Top 4 2006 Badwater Moments
I chose these moments for a variety of reasons, from humor to struggle to inspiration. 1) “Get On The Scale”/Hitting The Wall- When you hear the phrase “Hitting The Wall”, you’re most likely to think of that period around mile 20 in a marathon where one’s glycogen (sugar/carbohydrate) reserves dwindle and the body is forced to burn greater amounts of muscle and fat to compensate. It often refers to that feeling of not wanting to go on any further, a grinding slow down and the point where the body attempt to perform under less than ideal circumstances is a compelling reason to quit. How a person responds to the wall is often a compilation of the seriousness of the pain and overall soreness, as well as the cost of not finishing. For me, my wall hit at the end of Mile 107. Yes, I know how insane that sounds compared to hitting it around Mile 20, but hitting the wall is often an issue of training, overall muscle/body health, and sometimes sheer chance. While I firmly believe my prayers and the prayers of others assisted in this process, I had never gone farther than 100.5 miles in a race before. It was something that was completely foreign to every part of me. When I hit the wall at Badwater, it was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. I had gotten in the van for a 5 minute rest break, laying flat on the middle row of seats, before hopping out of the van to continue onward. I would’ve been there longer if not for the uncomfortable arching of my back that was necessary to keep my legs on the ground and my body on the seats. My legs were somewhat tight, as is often the case in a race like this at numerous points. While I was slowing somewhat, I was still maintaining a light jog most of the way over the rolling downhills. When I got out of the van this time, I felt an unbelievable tightness in the back of my right leg in my calf and up the hamstring. It was as if someone had clamped the “Jaws of Life” onto the back of my leg and refused to let go. I desperately tried to stretch and restretch my legs over the next couple minutes, but with little success. I tried stretching against the car, only to quickly back away after almost burning the palms of my hands. After George and I crossed over to continue running, I tried an “old man’s jog”, grazing the soles of my shoes on the gravel while attempting to shuffle my way along, but to no avail. The sun beat down at almost 115 degrees as ice water rolled over the disgusted grin now plastered on my face. Fun on the sun no more. Of course, this reduced me to a walk with an occasional attempt at jogging over the final 15 miles until the final checkpoint/mountain climb starting after Mile 122 in Lone Pine. Since the final hill would be primarily a power walk for all the runners and I wouldn’t have to put that much pressure on the hamstrings/back of leg, my goal was to get there as soon as possible. Uncle Jose had been walking with me since Mile 112 and we had joked along the way about Uncle Andy’s insistence that I continue to take in massive quantities of Gatorade even though, from our standpoint, pulling over every 2 miles to relieve myself more than proved my adequate hydration. Since the crew would park a mile ahead after each stop, about a half a mile into each leg, he would drink some of the half Gatorade/half water solution and I would swig some more in my mouth before spitting it out onto the pavement. That way, the crew would get the impression that I was still drinking the stuff and my bladder would get a rest bit from overuse. The comic part of it all was Uncle Jose’s reaction to the half and half solution. Every time he would take a swig, he would have to suppress his gag reflex in order to drink it. After he was done, he would dry-heave violently with his head faced down and turned to the side. “You know, you can just spit it out,” I said plainly. But, he just kept right on drinking the solution like clockwork. I think he just liked the idea of “taking one for the team”, however painful it looked to watch. It was rather comical to watch since Uncle Jose’s penchant for dry-heaving before and during marathons was well known. Part of me wanted to laugh at the exaggerated nature of the dry-heaving and the other part of me was a bit grossed out by it all. Uncle Jose tried to return the favor a few miles down the road when he attempted to convince me to drink a half Gatorade/half water solution that the crew had spiked with Red Bull. They thought that an energy pick-me-up drink would help improve my condition. He kept saying, “This stuff is good” and “I like this stuff”. When I tried it for myself, I spit out immediately. “This stuff tastes like crap. What’s in this?” “Oh, this stuff is good, not like that crap we had earlier.” I just shook my head in disbelief. What I wanted to know is why they decided on Red Bull and not on giving me the cold Starbucks Frappacino I enjoyed earlier in the race. It never made any sense to me. It was like they had a meeting and tried to come up with the most horrendous drink as punishment for me. Apart from its “energy boosting” qualities, which I still question in terms of effectiveness, the taste of Red Bull is what you come up with when you add together urine and pure granulated caffeine. It’s an awful concoction that only makes partial sense when balanced out by the equally awful taste of vodka. It felt weird trying to “deceive” my crew with the whole hydration thing. I understood that they were trying to look out for my health, but I could clearly see that it was getting to point of overkill. It’s hard to overdue anything precautionary in those conditions, but in this case I was clearly overhydrated. Of course, it would have been difficult to override their strategy without the tacit approval of Uncle Jose. Uncle Jose always shows himself to be the pragmatic bridge within a group, trying to understand multiple points of view. The crew wanted me to be safe and I wanted to stop peeing every half an hour. Wilma, Kimi and George tried to keep my spirits up along the way, smiling and trying to make me laugh. Although their effort was valiant and probably much needed, the results were mixed. Sometimes I would crack a smile, and other times I would remain expressionless. It was kind of like being at Disneyland, where all the characters and employees try to make you feel like you’re at the happiest place of earth. My mental and physical condition bottomed out at Mile 119 when Uncle Andy requested a weight check. He was concerned that with me going in for some foot work at Lone Pine that I’d be stopped by medical personnel for weight loss. After emotionally, physically and spiritually being beaten down over the last 12 miles, I had no interest in stopping. I just wanted to get to Lone Pine so I could sit at the last checkpoint. My right foot was swelling, my right calf was tight and my right leg refused to stretch out fully. I was also pissed off at how close I was to my 40 hour finish goal and that it was currently in jeopardy. About the only thing that hadn’t degenerated was my language, but even that was tentative. I didn’t need to be pushed because right now, I just needed this leg of the journey to be completed. “Ok, Jon. Hop on the scale for a weight check.” Suddenly, I started to teeter close to the edge. “No! I don’t want to get weighed! I want to go to the checkpoint so I can sit down!” Uncle Andy was startled at the strength of my response, muttering under his breath. He threatened to quit, when Uncle Jose stepped in to “talk him off the ledge”. Wilma and Kimi were also surprised, not saying anything considering my current mental state. In the mean time, a reporter from the Rocky Mountain News in Denver who had stopped to take a picture of me backed away from the scene abruptly. I stopped briefly, as if to engage in a standoff, but after a few moments of pondering the request, I moved towards the scale and got on. It wasn’t worth it to me at that point to fight it in order to make a point. Peace was made and the reporter got his photograph. Of course, the ironic thing was that I was only 3 pounds lighter at that point than at the start and the medical personnel at Lone Pine weren’t checking anyone’s weight. Uncle Jose, always the jovial one, commented in my ear after the weigh-in, “It was good you got on the scale.” It was good, because in the briefest of moments, I felt the exhaustion of the race overwhelming my greater senses. Normally, I would’ve understood the intent behind it and probably relented. But at that moment, the desire to finish the section, sit down and release the physical and emotional stress of being broken down for last 12 miles at temperatures from 100 to 115 degrees was greater than the desire to acquiesce the crew’s request, however valid it was. 2) Getting In The Van- already explained. See below. 3) “I See Midgets”- It’s nightfall and the brilliant sky is lit up by the stars above Townes Pass summit. It reminded me of going to the planetarium as a kid, looking up at the depictions of all the different star patterns plastered on the dark ceiling above. Up at the summit, apart from our own lights coming from the car, darkness just enveloped the horizon punctuated by tiny holes in the sky above for heaven’s light to shine through. These are the types of views that you can only see in the pristine wilderness. The most exquisite views are those when we remove ourselves from our man-made cities. When I imagine what it was like for Abraham to gaze imaginatively into the sky as God was describing how numerous his descendents would be, this is what I see. It was like being watched by a million eyes in heaven, each one trained on the landscape below. I rested on one of those canvas camping chairs with my legs propped up on the large Igloo cooler. I didn’t want to shut my eyes, with only a few minutes to rest and recalibrate my internal compass before beginning the 10+ mile shin-busting run down the mountain. I just sat there, facing the roadway while the worker ants moved busily around me. All of the sudden, right in front of me, Mike Moseby begins peppering me with questions from behind the video camera. “So, Jon, how are you feeling?” Most of the questions were basic and pretty standard in nature. I paused the interview for moment. “Oh and Jeff, that’s another thing. Watch out for rattlesnakes and scorpions out on the roadway”. Then Mike asks the question that all inquiring minds want to know. “Have you seen any midgets out there?” I laughed inside for a couple moments, not quite sure how to answer. Mike asked the follow up question, “Any cute ones?” We were both just busting up for 10 seconds before he said, “Alright, I think I’ll stop now.” It was classic Mike Moseby, crazy enough to make you laugh but never too irreverent to make you cringe. Everyone needs someone like Mike around, to take stressful situations and turn into something to laugh about. 4) “Eye of The Tiger”- They always tell you it’s not how you start, but how you finish. The song “Eye of The Tiger” is one of those songs that is emblazoned in the American sub-conscience, a timeless classic with a uniquely 80’s sound that seems to spur athletes to work hard to overcome the obstacles and struggles. When you hear of “Eye of The Tiger”, you think of the “Rocky” movies and visions of a bloody boxer pushing on come to mind. My team needed to do something to get me pumped up for that 13 mile climb up to Whitney Portal. So of course, they put the IPod on the stereo and cranked up “Eye of The Tiger”. Instantly, that emotionally charged feeling of invincibility seemed to drown out whatever pain was in my body and off I went. At times, I was ripping off 15 minute miles going about 4 miles an hour straight up the side of a mountain, fueled by Eye of The Tiger, Hammer Gel and cold Starbucks Vanilla flavored Frapaccino drinks. The end was a sugar-loaded, caffeinated blur ignorant of pain and only seeking the bright lights of a well deserved finish. The will to survive was greater than the will to quit.
