Life Lessons Learned While Chasing the White Line From Hell to Heaven
30 December 2016
Year 2011, mile 131 of the 135-mile Badwater Ultramarathon across Death Valley, the toughest footrace in the world according to National Geographic, and I faint face first into pavement of the 12% grade. I was on pace to break my personal record, but it was not to be. With a bloodied nose and mouth I’d go on to finish the race for the 6th consecutive time (’05, ’06, ‘07, ‘09, ’10 & ’11) yet, unbeknownst to me, my life began to change in that moment.
In general, my confidence hadn’t been the same since. It took me 3 heartbreaking failed attempts (DNF’s-Did Not Finish) in 2012, 2013 & 2015 (I withdrew in 2014), and five years, before I would triumphantly see the finish line again in 2016. Finally able to “Undo the Undone” and complete the long-awaited piece of my Personal Renaissance. I never lost sight of life’s defining moments; past, present or future…
Here’s my story (yes it’s a little long), and the “Life Lessons Learned While Chasing the White Line from Hell to Heaven…”
This was my race bib. The gold stars indicate the number of prior finishes.
The Badwater 135-mile ultramarathon is the toughest race in the world according to National Geographic. It’s invitation only, with 97 racers from 24 countries answering the start gun in 2016. It runs 135-miles non-stop (48hr time limit) through the Death Valley desert in July and starts -282 feet below sea level. Air temperatures can exceed 130 degrees, and ground temps are 200+ degrees, as the race is run on blacktop pavement. Badwater traverses 135 miles up and down three mountain ranges, and finishes nearly 8,500 feet above sea level. There are no aid stations. Since 2005 Badwater has helped amplify who I am.
783 people have finished Badwater since its inception in 1987, with only 15 people finishing more times than me. To put that in perspective, 4,093 people have reached the summit of Mt. Everest.
The internal pressure I felt was often overwhelming. I had chosen not to share with ANYONE, including my family, that I would apply to race at Badwater again in 2016. After all, following three DNF’s and the fact that I was much older now, who would want me to apply, let alone believe I would be invited.
The repeated heartbreak felt by my loved ones was to be considered, along with my overall health. I also knew this would be my last chance. If I DNF’d for the 4th consecutive time there’s no way I’m invited back. If I finish, I go out on top after 10 Badwaters. Yes, I wanted to put it all on the line once more…
On February 2, 2016, with 10 minutes to spare during the 15-day open application period I hit the send button on my application.
One of my application answers read, in part: “First, let me preface my application with the understanding that I had retired from Ultrarunning and that there are likely 100 more qualified applicants than me. I have DNF’d the last 3 times I’ve started my favorite race. Therefore, if you wanted to set aside my application and award starting spots to 100 others, I encourage you to do so. I would be happy to be considered an alternate should another withdraw… Being back at Badwater could complete the year-long restorative process not only for me, but more importantly, for my family. I can honestly say that Badwater has provided me with the lowest and highest points in my life. I would like to experience the latter again.”
On February 9 I was honored (and shocked) with an invitation, and I asked the race director Chris Kostman if he would agree to keep my name off the entrant list. I wanted to remain anonymous and didn’t want the added pressure of fundraising, blogging, motivating, etc. I wanted to just focus on me and my training.
Oh, and I told my family that I was going back to Badwater on February 9 too. There were many tears, and believe it or not, nothing in our house got broken! Of the 100 that received an invitation to the race, 80 or so were younger than me.
And so, on March 5, exactly 135 days before the Badwater race my training began! But, as fate would have it, my training was halted shortly thereafter with a debilitating high Achilles injury. This took 50 agonizing days to heal, putting me far behind in my preparation. Had I truly “aged out” as one friend suggested? Doubts weren’t creeping in, they were crashing in!
You see, unlike most others who have competed at Badwater, I’m certainly not a gifted ultrarunner. You can hardly call me an ultramarathoner at all. I’ve successfully completed only eight 100+ mile races, seven of them being Badwater. The other was back in 2004 (a now defunct race in Ohio) to qualify for my first Badwater in 2005. I have to work hard for every footfall in training. While I am very athletic, this sport does not come naturally to me.
Five years older than my last Badwater finish and many thousands of running miles later did I have the passion, drive, discipline and health to make it through training to the start line, let alone the finish line? I had no idea, and certainly much cause for concern and reservation, but I persevered during the many lonely training runs that would follow.
