and other creature "comforts." And if you really get into it and decide to own your own canoe or kayak, add in all the water gear--and climbing harness, ropes and equipment that go along with that part of the sport. At most camps and short races, your personal "day" gear is all you need, but those headlamps come in really handy--especially on the night bike ride!

After a day of mountain biking exercises to learn to ride through sugar sand and to bunny jump over logs, followed by paddling instruction on efficient race strokes so you don't lose time and energy breaking or steering, we get ready for an after dinner bike ride through the Ocala National Forest trails.

With bellies full of food and anticipation, we set out using the full moon, bike and helmet lights to make our way through unknown territory. Fear of being the weak link on the team haunts me as I take my turn at leader of the pack, picking my way down eerie trails I can't see, peddling as fast as I can, with little idea of what I'm riding into or over. We're counseled to get the "feel" of the woods and use the sound of bike tires on the ground as warnings of what is ahead. I instead usually discover obstacles by running over, or nearly running into them and yelling "Root!", "Low branch!", "Log in the trail!" or "Sand!" to whomever is behind. "Rider down!" is another frequent warning.

The team has to cross the finish line together, so Reeves waits periodically for the group to re-form, and talks about whiners, ones who waste all their energy in the beginning then fall apart three days into the race, and the ones who cheer the rest of the team through. He also provides commentary about sleeping near the trail so you don't veer too far off the path and do hear your competitors passing you if you sleep too long. His philosophy, "travel light, freeze at night, go as quickly as possible" gives some insight into his mind set. I shudder just thinking about it and vow never to endurance race--especially when he adds, "Some nights, it's too cold or uncomfortable to sleep, so you just get up and keep moving forward."

My forearms and shoulders moan from gripping the handle bars so tightly and my butt aches from bouncing over roots and logs. I consider trail riding a good birth control substitute as we finish the trail, discovering the perfect cure for dehydration--a cooler of icy Michelob Lights. I start to feel considerably better about this whole experience.

The next day is blustery and overcast and we are in a god-forsaken 800 meter square field, bordered by forest and filled with cactus, scrub palms, fallen trees, and dead logs. "Orienteering is a pure thinking sport ... the science of using the terrain around you to help identify your next move," says Reeves, the compass King, "The second most important element in adventure racing." This terrain makes me want to find my way out of it.

We scurry through the woods and brush to find our coordinates and verify their markings, but I lose my sense of direction, fighting my way through 200 meters of thick forest before I realize I'm in the wrong direction. Thankfully, my team mates are not relying on me for direction. Reeves rescues me with a few pointers about drifting, cautions me to "trust my compass" and I have to jog the rest of the course to make up for lost time.

Back at the camp we learn that one of the campers executed "the longest bunny jump ever seen," then "bit it," with a dive to the ground, severing his collar bone. Pleasantly mellowed by hospital medication, sitting in a shoulder harness, he good naturedly talked about which races he would be able to compete in after his "minor setback." "When I learned the right technique to jump the logs, he explained, "I got so much elevation in the jump--well, in this case maybe too much elevation!" "That's cool," Reeves retorts, "But pilots are judged by their landings, not their take offs."