Continuing on with the Badwater Journal…… At the Harmony Borax Works at mile 20, the site where Borax was first discovered, there is a large plaque honoring it as a U.S. National Historic Site. I thought about going over and touching it, but was afraid of potentially burning my hand. A small mine shaft, rusted Borax mill and old wagon frame dot the landscape to the left, remnants of the way it was a century ago. Borax is the chemical compound group known as borates which are made from the combination of the element boron with other elements. Borates were mined in the desert Southwest, where small outposts were established to haul this prized chemical out of here. The interesting thing is that my paternal grandfather was very close with an heir to the Borax fortune of Francis Smith, Dorthy. Francis was the first one to discover Borax and develop it for commercial purposes here in the United States back in 1872. He went to school with her in Oakland in the 1920s. At their first meeting, Dorthy didn’t recognize John as a classmate, to which he remarked jokingly, “It’s probably because you’re being driven to school.” When I was born in 1977, Dorthy ended up sending over a generous baby gift to my parents. My mother made a point of letting me know how in some small way, life has a way of bringing things full circle. It’s just another small connection I had to this place, beyond just the race. I was off the road and in the van at mile 22, enjoying a nice rest bit from the sun. I had planned to stay in the van only 5 minutes. I wasn’t expecting my stomach to be back to normal; I simply wanted to declare a truce and moderate the discomfort. When I slid into the middle seat of the second row, the crew hurridly began to figure out what would be the best way to cool me down. Jenn and Kimi slapped icebags on my head and under my armpits while Wilma handed me a water bottle and slathered gobs of sunscreen all over my exposed skin. “You should drink it.” I kinda laughed inside, since it was almost restating the obvious. “I feel so helpless right now. I have to have everything done for me,” I said smiling. I didn’t argue though, sipping generously on the half Gatorade, half water mixture. Wilma snapped a photo of me from the front passenger seat, a human popsicle surrounded by his handlers. “How are you doing?” Uncle Andy asked. “I’m good, just thought it might be a good time to come in and get out of the sun,” I replied. “Can’t be too careful.” “Good,” he said. “It’s getting hotter out there. About 108.” It was 10:30 in the morning and already almost 110. The best part was that my body felt good and my feet felt snug in their shoes. Not too tight and not too loose. It feels rather helpless to sit in the van and do absolutely nothing for yourself except drink fluids. The mini-van was rather cramped considering the size of my crew, but I never felt too closed in when I was in there. I did feel a bit sorry for Brian who was stationed outside when I was inside. But hopefully he was feeling that intermittent breeze I could’ve sworn was hitting me every once in awhile. A few minutes, I was out of there, running across the road just behind the stake. After Wilma pulled up the stake, I was off and running again. I didn’t expect to be back in the van at least until mile 30, but after another mile on the road, I was running while trying to come to a compromise in my head over where to stop next. It just kept getting hotter and hotter, slingshotting towards 130. We began resorting to putting ice in the cap, which was now completely melted every mile and a half. I would stop again at miles 25 and 29, each time I would use the stabbing motion while yelling “Stake me”, to my waiting crew. The road quickly turned upward, going from -165 ft. to Sea Level over 1.2 miles to mile 32. It was the first of three trips upward to sea level before leaving the Valley. These mini peaks actually helped to breakup the journey, which had been rather flat and monotoneous since leaving Furnace Creek. The largest change in elevation since Furnace Creek had been 5 ft. upward and 5 ft. downward., hardly noticeable. I slowed considerably going up the hill, walking some portions and slowly jogging others. The hill seemed to rise up out of the desert on a right to left downward slant. The desert valley to the left shimmered again, this time giving the appearance of a small river butting up against the valley wall. My new head gear I had put on the first time I had gotten in the van was working much better than the white desert cap I had at the start. I glanced at my shoulder and although it was still a bit red, it didn’t hurt and didn’t look any worse for the wear. The white cap had a long, loose flap that ran across the back of the neck. With the wind conditions picking up over time, the flap was constantly fluttering in the breeze. In addition, the course’s constant curves and turns exposed the side of my neck to the sunlight. The new cap was a hybrid of a running cap and a bonnet. The back of the cap was attached to a flap which wrapped around the back of my neck angling down where it was tied off in the front. Apart from my face, top of my chest and hands, very little was left exposed on the upper body. The crew kept lathering a good amount of sunscreen on my body during breaks, a continued precaution against the UV light passing through my bright white clothing. The wind was lightly gusting at the apex and was actually starting to feel cool. It was the strangest feeling, like being in two very different climes at once. Maybe it was the rise up to sea level and “higher elevations”. Maybe it was the residual effect of getting in the van. Maybe the heat really was getting to me and my mind was playing tricks on me. It was like that feeling of coming over a peak and facing a large lake with the wind lightly brushing it before hitting me. It wasn’t hard enough to stunt my progress or slow my pace, but just hard enough to feel refreshed for a couple seconds. Coming down the hill, to the right, was Scotty’s Castle at -130 ft. and then back up to sea level at mile 35. Scotty’s Castle made me feel as if I’d been sent to a barren Arabian Peninsula. The Castle appeared to be made from sand tightly packed together, a medivel city left barren. Not much is there, although I salivated passing by, imagining a McDonald’s just in side the main gate. But alas, none was to be found. Up at Sea Level, it was now down a long 80 ft drop over the next third of a mile before leveling off next to Devil’s Cornfield. In the mean time, the crew continued to break open the E-caps and mix them in with the water and half Gatorade/half water solutions being served up to me. Like before, the assembly line routine of Brian yelling, “Drop the bottle”, Kimi and Wilma changing out my ice towel/cap, and Jenn spraying my legs with cold water before heading out each mile. If this portion sounds rather boring, it was pretty boring for me running. Most of my time at this point was spent leisurely scanning the landscape again. The fact that we we had less than 6 miles to go before Stovepipe Wells had quite a bit to do with my relaxed attitude. Reaching Devil’s Cornfield, I imagined that each of the short, dense bushes of the Cornfield must have small rodents or rattlesnakes lying underneath. I gradually moved away from the far left side of the road, The bushes dark exterior and shadows within made them appear to be solid chess pieces, each one appropriately spaced on the rocky, dusty landscape which was the chessboard. At this point, it was just before 2 pm with temperatures peaking out for the day. The Sand Dunes to the right. As I started up the next half mile leaving Devil’s Cornfield, the crew van passed by to set up shop a mile ahead. Winding down the road from the top of the sand dunes was Uncle Jose’s silver Nissan Frontier, being driven by George and Mike. That brought a big smile to my face; I hadn’t seen anyone new since Furnace Creek and their jovial, carefree attitudes always brought a smile to my face. George and Mike huddled with Uncle Andy as the rest of the crew went through the water bottle and icing routines. Mike yelled, “Whoa! You got it, Guns.” I acknowledged their greeting with a thumbs up sign. Anticipating a quick arrival in Stovepipe Wells, I engaged in a spirited exchange with Uncle Andy. “So, what do I have to look forward to?” A short pause was followed by a loud and boisterous declaration. “Me…naked.” I chuckled, knowing that I should have expected a remark like that from him. Of course, he followed it up colorfully. “You’re through the Valley of Death, m&^*@.” I just kept mosing along, amused by it all and buoyed by the fact in 4 short miles, an ice cream sandwich and well deserved rest awaited. I still didn’t want the crew to go too far ahead. 