One of the keys in training for me is to accomplish as many of the training runs (or rides when I was injured) I set out to do. In other words, if I had a 20 mile run on the schedule that began at 4:00am I needed to accomplish ALL of it without excuse or hitting the snooze button. This approach benefits the mind as much or more than the body. It’s also a gauge of my passion and discipline level.
While I logged fewer cumulative miles in training this year, and only had one 50+ mile training run (I hadn’t run over 100 miles since 2011), I finished ALL of the training runs I set out to do at the distances I intended. I can’t remember if I’d ever done that in the past, and it certainly gave me confidence. Yet, at the end of my one 50 mile training run my blisters were so bad that I could barely walk 2mph the last few miles.
In early July, toward the end of my training, I began to reserve space in my mind for something I never acquiesced to before – a miracle. Yes, in conversations with Nilsa and Laura, who along with Bonnie Collins would be my 3-person crew, I acknowledged that I had trained as much as I could. Yet, I was undertrained due to the injury and was concerned that I had only one long run of 50+ miles, and even that was a struggle. Indeed it would take part miracle to see the finish line.
Oh boy, here we go…! Undaunted, Nilsa, Laura, Bonnie and I packed up our gear and departed for the start of my 10th Badwater…Before we left I decided to color my hair deep purple just to change things up a bit and then wrote the following epitaph:
The White Line From Hell To Heaven – my commitment to you: Once I mount you at 8:00pm PST July 18 I will hold on to you with all God has given me – with all I’ve got, until you are no more, and I ascend the final 12 miles to Heaven without you. I won’t let go. Like a rail on a roller coaster, I’ll ride you with exuberance, joy and respect, even though you’ll try to throw me more than once. I’ll trade some of my sole (as in shoe) for some of your miles. It’s my privilege and pleasure to straddle you, to find solace in your company and in the few degrees of relief you offer, and to see my desert friends who also cherish and revere you as they ride along with me. You’re waiting. I’m ready. See you soon!
We arrived 3 days before the race to hair-dryer-in-the-face 125 degree heat (go ahead, take a minute to get a hair dryer, turn it on high and hold it a few inches from your face – now, how did that feel?). We began to acclimate, and on Saturday drove most of the course in an effort to visualize. Even driving 135 miles in the desert is a challenge. I refer to the days leading up to the race as “vacation” time. We take in the majesty of the desert, sit around the pool at Stovepipe Wells, eat great food (Popsicles!), reunite with the cult of friends that are Badwater runners/crew, go to church, etc. It’s the calm before the storm, and the desert certainly provides both.
Vacation mode. At 125 degrees the Popsicles didn’t last long!
During Badwater ’06 I became the 1st to officially “swim” Badwater (2nd photo above) after a flash flood near Keeler (mile 108 of the 135 mile race). While “on vacation” pre-race 2016, 10 years later, we visited Keeler again, only this time I swam in a real pool!
I now know why many passages in the Bible reflect enlightenment found in the desert. It’s such a spiritual place, as if my soul were there thousands of years ago.
Runner check-in. I had a an eye infection, likely from the purple hair.
Race day. I woke early to get my feet taped by the “blister queen” Denise Jones. Denise is the wife of Ben Jones, the unofficial Mayor of Badwater. Later you will hear how she saved my race! With my 8:00pm start (there’s a 9:30 and 11:00 wave too), I would need to sleep during the day. But imagine for a second you’re on death row, and you decide to try to take a nap before going to the gallows or in front of the firing squad. It’s not happening…
We head off for the 42-mile drive from our hotel at Stovepipe Wells (highly recommend the hotel) to the start line at Badwater basin, where the race gets its name. The entire drive I’m gazing out the window as the surface of the moon passes by, contemplating what’s ahead. Luke 22:42 comes to mind; “Father, if you are willing, please take this cup of suffering away from me. Yet, I want your will to be done, not mine.” Having endured 9 Badwaters before, I knew full well what suffering lie ahead.
Arriving at the start line I make a mad dash for the bathroom. Yep, I’m fully hydrated. I get weighed in, and have a transponder strapped to my arm that will ping my location every minute for those of you watching at home, or in case I’m abducted by aliens (which almost happened at mile 83 – more later). I look up, and 282 feet above me I see a sign plastered to the side of the mountain that reads “Sea Level.” Sister Mary Beth Lloyd, a nun who is a dear friend, hands me a special Rosary and tells me she has prayed over it, and continues to pray over me. There are many friends who know what the 2016 race means to me.
The arrow is pointing to the sea level sign, the start line is 282′ below that!
All racers head down to the Badwater sign for our group photo and the singing of the National Anthem. When I get there I realize there’s no gallows or gas chamber adjacent to the sign. My nerves are beginning to calm. It’s nature’s greatest sporting arena, and I’m in it. I’m one of the 97 fortunate ones. I’m a participant in the game, in life. At my age I give thanks that I can still do this, so…let’s do this!
Racers and their crew count down in unison: “10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1…GO!” And I’m off in 110 degree heat along the white line from hell to heaven on the most epic of odysseys. A last chance at redemption.
Only 134.9 miles to go…!
Section 1, Mile 0-17: The sun is setting and the racers blinking lights begin to glow. I make a commitment to start slow, then slow down. My best races have been the ones I saved something for the 2nd day. As the sun goes down, the biggest, brightest full moon I’d ever seen rises above the Funeral Mountains to the east, so bright I don’t need to wear my headlight. This moon would keep me company for two full nights.
I’m fortunate to run the first few miles alongside my Ultrarunning mentor, one of the few living superheroes that I know, and a legend in the sport; Marshall Ulrich. Marshall has finished Badwater an astounding 20 times, far more than any other racer. He knows of my struggles the past three years, and whispers, “Frank, I know how bad you want to finish. Hang back with me and I’ll help get you there.”
You have no idea what that statement meant to me, and I carried it with me the entire race. Marshall was putting his race interests behind mine. Who does that?! Sadly, Marshall would begin to develop problems around mile 9 and eventually had to pull out of the race (more later).
I’m cruising along well, and somehow I let the thought of what lie ahead sneak into my mind, all 125 miles or so. I quickly pray (or pry) the thought out of my head. I arrive at the 17 mile checkpoint in 3:50.
Section 2, Mile 17-42: The first section is kind of like foreplay, it’s nice, but you just want to get it over with and get to the real thing.
It’s now getting real alright, as this 2nd section was known as the “highway through hell” when the race use to start in the morning. It’s where, in 2006, we saw 136 degrees on our car thermometer. It will no longer be the hottest section, but it is the 3rd longest, and it’s where I see my first large rattle snake just past mile 20.
I’m running well, and even have a tail wind. Remembering to keep my pace slower, I fall into a groove of running for a mile or so, then walking a bit. The moon is beautiful, and there is more white than black in the sky due to the billions of stars.
Ivan Hernandez’s photo of probably the nicest person ever to run Badwater, Oswaldo Lopez. And yes, this photo IS real!
While I’m feeling pretty good, doubts continue to infiltrate my thoughts. In 2012 I DNF’d during this section after 27 miles, and last year I began to decline here, eventually pulling out at mile 42. I drive them out by praying and focusing on the white line, on just one stride at a time, thanking God for the strength for that last step and asking for the courage to take the next.
One of early highlights of the race was coming up on mile 30, at the base of the first significant hill (as a Floridian would see it). Being a bit of a mathematical/statistical geek, I’d calculated that I would pass 1,000 total lifetime miles on the Badwater course at this point. As a surprise, my daughter Laura had made a sign on a piece of cardboard that read “Hey Badass Congratulations – 1,000!” I’d take my first break for 5 minutes as we celebrated this meaningful milestone!
I walk up most of this hill, and toward the top, just past mile 32 at the “Elevation Sea Level” sign, I see the faint lights of Stovepipe Wells, the mile 42 checkpoint. You see, I know every cactus, bush, rock, mountain, culvert, sign and pebble imbedded into the asphalt along the course.
Knowing I had only 10 miles to go before we would take my first significant break lifted my spirits. It was around 3:30am, and I was getting really tired so I decided to listen to music for the first time. It’s dangerous to do so, given the type of music I listen to, and the adrenaline dump released by turning the volume up on my iPod up to 11.
I was blasting Van Halen so loud that when I passed a runner I could see her bobbing her head to my beat! I did pass a few runners during a 1-mile downhill section, and it even felt a little cold around 4:30am. It was 90 degrees. I passed the Mesquite Sand Dunes as they began to receive the day’s first rays.
Mesquite Sand Dunes at mile 40.