4 miles was too far in the current temperatures which were probably over 130 degrees F after factoring in the effects of the sand dunes. However, there was this feeling of almost disappointment that had been building in me. I think there was a part of me, after watching the documentaries and hearing the stories about Badwater, that sort of expected something different. At this point at Stovepipe Wells., I thought I’d be vomiting in van or a motel room, talking in jibberish and trying to pull myself up from rock bottom. In some respects, that’s why you come to DEATH VALLEY; to be brought to the edge of physical, mental and spiritual sanity. I was far from that edge, constantly grinning and acting more like I was running the San Francisco Bay To Breakers (minus the costume) than the big, bad Badwater. The only thing missing at this point was the Ice Cream Man passing by in his truck, music blaring, offering me another Missle Pop. The comforting thought was that we had ingrained in our minds that once we made through Death Valley, that we’d definitely be able to finish. This is where most competitors traditionally dropped from the race, and our first goal was always just to finish. What was even more interesting were the crew stories of things going on that I was completely oblivious to. For example, unbenounced to me, at this very moment, my dad was swimming at the pool in Stovepipe Wells. The man most likely to get sunburn due to his fair complexion and perpensity to turn beet red in sunlight was off swimming in the early afternoon sun. He ended up borrowing a pair of swim trunks from the Stovepipe Wells Motel, and scurring into the pool to avoid burning the bottoms of his feet on the concrete. In the mean time, the second crew set to take over at Stovepipe Wells was nowhere to be found. They had left earlier in the morning around 9:30 AM to go to Lone Pine to check-in the hotel rooms and my first crew, along with George and Mike, congregated near the van, which was now fading in my “rearview mirror”. “We should get some of the second crew out here to learn before taking over. Where are they?” “I don’t know,” Mike said. The wind began to pick up considerably winding through the Sand Dunes, with gusts at this point about 5-10 mph. Every once in awhile, specks of sand would crackle hitting the front of my sunglasses. From the top of the Sand Dunes, I could finally see Stovepipe Wells. With less than 3 miles at this point, I finally picked up the pace to 10-12 minute miles. I had been afraid of burning myself out too quickly for so long, I almost forgot was it was like to go that fast. My body quickly responded, fueled by a recent shot of Hammer Gel and another quick swig of energy drink. I tried taking longer strides, to loosen up my hamstrings and calves, which had been under worked. So far, I had done a good job of maintaining the runner’s shuffle, swiftly moving my feet just above the surface of the road to minimize energy wasted and maximize forward motion. Now, it felt good to let loose a little bit and go at a pace a little closer to a normal marathon pace than the plodding that can drag on a person in ultramarathons. 2.5 miles, 2 miles, 1.5 miles to go……. I said out loud to my crew in a semi-audible voice, “Come on! Let’s push it!” They just couldn’t make the last couple miles straight, could they? It was like we were circling Jericho over and over again, waiting for an opening to enter the city. With 1.5 miles to go, the crew left to go directly to the motel, leaving me with a 24 oz. water bottle of half Gatorade, half water. I’d move further away only to move closer on the next turn or curve. Finally, with less than a mile to go, I got that straightaway I was looking for. The only thing in front of me was the gas station and grocery store to the right, with a small tent for the checkpoint directly in front of the Stovepipe Wells Motel on the left. “Don’t trip up, don’t stop and push it all the way through.”
During this 42 mile stretch through the valley, I don’t think there was ever a moment where I felt totally at ease. It’s not so much as being out of control as it is never being fully in control. It’s a lot like those warnings on your car mirror telling you things are closer than they appear, except in this case the road to Stovepipe was always further than expected. In the same way that I couldn’t trust the shimmering “bodies of water” earlier to be nothing more than brilliant dust. Even now, with a view of the checkpoint clear in the distance, the feeling is always, “Never forget where you are.” The temperatures had climbed over 120 according to our thermometers and the 21-22% humidity had added at least another 10 degrees to the heat index, which is the relative value your body feels. I let my arms go limp, hanging down near my hips, before bringing them high up on my body in a modified sprint form as I made the final 100m dip down before an approximate 400 m uphill section to the checkpoint. I looked up in a sigh of relief. Besides the five or so runners who were ahead of me, I was quite a ways ahead of the others in my wave and had yet to encounter more than a couple of the runners from the 8 am wave. As I reached the front steps of the meeting building, I handed Wilma my water bottle and finally took off my sunglasses. Ducking into the meeting room which doubled as the medical station, it felt like a tremendous weight had been lifted off my shoulders. That surreal feeling came over me again, relieved that I would be finally climbing out of the valley. I took a seat in one of the folding chairs set up along the wall to the left of the main medical hall, . Nobody running the Badwater for the first time ever truly knows how it feels. But inside, I just really felt good. I wasn’t suffering or feeling like passing out. I thought that I should be puking my brains out like Gabriel Flores in the “Running on The Sun” documentary. At this point, it still had the feel of a neighborhood marathon at mile 14. Nothing was seriously cramped, hurt too bad, or even sunburn. The one thing I did want to do was take some weight off my legs for a few minutes. The blood rush in my legs from sitting there had increased the pressure and given me a heavy feeling. I gazed down at the row of cots; I was a bit worn and went over to lay down for a few minutes. By putting my legs out and up, I could redirect the blood flow away from my legs and help prevent swelling in the legs and feet. One of the members of the medical team then cautioned me against staying too long: “You know, you’re welcome to lay down. But, we’re going to need those cots later to take care of the people who are really hurting.” “Ok”, I replied, plopping myself down on one of the cots with a thud. Taking my white, long-sleeved top off, I comfortably reclined with my arms above my head and my untanned chest exposed. It looked a bit awkward with the tape still adhering to my pectorals to prevent chaffing. The overall whiteness of it probably blinded a few people and made others question whether I had actually been outdoors all day. Uncle Andy pulled out the video camera as I sat there, asking me all sorts of questions and asking me to say hello to all my sponsors out there. Again, I talked about how hot and challenging the first section had been, thanking my sponsors for all their support. I said all the right things, but inside I felt I had the advantage now. I was like a sports team pulling away in the first half, sensing the opportunity to go for the kill early. Underneath my breath, I muttered “Thank you, God” and “Have mercy, Lord”. The valley was my church, the run was my penance, and the strength of the Spirit my reward. For some reason, I resisted the urge to take a nap. Laying there, I kept my eyes propped open as I stared off at the ceiling smiling. Over and over, I just listened to my breathing, focusing on the rythym. I could feel my body cooling, expelling the furnace air from outside and breathing in the conditioned air from inside. Every once in awhile, I would roll my head to the right and stare towards the entry way. I was trying hard to relax while taking in the whole experience at the same time. After about 15 minutes, I pulled myself up and took a seat in the main entry area. Seated at the head of the table closest to the main door, I sat around with the crew that was there chatting away. My dad was seated to my left, patting me on the shoulder with a smile on his face. I think he was just relieved that at this point, the chances of me melting away like the Wicked Witch of the East in the Wizard of Oz was now only a remote possibility. They all seemed excited with how fresh and good I looked. Mike was behind the camera, filming away while peppering me with questions. “Dude, you look great. How far has it been, 42 miles? Are you going to tell Oxy?” “Oh, you mean The Occidental.” Brian responded, “Your alumni newsletter.” At that point, I semi-mockingly came up with my hypothetical alumni update. “Jonathan Gunderson wrote in about running the Badwater out in Death Valley….” I don’t think I ever intended the race to be a forum for my own self-promotion or ego boosting, which some people’s lives can become. Sarcasm just happened to be my way of expressing my disdain for it then. At some point, I might let people know what I’ve been up to, just not then and not for my self. The race time was almost 4:30 and with the second crew trying to get organized after just returning from Lone Pine, I was getting more and more ansy. I didn’t have any more patience and the clock was moving. I wasn’t going to get any more rested and the 17 mile road to Townes Pass summit wasn’t getting any shorter. I had been at Stovepipe Wells for almost an hour, which was plenty. So, out the door we went, with my first pacer Jenn right behind me. I had almost forgotten it was still about 122 degrees F out there. Almost immediately after the door was opened, a huge wind gust just slammed me in the face. You’ve got to love that feeling of having a big, fat blow dryer cranked up to its highest setting pointed right at you. Going down the steps and back onto the roadway, we started with slow walk going westward into a flat 250 yard section. “So, how are you doing?” I chimed in to Jenn. “Goood”, she said, laughing at the end of it. “I feel like this is the first time I’ve really had a chance to talk to you.” “I know. Well, I guess I’ve kind of been busy.” Jenn laughed at my remark. “So, what’s going on?” “You know, the usual. Church, work, relationship, family.” “You know I have to ask you,” she replied with a devilish grin on her face.