Yep, I had stayed up all night running, and it was a new day. As I approached the mile 42 checkpoint I heard a few crews and volunteers cheering me on. Without my hat on I’m pretty easy to recognize with my purple hair.
Just past 5:30am, I arrive 9:34 into the race. We head to our hotel room to change socks and rest for a bit. We have a 30-mile section ahead, including a 16-mile climb from sea level to 5,000 feet…
Section 3, Mile 42-72:
I’m off, wearing fresh running clothes that are so technologically advanced that they mimic the fur of the desert fox to refract the heat and sun’s rays (they really don’t do that, I’d find out later…)
As the sun starts to heat up I run the first few miles until the grade becomes too steep, then I powerwalk. There’s a 10:00am cut off time at the 50.7-mile mark that had me concerned. Fall short and you’re pulled from the race. I made it with about an hour to spare.
Living in Florida, my hill training is reserved to pulling a tire behind me strapped to a deer drag harness over a bridge. An over and back lap amounts to a lengthy 1/2 mile. I had 16 miles of 5-9% grade ahead of me, about 5 hours of slow march to the top. This is where I usually start to lose the bottom my feet to blistering.
While it was getting hotter by the hour, you also lose about 4.5 degrees per 1,000 feet you climb. I’m a pretty strong climber, but the effects of sleep deprivation starts to become evident. At the 51.2 mile mark there are two bathrooms under one of the few clumps of trees in the desert at Wildrose Station. I have to go, but more, I’m looking forward to just sitting on the toilet and closing my eyes for 3 minutes. Yes, I’m that tired that I kill two birds with one 3-minute stone; a rest and a poop!
Leaving the 51.2-mile mark, the grade steepens to 9%. This is where familiarity of the course breeds not complacency, but anticipation of a summit that never seems to come. Laura comes out to wrap an ice bandana around my neck.
Laura taking care of her Daddy!
Keeping ice against the jugular will keep the body temperature down. We plan to take a break soon at the 60 mile mark just past the top of Towne Pass. That’s my carrot.
We arrive, I take off my shoes and socks, shake out the dust, elevate my feet to reduce the swelling, down a coke and some Ensure, and try to slow my heart rate. I’m feeling the 5,000 feet above sea level, as my heart is pounding, and my breathing strained.
Gotta go…socks and shoes back on, we have 8 miles of the same 5-9% grade DOWNHILL. While this sounds nice, it’s something I simply can’t train for. I can raise the incline of my treadmill, or pull the tire for the uphill, but downhill running is something that is foreign in Florida. It’s a great opportunity to knock out some quicker miles, but it also takes a toll on quads, shins and toenails (as of this writing I’ve lost 4)!
After a few miles of cruising downhill cranking out 9-minute miles, Nilsa comes out to hand me a fresh water bottle. As she does, a desert bee had found a temporary home where I put my hand on the bottle.
I grabbed the bottle and OUCH! I felt the full force of a desert bee sting on the palm of my hand. Immediately my hand and first two fingers swell to where I can’t bend them. Slightly panicked, I thought with my weakened immune system would I have a full blown allergic reaction? Fortunately I didn’t, and for about an hour I held the bottle in my other hand while my metabolism caused the poison to dissipate and swelling to subside.
Reaching the Panamint Valley floor, the 4.5 degrees per 1,000 feet I had been enjoying was now reversing. It was 2:00pm, 18 hours into the race, and the temps were pushing 115. I was running west, into the sun. Although I had a large brimmed hat on, the full force of the sun was directly on my chest and on my heart, heating up my blood supply.
As the sun was starting to boil my blood, an intense sand storm like the one in the movie The Mummy starts from the south. All I see is a curtain of dust about a quarter-mile away coming straight toward me, and if that wasn’t enough, it was being escorted by a half dozen dust devils, or little tornados in the desert.
I tightened the string on my hat, put on my swimming goggles so the dust wouldn’t blind me and braced for the hit. The force would nearly knock me off my feet, pushing me into the middle of the road as I leaned into it.
I would hear later that there was talk of closing this part of the road due to the drifting sand.
At this point Laura was having some issues with the heat herself, so the crew van pulled what seemed to be a few miles ahead, or WAY too far. When the sun is this hot baking your torso, and the wind is blowing so hard it’s sucking any moisture out of your body, you need to be sprayed with cold water frequently to keep the body temperature down.