I was chuckling inside again, because we both knew what she was asking about. It was a thinly veiled attempt to take advantage of my current “incapacitated” mental condition to talk about my relationship with Wilma. After answering her briefly, the conversation ended up evolving into a philosophical discussion on relationships in general, jobs, church and everything in between. At this point, Jenn was exactly what the doctor ordered. She was there when I first made my declaration atop Mt. Whitney to do the Badwater. She was also one of the first to jokingly declare me legally insane for my ambitions, while simultaneously expressing that she had no doubt I could do it. The great thing about Jenn was her seemingly effortless ability to roll with anything and a penchant for seeing the humor in just about anything. I could’ve been in Death Valley (which I was) telling knock-knock jokes or doing a horrible impersonation of Gov. Arnold Schwarnegger and she would’ve been laughing. Jenn always knows how to keep things cool while the world is burning up all around. I also enjoyed the chance to just catch up on life down in the southland with our mutual friends. After a mile and a half, I still wasn’t ready to speed up, so the slower pace gave me an opportunity to continue the conversation. This was my first opportunity to have a pacer with me, so it was nice to finally “share the experience” with someone. After chatting with everyone back at Stovepipe Wells, there was almost this sense that I was missing out on something. Stories about people cooking breakfast on the sidewalk or little conversations people were having were not a part of my reality. The experience of the runner is uniquely different than the experience for any of the other crew members. I’m kind of in my own world (err, sauna) and they’re in their own world as well doing all sorts of different activities. But who wants to drag people out to their “par-tay in the val-ley” and not visit with them? Mumbling to yourself can get a little old after awhile, so now I get to mumble to Jenn. In the mean time, my leg muscles struggled to warm up after the long rest. They were sore and creaky, sending a sharp painful sensation up the sides of my body. I was like an old car going for its first drive after being mothballed, with a knock in the engine and squeling in brakes. This was supposed to be the time to get my legs back underneath me. It just felt awkward, trying to jog with a jerk in my running motion every few seconds. Running out there was a lot like being at the end of a wind tunnel, with the wind would intermittedly pick up pace as it swept down from the top of Townes Pass at 5000 ft. elevation into the valley below. The air was about 30-35 degrees cooler at the top of Townes Pass, but quickly picked up heat as it made its way towards the runners and cars below. It would be impossible to set up a roadside way station without the threat of it been blown off into the desert. “This wind is pretty strong right now, so I’m just going to keep walking.” “Ok”, Jenn chimed in. I didn’t expect it to phase her too much. I replied, “Sorry I’m not more talkative right now. This wind is really taking a lot out of me. Are you alright out here?” “Yeah. Fine.” Spoken like a trooper, we just kept trudging along. About this time, the second crew finally sped on by in the big blue Caravan before stopping to set up the tent about a half mile ahead. We had reached the bottom of the sharp dip in the roadway and were climbing once again. Over and over, the wind kept pounding us and the loose fitting clothes on my body were flapping backwards in the wind. I would put my head down trying to limit my exposed surface area to the wind as well as give myself a breather from the heat. It does make it a little difficult to gauge where you are on the course when all you see is the straight white line on the pavement passing beneath your feet over and over again. When we finally reached the crew van, the second crew was all over the place. Jeff was toying around with the tent they had tried to build, like an inquisitive engineer. Mike, Clara, Ted and Uncle Jose were busy fiddling with all the supplies in the back area like chickens with their heads cut off. As we passed by, Pete came out to the left side of road with an assortment of candies and other food to choose from while simultaneously taking our drink order for the next stop. After getting used to Sgt. Slaughter (aka Uncle Andy) and his regimented squad, this was a little frustrating at first. I always understood that there would be a learning curve for the second crew, although my patience at this point was a bit lower than when we first began with the temperatures in the low 90s. I was coming off an extended break and once again was beginning to feeling the pressure to pick up the pace. I remarked to Jenn, “You know, you guys had the crewing thing down like clockwork. You guys did an awesome job.” “Well, if it wasn’t for your Uncle.” “Yeah, he was getting on you guys.” “But hey. It worked, didn’t it?” “Well, he did promise my mom that he was going to keep me alive. Hopefully, these guys will get it down soon enough.” For the most part, I just tried to ignore all the other stuff going on around me and just kept on running. I had this thought running in my head about whether I should hand Jenn my water bottles to reduce the weight, but I was weary about whether the rules prohibited “muling”. Muling is when a runner uses another individual as their mule to carry supplies for them. It is generally outlawed in most major trail ultramarathons since it gives a slight advantage to someone who has a pacer with them versus someone who doesn’t. These ultramarathons allow pacers primarily as a safety precaution for the runner. Safety was always the first and primary interest of the race staff; pacers were not there to provide any sort of competitive advantage. Without an explicit copy of the rules in front of me, I was not going to take a chance at disqualification. Even though some storm clouds blunted the sun’s bright light, it was still plenty hot out there to dehydrate a man. My pace was grinding down to over 20 minutes/mile, at which point it was time to get into a car and take a breather. Still only 3 miles into the Townes Pass climb, I didn’t want to stop. But at this point, I had to weigh my current pace against my physical exertion. I was exhausted and laboring, even if I was enjoying the company for the first time. It was better for me to reduce my heat exposure temporarily and speed up a little bit later. I know it sounds odd, especially considering I just took an almost one hour rest stop right down the road. However, the reality was that maybe I just took to long and was having to readjust back to the surrounding climate. Brian, who was passing by in the Tams’ Toyota Corolla back and forth to check up on us, parked up ahead about a mile. In the mean time, we passed the crew again as they continued to work diligently to form a cohesive structure. Jenn continued to try to give them heads up and what I wanted in the proper quanities. “One bottle straight water and one bottle Sustained Energy”. Pete would run down towards us and then run back to the van with the various requests. He was a lot like a gopher, running back and forth. Every so often, I would tell Jenn that I would try to jog a little and off we would go. We’d stop again shortly thereafter, back to the uneasy power walk. When we finally reached the Corolla again at the 4 mile mark, Jenn and I crossed over the road and immediately went into the car’s passenger seat to rest. I was just exhausted. I had been well rested, kept hydrated, and was well-fed, but I just flat out felt tired. It was that mercilous hot wind still howling outside, continually sapping my strength. While inside we were nicely insulated from it all, chatting away as the busy army ants aka Crew #2 milled around probably talking about my current condition. We kind of just laughed at it all, reclining back in the front seats. As I lay there, I rolled slightly to the right and left to try to find the most comfortable position. I wasn’t sick but laying there just didn’t feel right and I had no desire to leave the car. It was now between 5 and 6 p.m and the 12 hour mark of the race was fast approaching. I never closed my eyes for the 10 minutes I was in the car, propping my eyelids open and staring off at storm clouds sitting above the mountains in the distance. My eyes were glazed over and pupils constantly changing their dilation. After 5 minutes, I turned to Jenn and asked, “5 more minutes okay?” “Okay.” I turned to the clock on the dashboard every ten seconds to monitor the time left. Maybe the time would last longer if I kept my eyes on it. But, to no avail, the clock kept moving and after 5 minutes, it was time to go. Opening up the car door, I was once again greeted by that same howling wind. I paused after allowing me feet to ground themselves to brace my arms on the door and roof of the car. Using my arms, I propped myself back onto my feet and scrambled back to the other side of the roadway. Pete pulled the stake up and we were back on our way, again. Looking back, I started to see a couple more crew vans on the roadway. I wondered if Scott Jurek or Dean Karnazes was among them. I was rather curious when I would see Scott Jurek, Dean Karnazes and the rest of the leaders. Given that my wave had left Badwater 4 hours before them, it was about this time that I would be seeing a few of them pull up and pass on by. I was actually pretty excited to see Scott and Dean. While the competitive side of me wants to push on and run the race to win, the pragmatic side also realized that considering the pace I set that it was only a matter of time before I saw them. It’s almost the equivalent of getting passed by a pack of Kenyans in a marathon at mile 9. I had already passed the 1000 ft. elevation marker at this point and was searching for the 2000 ft. elevation marker in the distance. The road never really spiked or dipped in elevation much, instead maintaining a long, gradual grade. My stomach issues began to subside and I began to develop a walking rythym with Jenn right behind me. I started to get back to a 20 minute/mile pace, walking with more authority with my head tilted downward. Occasionally, I would continue to check in on Jenn with a “How are you doing?”. Our small talk had wound down as the rythym of my feet began beating slowly in my head once again. When Scott Jurek was within less than a ¼ mile of me, Jenn and I rushed Brian to get up ahead with his camera. I wanted him to get a shot of me getting passed by the defending champion. A couple minutes later, after Brian was positioned ahead of us, Scott and his pacer approached with an alternating pattern of jogging and power walking. As he went around me to my right, Jenn and I mugged for the camera. “Great job, Scott”, I shouted in the gusty wind. “You too,” he replied back to me. I continued to stay behind Scott and his pacer, and emulate his running pattern. At one point, a minute later, Scott slowed to the point where it allowed me one final burst to pass Scott on the course. I kept up my “torrid” pace for another minute until become resolved to the fact that I couldn’t keep it up. I steered onto the gravel shoulder as Scott passed me a few minutes later for the last time. He pulled away further and further up the mountain, which I could only watch from below. It was the last and only time I’d see him during the race. I wasn’t good enough to compete head to head on that day, but the moment gave me the briefest of opportunities to feel like I could run like a champion. Shortly thereafter, it was time for Jenn and Brian to depart. Once Jenn left her pacing duties, I never did get a chance for a formal goodbye to she and Brian. The next thing I knew, I was continuing the climb up as Pete took over as pacer for a short while rather unceremoniously. It was like one second they were there and the next they were gone. There were no hugs or handshakes. I was bumming mostly because I didn’t get a chance to say thank you again. They had come all this way to support me and in a moment, they were gone. As you can tell, when under intense competition and conditions, I craved consistency. It’s not like I started balling or anything; just a little waxing poetically about friends come and gone. A mile later, around Mile 50, Dean Karnazes crew closed the gap quickly with me as well. Dean was still in the top 3, after winning the Vermont 100 only 1 week ago. The only thing I could think about as I passed the 2000 ft. elevation sign was wondering if Dean would recognize me from the Kiehl’s appearance a couple weeks earlier. While we weren’t best buds at that point, Dean was a rather intriguing character to me. In ultramararthoning, Dean was as close a celebrity as you’ll find. He had become well-known through his various feats of endurance (i.e. running 350 miles non-stop), written a book (“Ultramarathon Man”) and appeared on a number of national television programs and magazines. Seeing someone with a somewhat larger than life persona, there was a curiousity to see if Dean had done so many things outside of the box, he literally established his own niche in ultramarathoning. He has become the guy who wants to do the things that no one imagines. I had heard some describe Dean as aloof or self-serving, and yet others described him as a trailblazer. While there was no denying that he had helped put ultramarathoning on the map, people questioned if what he was doing was bringing respect or lampooning of the sport. My impression of him from that appearance was as just another happy go lucky runner. The fact that Dean had taken a sport many consider “still pure” and was able to make a living from it probably turned them off. Anytime you bring money into the conversation, it tends to turn people off. Endless conversations about sports in general center on preserving “the purity and love of the sport.” Dean had become the poster boy for this potential commercialization of the sport. For me, seeing Dean again was kind of a chance to be around something or someone bigger than just the race. I’ll admit to at least being a little star struck; not exactly like meeting a boyhood baseball idol,
Mile 52 We took a breather at the stone outpost, which was nothing more than a parking lot with restroom on one side of the road and some small stone dwellings on the opposite side. During the summer time “I need to use the restroom.” “I think it’s up here.” I wandered up the road to the small stone restroom, only to be greeted by a sign warning of an inactive bee hive/colony. Inactive? I was a bit confused, wondering what the heck inactive really meant. Were the bees sleeping for the summer? I kind of stood at the doorway, trying to peer in to see what the sign was referring to. I didn’t want to get stung by a ravenous pack of bees if I didn’t have to. Before I could find anything by peeking around the corner, Pete came up behind me. “Don’t worry, it’s inactive.” At which point, I let him go in first before I went in to use the restroom. It seemed harmless enough, with nothing really out of the ordinary to see. The restroom didn’t smell particularly inviting, so I held my breath with hand underneath my jersey covering my nose. My stomach was still rather weak and the pungent odor wasn’t helping much. The heat was causing the waste smell to rise up from the floor. Urgh! In just a couple minutes, I got out while making sure that I didn’t come in contact with anything in there other than the sink faucet. Tempertures continued to cool as the climb up to Townes Pass continued. The next seven miles were rather uneventful, to say the least. The sun began fading over the horizon and the temperatures continued to fall as we made our way up in elevation. 2500 ft., 3000 ft., 4000 ft.; the elevation markers were really all that matters. Uncle Jose stepped in to pace for the last seven miles, awash in his usual enthusiasm and energy. “Come on, Johnny. Time to pick up the pace here a bit.” He knew that my pace had dropped off and right now, he wanted to inject some energy and rythym into my running. “My goal is to get you back down closer to 15 minute miles.” “Ok”, I replied affirmatively. We started off trying to quicken my power walking steps. It would work for short 25-30 second intervals, but then I would fade back into a slower pattern quickly. While my energy was begin to return as I took in more nutrients and food, the climb continued to look daunting. While the sun going down had resulted it cooler temperatures, the darkness also brought with it a sense of never ending. My vision narrowed greatly as the only light left for me to see after nightfall came from my headlamp. With head down, I continued to pound out my frustrations. The relentless wind was beginning to recede and the temperatures dipped below 100 degrees. The higher in elevation we went, the cooler it became. I remembered how on the way over Townes Pass the day before, the breeze was cool to the touch at the higher elevations. It was this memory that I was chasing and just hoping to feel again.
Mile 59-72 You’d think the downhill portion of the course would be a welcome site. Looking down from Townes Pass, the valley below is scarce, except for some lights glistening in the distance where the town was. If there were other runners on the downhill roads in front of me, I couldn’t see them. It was nothing but a winding, dark abyss. The hardest part was not having any depth perception. I had never seen this portion of the course at night and I could not see clearly where the road was winding on the mountainside.
Mile 72- Panamint Finally, Panamint Valley. There was just an overwhelming graciousness that overcame me when we arrived. I was over halfway through the race
Other Updates Before I continue on with the play by play of my Badwater journey, I just wanted to address the lingering question of whether or not I’ll come back. Now, one month after the race now, has provided me with some of the perspective I’ve needed to. I am now convinced that I’ll be back at Badwater next summer, prepared even better than ever to go for higher heights. I know now what makes Badwater so special to those that run it or crew it through the years. Most runners have a favorite race; a 5k or 10k or Marathon that appeals to them. But when it comes to a race like Badwater, it’s difficult to put it into words. It’s probably similar to how some people feel about the Ironman in Hawaii. The journey itself, from marathons to training for ultras to training for Badwater, may even mirror the experience a professional athlete feels when they’ve won a championship in their chosen sport (the pinnacle). For me, going back to Badwater maybe just an opportunity to recapture a little bit of those feelings as well as experience new ones. I never want to forget how disappointed and physically hurt I felt when my leg cramped up at mile 107, because those are the times that keep us going when the next struggle comes in our lives. And boy, did it hurt! I had such a hard time trying to stretching my leg out to run instead of trot. Heck, it hurt so bad, I think I may have even in that moment shed a tear. I never want to forget how I felt, because even though I was on pace to finish in 38-39 hours, it let me know that even the most prepared man is still just a man. I never want to forget how I felt, because it reminds of how strong I can be when I put myself in the hands of God. Whenever I forget how sweet the finish felt like, I remember how I felt at mile 107 and I smile.