This couldn’t happen due to Nilsa and Bonnie needing to tend to Laura. I begin to falter. I’m screaming out in the middle of this sand storm for help, but no one can hear me. I’m overheating.
I stagger to the van, jump in, and ashamedly, lose my temper with my crew for leaving me out there too long as I fall into mild heat stroke. In a panic, and as a symptom of heat stroke, I begin throwing off my hat, sunglasses, arm sleeves and shirt. I’m wildly flailing my arms.
My crew grabs two BIG bags of ice and places them on my heart and lower abdomen, and puts small bags on my head, under my arms and in my crotch in an immediate effort to cool me down.
This was a low point in the race for me. I was just past half way, yet knew I had 65 miles to go. Thoughts of having to quit due to heat stroke entered my mind. Again I prayed for relief. After 10 minutes it works. My body temp comes down, and my fear abates. Time to press on…
I arrive at the mile 72 check point at Panamint Springs in 20:08. We have one of the 14 rooms at this small hotel in the middle of the desert. I shuffle into the room, where the “blister queen” Denise Jones reappears to retape my feet. Blisters had started to form, yet Denise lanced and drained them and taped me back up. She saved me!
We take a little break to eat some real food and recover from the heat. We also want to let the sun drop a bit before starting to climb from 1,800′ at Panamint Springs to over 6,000′ just past the Father Crowley turn out at mile 80.6.
Upon leaving the room I hear that my friend Marshall Ulrich is in medical a few rooms away. Rather than head back out on the course I walk to the medical cabin. And there, I see my mentor lying on a bed, his kidney’s having shut down. I grab his hand, look into his beautiful blue eyes, and ask if he’s ok. He says he’ll be fine, but cannot continue due to his serious condition. He encourages me to push on regardless of the challenges that are sure to be ahead. His gaze alone gives me confidence I will store away for later. Thank you Marshall.
Section 4, Mile 72-90:
This section contains 12 miles of uphill to 6,000 feet above sea level, followed by 6 miles of undulating hills. By now I’ve been racing for close to 24 hours and have been awake for 36.
Nearing the Father Crowley turnout at mile 80… That’s the moon, not the sun!
I’m wavering, and my breathing is becoming labored as I climb. I have nothing else to think about. The scenery is stunningly beautiful. The moon rises above the mountains to a backdrop of colors that would take my breath away had not it already been gone.
I need a plan, and I need it quick. Those thoughts of quitting are knocking at the exhausted door of my mind. I refuse to let them in.
My fuzzy, distorted brain concocts a plan that I feel gives me hope, and hope right now is what I desperately need. After the steepest part of the climb, when we reach the 80.6 mile mark, we’ll park the van.
I tell Bonnie to pull out the mat and make a bed for me in the dirt in front of the van. I’ll take a melatonin and sleep for an hour while the crew rests as well. Just the thought of sleeping, and having a plan powered me up to mile 80.
We did as prescribed, and as it began to get darker, laying on the ground looking at the full moon while a cool 90 degree breeze blew through my hair was so intoxicating. I start to pray myself to sleep.
But there was one problem, the race clock was still ticking, and even though I took a melatonin and some magnesium I couldn’t shut my mind off unless I knew the race clock was shut off too. Just like napping before heading to the firing squad, it wasn’t happening…Damn it!
After 30 minutes I yell to my crew that I can’t sleep and we better get going. It’s nice laying down here, but I may as well been laying on a bed of nails, I couldn’t relax knowing the race was moving and I wasn’t.
We hurriedly pack up my makeshift bed, I throw down a banana, avocado and a Gu, put on my running shoes and continue running toward the mile 90 check point.
I actually don’t remember much of the remainder of this section, other than the VIVID hallucinations I began to have. I guess the exhaustion combined with effects of the melatonin caused the sagebrush and mesquite bushes to turn into aggressive gargoyles, kind of like those in the original Ghostbusters movies.
I do recall Laura coming out to run/walk with me and grabbing her in an attempt to save her from the leaping beasts that were jumping out and trying to attack both of us. This terrified her. No, not the gargoyles, but her father’s behavior.
I don’t ever recall such scary images in all my Badwaters. We’re the aliens coming for me next? If so, at least I had my transponder so my family could track me. This hallucinating happens for two hours, until we arrived at the mile 90 checkpoint at 29 hours and 4 minutes into the race on Wednesday morning. This section took me 8 hours and 54 minutes to cover 18 miles. It was pure hell, and I wasn’t finding any new sources for energy or motivation. I was completely tapped out.