Latest Update 8/14/06 (A Journal about the Race, miles 0-17) The distance between Badwater and Whitney Portal is 135 miles, but when the race started, it felt like the beginning of a just a hometown parade. As the runners made their way through the cameras and people lining the beginning of the course, the pack of almost 30 began the process of filtering out. Most didn’t dare sprint out too far ahead, but there was Akos Konya, decked out in a black and orange flamed top, pulling away early. I became part of the main pack out in front, with four others. We took turns out in front as we attempted to settle into an early rythym. While it was inevitable that the pack would be thinned out, I took it as a small opportunity to make a little small talk to loosen up the “death march” mood. “Great day for a run, huh?” I commented to the tall Germans to my left. They kind of looked at me funny without responding. The opening couple miles were brisk, at a sub-10 minute/mile pace. The cliffs to the right had a sign on it 282 ft. up indicating sea level. However high up they were, it wasn’t high enough to shade the roadway. After 3 miles, the dawn was breaking and soon I would have to slip on the sunglasses. What you notice most dramatically as you travel the road out to Furnace Creek is just the startling contrast of the clear blue sky, the brown sheered cliffs which hem in the valley and the dusty valley floor punctuated by the white salt flats. As the day begins to break, the light illuminates the salt flats, creating mirages of glistening lakes in the distance from the road. The pools of water at Badwater are sort of alluring, inviting you to take a dip to cool off. Starting out, it was still comfortable enough (below 105) where your mind feels free to wander and be awed by the beauty. How could some place so forbidding be so picturesque at the same time? My crew was scheduled to meet me every couple of miles to start out, took a little time to work out the kinks. They too, were newbies, to crewing that is. In the first couple of miles, one of them got a stern word from another runner for misting them when they were trying to mist me as I went by. And I thought it was nice getting misted. People can get focused and particular rather quickly, and apparently testy as well. I was just happy to have such an enthusiastic first crew of my Uncle Andy, my Dad, Wilma, Jenn, and Brian. At first, it was sort of like going through the car wash with people spraying you every which way with everything. It was hot all the time, so I didn’t mind one bit as long as I felt a little cooler for a little while. But once they got the system down, they were like clockwork. Brian would .yell, “Drop the bottle! Drop it on the road,” and I would drop it for him to pick up. Next, my Dad would spray me with the plant mister, Wilma put the ice towel on the neck and Jenn would have some food before heading out some more. Uncle Andy was by the van, keeping the AC running while shouting out instructions. Of course, a few times the crew would meander on the road as I went by, drawing a warning from my Uncle for violating the crew rules but it was never a serious violation. Just an active and eager crew working hard to keep me going strong. The rolling hills kind of meandered a little to the left or a little to the right, but always Westward into the distance. It was a slow roll, with plenty of flat sections. In total, we would be ascending only 80 ft. to 200 ft. below sea level at Furnace Creek. I didn’t care much about the time for awhile, just more or less trying to soak in the solitude. I just felt blessed to have the opportunity to experience this, to be surrounded by so many people and yet still have the space to listen to the sounds of my footsteps as a light wind moved in the distance. At around 8:30, I had closed to within 4 miles of the Ranch. My stomach was beginning to growl and the taste of food was slowly deteriorating. This was definitely to be expected in the heat, so I wasn’t concerned as long as I could take in liquid sustenance like the Sunstained energy I took in at mile 11 to supplement the diet of cashews, raisins and mike n’ ikes I was being fed. Directly in front of me on a higher landing was the Furnace Creek Inn, a hacienda closed in the summer which houses the resort’s spa and other ammeities. It was a short 30 ft. climb up before the final meandering descent to Furnace Creek Ranch to the south. I stopped to walk half way up, a key part of my race strategy, before turning it on to get over the hill and use my momentum on the long 50 ft. elevation drop over the final mile and a half of the section. As I came over the hill, a cool breeze seemed to hit me. About 0.2 miles later, my uncle remarked that the temperature was about 107 before the crew left for the checkpoint a mile away. 107? And a cool breeze? It was the first time that I realized that all that time spent sitting in the sauna at over 160 degrees had actually worked. The breeze felt refreshing, a nice treat while coming in. About 100 ft away I could hear the chant G-U-N-D-Y from all my crew at the tent by the side of the road. I smiled and pumped my fist. The Valley of Death had nothing on me, yet.he distance between Badwater and Whitney Portal is 135 miles, but when the race started, it felt like the beginning of a just a hometown parade. As the runners made their way through the cameras and people lining the beginning of the course, the pack of almost 30 began the process of filtering out. Most didn’t dare sprint out too far ahead, but there was Akos Konya, decked out in a black and orange flamed top, pulling away early. I became part of the main pack out in front, with four others. We took turns out in front as we attempted to settle into an early rythym. While it was inevitable that the pack would be thinned out, I took it as a small opportunity to make a little small talk to loosen up the “death march” mood. “Great day for a run, huh?” I commented to the tall Germans to my left. They kind of looked at me funny without responding. The opening couple miles were brisk, at a sub-10 minute/mile pace. The cliffs to the right had a sign on it 282 ft. up indicating sea level. However high up they were, it wasn’t high enough to shade the roadway. After 3 miles, the dawn was breaking and soon I would have to slip on the sunglasses. What you notice most dramatically as you travel the road out to Furnace Creek is just the startling contrast of the clear blue sky, the brown sheered cliffs which hem in the valley and the dusty valley floor punctuated by the white salt flats. As the day begins to break, the light illuminates the salt flats, creating mirages of glistening lakes in the distance from the road. The pools of water at Badwater are sort of alluring, inviting you to take a dip to cool off. Starting out, it was still comfortable enough (below 105) where your mind feels free to wander and be awed by the beauty. How could some place so forbidding be so picturesque at the same time? My crew was scheduled to meet me every couple of miles to start out, took a little time to work out the kinks. They too, were newbies, to crewing that is. In the first couple of miles, one of them got a stern word from another runner for misting them when they were trying to mist me as I went by. And I thought it was nice getting misted. People can get focused and particular rather quickly, and apparently testy as well. I was just happy to have such an enthusiastic first crew of my Uncle Andy, my Dad, Wilma, Jenn, and Brian. At first, it was sort of like going through the car wash with people spraying you every which way with everything. It was hot all the time, so I didn’t mind one bit as long as I felt a little cooler for a little while. But once they got the system down, they were like clockwork. Brian would .yell, “Drop the bottle! Drop it on the road,” and I would drop it for him to pick up. Next, my Dad would spray me with the plant mister, Wilma put the ice towel on the neck and Jenn would have some food before heading out some more. Uncle Andy was by the van, keeping the AC running while shouting out instructions. Of course, a few times the crew would meander on the road as I went by, drawing a warning from my Uncle for violating the crew rules but it was never a serious violation. Just an active and eager crew working hard to keep me going strong. The rolling hills kind of meandered a little to the left or a little to the right, but always Westward into the distance. It was a slow roll, with plenty of flat sections. In total, we would be ascending only 80 ft. to 200 ft. below sea level at Furnace Creek. I didn’t care much about the time for awhile, just more or less trying to soak in the solitude. I just felt blessed to have the opportunity to experience this, to be surrounded by so many people and yet still have the space to listen to the sounds of my footsteps as a light wind moved in the distance. At around 8:30, I had closed to within 4 miles of the Ranch. My stomach was beginning to growl and the taste of food was slowly deteriorating. My crew, back at mile 9, had noticed hot spots forming. While this might necessitate a shirt change, I didn't feel much and after another layer of sunscreen I was good to go. This was definitely to be expected in the heat, so I wasn’t concerned as long as I could take in liquid sustenance like the Sunstained energy I took in at mile 11 to supplement the diet of cashews, raisins and mike n’ ikes I was being fed. Directly in front of me on a higher landing was the Furnace Creek Inn, a hacienda closed in the summer which houses the resort’s spa and other ammeities. It was a short 30 ft. climb up before the final meandering descent to Furnace Creek Ranch to the south. I stopped to walk half way up, a key part of my race strategy, before turning it on to get over the hill and use my momentum on the long 50 ft. elevation drop over the final mile and a half of the section. As I came over the hill, a cool breeze seemed to hit me. About 0.2 miles later, my uncle remarked that the temperature was about 107 before the crew left for the checkpoint a mile away. 107? And a cool breeze? It was the first time that I realized that all that time spent sitting in the sauna at over 160 degrees had actually worked. The breeze felt refreshing, a nice treat while coming in. About 100 ft away I could hear the chant G-U-N-D-Y from all my crew at the tent by the side of the road. No blisters, no sunburn, no aches and pains. I smiled and pumped my fist. The Valley of Death had nothing on me, yet. What Is The Badwater Ultra 135? The Badwater Ultra 135 is a 135 mile road race starting in Badwater, CA (in Death Valley) at 282 ft. below sea level and ending at Mt. Whitney Portal on Mt. Whitney at 8360 ft. above sea level. It was originally born in 1977 as the result of Al Arnold’s solo journey from Badwater to the summit of Mt. Whitney, going from the lowest point in the Continental United States to the highest point. Others continued to make the journey “unofficially” on a regular basis until it was first held as a race in 1987. The race was made famous by widely released documentary "Running On The Sun" which chronicled the 1999 edition of the Race (available at Tower Records and online). The Badwater Ultra 135 is dubbed “The World’s Most Extreme Road Race”, a world renowned ultra-marathon in the most extreme of conditions. The suffocating heat in Death Valley, the hottest place on earth, can raise air temperatures upwards of 130 degrees and the temperature of the concrete road close to 200 degrees. There are 13,000 ft. of cumulative ascent and 4,700 ft. of cumulative descent. The 90 entrants selected from those who applied this year will represent 14 different countries, 20 U.S. states and 3 Canadian provinces in this year’s edition, July 24th-26th. Ages range from the youngest at 28 (me) to the oldest at 69. There’s a 60 hour time limit to complete the race. Information is at www.badwater.com. WHERE TO GO NOW At this point, I'm rather curious about how to move forward in life. Now that I've accomplished this monumental task, it's left me with the feeling of how do I take this forward. How do I tap into this overwhelming feeling that I can take on the world? It's not that I'm arrogant; rather, I've experienced and overcome the seemingly impossible which just further helps me believe in the words of Phillippians that "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." I've always believed in the potential and possibility to address such issues like poverty in Africa and yet if there's one thing I've learned now, it's that no man stands alone and that nothing comes without strain/struggle. Who will I team up with in the future? Who will stand with me against the impossible? What shall I strive for in the future? Any ideas? No matter what ideas you come up with, as I said to my crew for the race, you are all part of the best team "money can't buy". Thank you for standing with me now and in the future. It's funny because in high school or college or even after college, when I played sports like lacrosse, tennis and basketball, I always was striving to be recognized as the best. This was especially true in basketball, where pickup games can degenerate into attempts to get other players to "respect your skill". I used to not like it when people would recognize my tenacious hustle/stamina, which often led to a bunch of rebounds and turnovers forced. Playing hard was how you described those who had no talent to offer. Now that I've been through the valley of death, it has changed my perspective on things. Talent, especially athletic talent, is a tool for our youth which will ultimately fade as we grow older, but our character remains with us for a lifetime. Our character’s allow for that talent to come to fruition. It is better to be recognized for one's character than one's talent. An indepth look at the Death Valley section all the way to Darwin's Junction (90 miles) on Sunday, 8/13/06.