Section 5, Mile 90-122:
This is the longest segment of the race, 32 miles. It is relatively flat to slightly downhill. My mind has nearly shutdown, as I blacked out while running and don’t remember many parts of this section.
At 91 miles, just past the checkpoint, I fall to the ground and get violently ill. My stomach just can’t handle any more Ensure, gel, avocados, chips, Coke, etc. I throw up for 20 minutes. Once I start, I decide to completely flush out my insides. I drink quite a bit of water, then purge. Drink more, then get sick again. I want to get everything out, and start fresh.
While my stomach has been completely voided, I have no calories to process. But starting over is the best thing to do, so I wipe the puke reside from my face, dust off my hands and knees, and down the hatch with a peanut butter and jelly that’s 90% peanut butter and 10% jelly. Why, oh why Nilsa?
I have to douse my sandwich with water as I’m no longer making saliva. It would have been nice to have a little jelly on the sandwich. If you ever ask Nilsa to make you a PB&J ask her to go heavy on the J because apparently she thinks there’s a shortage!
If ONLY Nilsa’s PB&J had this much J on it! Why oh why…?
At 6:00am, 34 hours after I started and 48 hours after I last slept, the sun is up. I’ve taken a few Tylenol, so the pain in my skeleton is less. I’m actually running quite well here, as hitting the “reset” button seemed to do the trick.
As we pass the 100 mile mark Laura comes out with another handmade cardboard sign with one of my favorite and most appropriate Badwater Bible passages scribbled on it; Psalm 121:5-8:
I repeat this often during the race, and Laura taking the time to write it out for me gave me a real boost.
Once the Coke and Tylenol wear off, combined with acute sleep deprivation I tailspin into my 2nd big meltdown at mile 105, just before Keeler. This was the worse one, and I guess I completely forgot about the Psalm.
As I run/walk down a never ending straightaway I begin to cry and sob uncontrollably about how I just can’t go on. How I’ll have another DNF, and have to walk into the postrace pizza party a failure – AGAIN. How I’d have to return home and explain to many how I succumbed AGAIN. This went on for a few miles, with Nilsa out there witnessing all of its pathetic glory.
The cover of a new Beatles album!
Fear is a huge motivator. While I was projecting, even forecasting what might happen, I was also subconsciously scaring myself into making sure it didn’t. The fear of the possibility of it happening was real, but the fear of it actually happening propelled me.
Remember, more changes take place in the mind than take place in reality. This emotional outburst was just what I needed to carry on when there was no way I thought I could.
There are those who refer to the town of Keeler (pop 50) at mile 108 as “Killer.” The road goes straight as far as the eye can see. It doesn’t smell good, making you want to start that whole purging thing again, and the flies attack you like dive bombers.
Also, you can see Mt. Whitney where the finish line is 27 miles in the distance, yes you still have over another marathon + to go and you ain’t making any progress. In a word, debilitating.
Just before mile 116 I would run my last step. My legs could no longer handle the striding and pounding. They were done. If I was going to finish I was going to have to walk the last 20 miles. My legs were going into spasm and were cramping, so we loaded up on the electrolytes just so I could walk.
And that road, Highway 190, it never seemed to end. I don’t remember the straightaway going beyond the curvature of the earth. I was turning into a zombie.
We would arrive at the mile 122 checkpoint at 39:57 into the race, or just before 12:00noon. My feet and other extremities were swollen beyond recognition. I had 13 miles to go, and 8 hours to get there.
Section 6, Mile 122-135, The Finish:
In year’s past we would take a break at mile 122, as the elevation change over the last 13 miles is nearly 5,000 feet, from 3,600 to 8,360.
I was afraid to take a break this year as I didn’t think I would be able to get going again. Let the slow, death march begin…
Look at any one of your favorite zombie movies, and that’s pretty much what I looked like. I was listing to one side due to the acute pain in my knee and foot and was making odd grunting noises. I was slowed to just over 2mph.
I had to dive into the van every 1.5 miles or so just to cool down and gather enough energy to keep above 2mph.
It was happening again, it’s the hottest time of the day, and I was “zombie marching” to the west into the setting sun. To make things worse, the first 5 miles of the road to the finish line was under construction. There was no pavement, just rock with that black pre-asphalt turpentine-smelling liquid poured out that stuck to the bottom of my shoes. The heat only intensified the nauseating effect.