Latest Update 7/29/06 It's been since late Tuesday night/Wednesday early morning when the race ended. I've been trying for the last 3 days to go through all the memories and moments in my head. I have two moments, for the time being, for you to gnaw on while I collect all my thoughts together. The race was incredible. In fact, it was actually easier the first 42 miles than I expected it to be. I think part of it was the sauna training I did, when there were so many people in the sauna room. This created a dry sauna environment that was more humid than normal, which helped when it came to dealing with the 20% humidity in Death Valley. But, the two moments I want to leave you with were my personal meltdown moment and my inspiriational moment. I was finishing mile 119 with 3 miles to go to the motel in Lone Pine for check-in for a little rest and the final 12.1 mile climb to the finish. My Uncle Andy asked me to get weighed on the scale, which I just didn't want to do since I was hurt on my feet (hot spots), my tight hamstring/right calf was killing me, and all I wanted to do was sit down. So I yelled out while throwing my hands in the air, "I don't want to get weighed! I want to go sit down!" I was pissed off, and then my uncle was pissed off at me. But after a few seconds, I begrudgingly just decided to get on the scale Wilma and Kimi had set up on the road to end the debate. Turned out I was just 4 pounds less than at the start. I felt I had proved I was ok and grudgingly walked away and on the road to Lone Pine. My Uncle Jose assured me it was ok and that we were almost there. Of course, a mile down the road with my feet hurting, Pete Day took me in the car to the medic station for that rest and some foot attention by the medics. My inspirational moment happened the next day (Wednesday afternoon) as we hung out with Team Injinji and had a drink at the lodge at Whitney Portal. We were chatting, taking photos, and waiting to cheer for any other runners who might be coming up. After waiting until a quarter after 5, with 45 minutes left in the race (for the monday 6 am wave), to start driving down. A couple minutes later, out the car window, we saw the final runner approaching the finish area. We had seen him, David Parker, in Lone Pine earlier and he looked like a wreck with his legs shaking and body off balance. He had “The Lean” going, trying to take weight off of the weaker leg by leaning in one direction or the other. But here he was, at the end, slowly moving towards his final goal of finishing by just putting one foot directly in front of the other. David stopped to pause in between, trying to muster up the energy necessary for him to take the next step. It was awesome to see his determination, one of the truly great moments I was so privileged to witness. I almost cried in joy for him.
Latest Update 7/14/06 It's with great sorrow that I had to be a pallbearer at my friend Patrick's funeral yesterday. It was a blessing to be a part of the celebration of his life, and yet very difficult to see him, a deep connection to my childhood (he was born a day later), leave to be with the Lord. Our families have known each other for many years and it leaves a hole that is hard to imagine being filled. When I run at Badwater, again, I run with him in my heart. Again, if you'd like to read more about him, please visit www.caringbridge.com/visit/patcaurant. One nice thing this week was being about to appear at the Kiehl's store in San Francisco with Dean Karnazes to talk about the race. He was about what I expected in person; an incredibly fit man with chisled features and almost no body fat (4.5% according to him). He seemed to rattle off names of famous athletes with ease, having worked with some of the best trainers in the business. But it was very good to be able to share the stage with him and just listen to his running stories. I found his humorous tales to be invigorating, maybe even foretelling of what I'll see on the course. Apparently there are quite a few rattlesnakes out there that come on out to the road, so I'll be sure to keep my eyes peeled. Of course, even Dean had a hard time telling what was real and what was an illusion. I also had a great time being able to further articulate my reasoning behind doing the Badwater, to tell the "story behind the journey". It was nice for people to hear two completely different perspectives, and yet hear many of the same reasons for why we do what we do. I think in some ways, we are both driven by this curiosity and desire to see behind our limits. While I don't imagine I'll be running 350 miles non-stop like Dean any time soon, I do imagine that as I keep breaking my boundries it will be invigorating. We chatted briefly afterward, took some pictures (will post soon), and said goodbye until we meet in Death Valley. Training is winding down and my trainer, Josh Moberg, put me on a diet for the final 2 weeks. Ugh! I hate salad, but I'm eating it like a rabbit right now. I know why he's keeping me from sweets, alcohol, caffeine, and processed goods, but it is hard! I just want a Twinkie right now, to whet my appetite......but I know it will pay off in the end just as my moderate eating habits have paid off up until this point. Time to get out there and get my last few runs in. I'm done with the sauna for now, having maxed out at 190 degrees for 45 minutes. I just have to keep pushing because the end of one journey is ending and another one is just beginning. Just as much a lesson in running/training as it is a lesson in life.
Latest Update- 7/06/06 It’s been a week since I’ve written, and a lot has happened since then. I was supposed to do my 60-65 mile training run this weekend, but it didn’t end up happening. A friend since childhood, Patrick Caurant, was seriously injured on Saturday mid-day in a bicycling accident in the San Ramon area near Mt.Diablo. I found out Sunday morning and quickly made my way out to the hospital in the East Bay Area where he was in the Intensive Care Unit. I have ended up spending Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday at the hospital, praying and visiting with family and friends. You train so much for something and then a tragic accident like this happens, which puts things in greater perspective. A great deal of our lives are spent in pursuit of some dream, some goal, some achievement, or just something which we believe adds a value to “life resumes”. Yet, in these recent days, you realize the only that’s worth anything are the relationships with the ones around you and the relationship you have with God. The outpouring of support for Patrick spanned all spectrums and places he had been, whether as a runner, a bike rider, a student, a teacher, a friend or a loved one. It’s been hard keeping up with him over the years, but the thing that always struck me the most was the zealous nature with which he did things. Patrick always seemed to enjoy life and pursue it passionately. I hope that same passion grips me as I run the Badwater in two and half weeks, with Patrick firmly planted on my mind and in my heart. They’ll always be time to train more and write more later ; today, I pray for a friend. Please pray for him too. www.caringbridge.com/visit/patcaurant. Gundy
Latest Update- 6/28/06 This past weekend was definitely a terrific training weekend again. I've been trying to make sure that I balance my life obligations and my training, but I was unable to start my run early the last two weekends. So I started my 40+ mile training runs more like at about 10 am than the 7 am I had originally intended. Last weekend, I ran from Berkeley, up the hills through Tilden Park and down the hills to Orinda, and then along Moraga Way to St. Mary's College in Moraga. Then, I turned around and ran back to Berkeley, all at 95 degrees. I lived for a few years as a kid in Orinda, going to elementary school there for a year. For the first time in a long time, I saw my old elementary school Del Rey. I also recognized a Jack In The Box in Moraga my dad used to take me to for breakfast on Saturdays as a kid. It was neat to see these places that for so many years were just a part of my memories. The weekend before, I went from my parent's house in Novato out to Olema Valley (where the dairies and ranches are in Marin County), up to Petaluma and then back down to Point Reyes. Next week, I'm gearing up for the 60-65 mile training run either in Mt. Diablo or in Sonoma/Napa/Santa Rosa to top out this training cycle. The great thing lately is that as I continue to stretch out my long runs, I have not been sore the next day. Granted, I'm only doing 10-11 minute miles, but hey, that's cool. I think what helps the most is the fact that I've been in some of the most beautiful back country of the Bay Area. From the rolling brown hills of Novato to the lush green landscape and tall, towering trees in Tilden Park, it's just been amazing to see so much of what makes this area so nice to live in. I don't think I would see so much of the Bay Area's back country if it wasn't for this race and the hill training/heat training necessary. I've really ramped up my sauna sessions; I'm in the sauna everyday at a minimum temperature of 160 degrees. Again, I've had all sorts of interesting conversations about why I would want to run in Death Valley in summertime. Most of the conversations start when people notice I have a one gallon water bottle with me in the sauna when most people try and tough it out in an attempt to lose weight. I just try and tell them that in running it, I'm expressing my character, my personality and my faith, and that struggle is often man's best measure of it. I admit that it's been hard lately; I've been getting a little light-headed in there, and there's always that fear that when you push it in the sauna, you could pass out. I'm not too worried, just cautious about going about it. I've done 40 minutes at 175 degrees, but I still have an extra 5 minutes and an extra 5 degrees to go. Argh......I just need more people to talk to in order to take my mind off of the beads of sweat that start forming about 10 minutes into each session. The less I think about it, the easier "doing the time" becomes. Ok, so my crew is finally set in stone. And a great piece of news is that my dad is able to come for the race. The