Each time I retreated to the van I would be mumbling some incoherent prayer. I was no longer myself. My eyes were rolling back into my head and I was weaving all over the road.
I rarely look at the time while racing at Badwater. It causes me to run through too many “what if” calculations. But I did look at the clock in the van just before mile 131, and it was nearing 4:00pm. I only had 4 hours left before I’d be disqualified for not meeting the 48 hour cut off.
I know I had only 4 miles left, and 4 hours to get there, but what if something happened. After all, back in 2011 I did faint at mile 131 and was forced to drive back down the hill to recover before finishing some 6 and ½ hours after passing the last check point.
I began to think I would be the one racer who got to mile 134.5 and missed the finish time cutoff, forever being remembered as “that poor guy.”
Nilsa had come out to keep me company for much of the last 13 miles, I really needed her now. I refused to believe I would make it, and didn’t want to hear any assumptive talk of how I was going to finish and how we’d celebrate.
I still had work to do.
It was nearly impossible to swallow at this point, and I needed calories. My tongue was swollen, so we were forced to drink more Ensure and Pedialyte. There a few things I won’t eat or drink for a while, probably ever again, and Ensure is one of them (and peanut butter with NO Jelly is the other)!
Again, knowing every turn on the race course, I was sure the last one was up ahead. The large pine trees began to look familiar. When that distinct final turn didn’t appear, I began to get nervous about the time remaining in the race.
Remember, I’m completely out of my mind as I’ve been awake plus racing in 115 degree heat with all the elevation changes for nearly 60 hours!
And finally there it was in all its beauty and grandeur…
The last right turn after the last switchback, and I could see what I’d dreamed of and had terrible nightmares over for 5 LONG years, the finish line tape pulled between two huge pine trees by Chris Kostman and his world class volunteers.
We joined hands as a team, and for the first time in 20 miles, actually mustered up the energy to run across the finish line.
We did it! The miracle of Badwater 2016 had occurred. I finished in 45 hours, 45 minutes and 19 seconds. I fell to my knees sobbing in thanksgiving.
Post Mortem:
While not my fastest, my 2016 time it is still over 3 hours faster than my first race in 2005.
I wouldn’t have made mile 5, let alone mile 135 without my All Star crew. I’m thankful beyond words for the love and support of Bonnie Collins (who WILL run Badwater some year), my daughter Laura who has celebrated nearly every birthday in the desert since my first race in 2005, and especially my wife Nilsa. She is my love, my rock and in this case, my savior.
They say behind every successful man is a strong woman. Well, look at the photo above. Where is she standing? Not behind, but beside!
I wanted this race so bad for Laura and Nilsa, who saw me endure the heartbreak of the 3 consecutive DNF’s. But what about their heartbreak, their feelings of letdown? I wanted to erase that pain and replace it with the joy of finishing the toughest footrace in the world one more time.
I want to thank Chris Kostman, the race director. He didn’t need to invite me back, and something tells me he took some heat for allowing me to return when there were likely more qualified applicants. I’ll never forget this invite, nor the 9 others. Thanks Chris.
I also want to thank all 50+ volunteers and race staff. You guys sure put on one staller race, and made me feel safe the entire time.
As for you, the reader, what are your takeaways? Your life lessons learned? Rather than spell them out and number them for you, I want you to reflect on what you read and see which parts relate to your life.
I’ve always said that Badwater is a wonderful metaphor for the “3 I’s;” the Insurmountable, Incomprehensible, and Impossible undertakings in life. What’s are your life’s Badwaters? Why not purse them? Or, why not try again if you’ve failed once, twice, three times…
If I was asked to come up with one BIG, overreaching lesson I learned this year it would be to not allow the mind to cross over, as once it does, your done.
What I mean by this is, yes I had SO MANY doubts and times I wanted to quit, but I didn’t allow the barrier between “want” and “do” to be crossed. There seemed to be an impenetrable force field around the part of my mind that had allowed me to quit in the past. Under no circumstance would I allow my conscious or subconscious to go there.
Taking that “lunch pail approach” to every footfall and applying a mindset of relentless forward motion…
I can unequivocally state that this was my HARDEST Badwater by far, but by not allowing my mind to cross over to a point of no return, I was able to see the finish line.
And that was probably the greatest lesson learned while chasing the white line from hell to heaven…