crew size is now 12 including me! But, I'm stoked to have my dad on board, to be able to share this incredible experience with him. I am always humbled by him and the life he has lived. My dad has taught me so much about how to struggle and how to deal with adversity. Every time I'm down and beaten, I'll just look over at him and know that I just have to dig deeper. My dad has sacrificed so much to make sure I am where I am today, always living in places that made it possible for my brother and I to have the best eduction possible. He was always working weekends, installing and refinishing hardwood floors to make sure we always had everything we needed to be successful. It was never about making sure he was at my baseball or soccer games; it was about knowing that everything he did, he did for his kids. For that, I am eternally greatful and hapy to have him there with me in Death Valley. Maybe we'll have to get in a couple holes of golf together at the year round course at Furnace Creek Resort on Sunday evening in the Valley (hehe!). Training Training is winding down and my trainer, Josh Moberg, put me on a diet for the final 2 weeks. Ugh! I hate salad, but I'm eating it like a rabbit right now. I know why he's keeping me from sweets, alcohol, caffeine, and processed goods, but it is hard! I just want a Twinkie right now, to whet my appetite......but I know it will pay off in the end just as my moderate eating habits have paid off up until this point. Time to get out there and get my last few runs in. I'm done with the sauna for now, having maxed out at 190 degrees for 45 minutes. I just have to keep pushing because the end of one journey is ending and another one is just beginning. Just as much a lesson in running/training as it is a lesson in life. Romans 5:3-4 "We also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perserverance; perserverance, character; and character, hope.” No story about a man’s life is complete without discovering the challenges and obstacles a man has faced. If you want to know how strong a man is, ask him what his weakest moment was. It’s ironic that much of our lives are dedicated to making them easier, trying to insulate ourselves from the outside world behind gates, fences and security. Yet, the turning points and defining moments of our lives are born of struggle. How great would the Exodus be if the hand of mighty Pharaoh wasn’t stading in their way? Jesus’ temptation by the devil in the desert is borne from the 40 days of fasting that preceeded it. Even look at present day examples. How could the movie “Invincible” be compelling if Vince Papale hadn’t been a down-on-his-luck 30 year old in need of a break? It’s those moments which captivate us, but it also those moments which lures us back to those places to be reminded of a time and place when we were lifted above our circumstances. We often describe our character in terms of our struggles. If you want to show how much guts someone has, you talk about the scariest/toughest thing they ever faced. If you want to show how much someone means to you, you talk about what they gave up for you. It all comes back to suffering and redemption. Our greatest sufferings lay the foundation for our greatest successes. But going to Death Valley? In the middle of the summer? To go 135 miles on foot? To Mt. Whitney? Pain isn’t something humans necessary are born to go after. In fact, the suffering and struggle most refer to isn’t something that was sought out. These people I referred to were thrust into those circumstances, required to react to situations going on around them in their lives. I don’t believe in chance, and the fact that I consciously chose to compete in the Badwater Ultramarathon has its roots in something much deeper. Some people are born to run, and others are born to run the Badwater. My story has less to do with talent and more to do with who I was and who I was becoming. Ironically, the one thing I wasn’t born was a runner. I never remember enjoying running as a child. I was always interested in playing soccer, baseball and basketball. Running was just one of those middle school P.E. activities we did once a week to satisfy a requirement. It was to be avoided and shortcuts were to be taken to limit the amount of running you had to do. Nobody got popular in school by being a great runner; it was all about soccer and baseball in Tiburon. Tiburon is a small town just north of San Francisco that my parents moved to just before my 9th birthday. The town newspaper used to publish small articles about the local youth soccer and baseball scene. In school, everyone knew who played for what teams and who the “best athletes” were. Running wasn’t something most people grew up with or even had an appreciation for. My only exposure to competitive running was the 1990 Bay to Breakers when I was 12. My mom’s brother, Uncle Andy, took me out to run the Bay to Breakers with 100,000 other crazed San Francisco Bay Area runners through the streets of San Francisco. My impression of long distance runners were just a bunch of freaks wearing short shorts, tight spandex or nothing at all. My true dreams were to one day play in the Little League World Series and maybe the Major Leagues. I grew up enamored by the likes of Will Clark, Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire and Jose Canseco. I tried to play like Clark, hard-nosed and always willing to do whatever it took for the team to win. I never did end up realizing those dreams, but that never mattered. Like the millions of other kids with dreams and aspirations, my talent wasn’t able to match my desire and just fell short. In high school and college, I found my identity as an athlete in team sports such as lacrosse, basketball and soccer. I reveled in the comraderie and competition that they offered at the time. There was nothing more special to me than the feeling of being part of a team with the singular goal of winning a championship at whatever level we were competing at. I felt like even if I as an individual wasn’t good enough to be the “complete player”, I could at least use my specifc strengths to help a team that aspired to that goal. I loved being a part of team that was reaching for the prize infinitely more than I hated losing. Don’t get me wrong. Losing is never the end of the world. No matter how much certain defeats hurt because of the sacrifice, desire and effort put in, when the game ended it was over. That didn’t mean that I was never disappointed or felt let down. There were defeats that hurt; heck, I even wrote my college essay about being a starry-eyed 12 year old on a Little League All-Star Team that lost in the tournament. But what playing did was give me the proper perspective on life; that life was always a lot bigger than just what had happened to me and there were always things bigger than what I was doing. Sports always had it’s place in my life as a kid, but I never let it become who I was. The point where sports and real life intersected were the special moments. I went to college at Occidental College in Los Angeles, so with my family up in the San Francisco Bay Area, it was always a treat to go on our lacrosse’s team annual Bay Area road trip. Road trips are always a blast in college, and our lacrosse trips were no exception. The lacrosse team was made up of an eclectic group of fraternity guys, scholars, non-scholars, philosophers, tweakers, stoners, Christians and pagans. Together, it was the best group of guys I’ve ever been around. On road trips to the Bay Area, I always tried to arrange a team dinner at my grandmother’s house. It was great time to get my family together and let them in on this important part of my life. Of course, you can only play lacrosse for so long and when college ended, the only sports I played competitively were basketball and volleyball in local Southen California city leagues. The hard thing about playing in city leagues was that the intensity of the competition was lacking. When you play sports either in high school or college, there is a level and an intensity that was unmatched. It meant something to you, your teammates, and your school. Everything within the “white lines”, was all about helping the team win. You competed, you played fair and you gave it your all. When the game was over, it was over and that was that. You hang out with the guys, get some grub and get back to practice before doing it all again next time. I don’t know; maybe as you grow older, you get perspective. You always know when you are playing in “just a city league”, and different people have completely different expectations. Some just want to chill, some want to kill, and some take a more balanced approach. If you’re good, you might develop rivalries with other teams. Most of those rivalries are pretty good-natured, but there were always a few where the incentive to win is just as high as the incentive not to lose to some class A jerks. People mellow out, other things in life mean more, and the competition moves from the playing field to the board room. Most who spend 8 hours a day being cutthroat and competitive in the office probably don’t want that in their free time. That explanation works for some people, but for most, work is a drag. Most human resources people spend there time filling jobs with people who are “proven commodities” and have already spent years doing what they are hired for. All of the sudden, after spending time in sports and school constantly competiting and being fed the mantra of learning more and taking risks, you’re supposed to just stop and settle for the first lame ass job that comes along. Of course, this is all done under the banner of becoming a grown-up and taking responsibility. Don’t get me wrong; responsibility and discipline are good things. In fact, they’re among the most important things one takes away from sports. At the risk of sounding juvenile and irresponsible myself, leaving behind some of the sublimely wonderful parts of who we are in the interest of becoming someone who is trapped in “the overextended dream” of a white picket fence, an SUV in the driveway and a 6 bedroom, 3000 sq. ft home in a gated community featured on MTV’s Cribs. This is not an excuse to stop paying a mortgage or being responsible to the needs of the kids. There is a fine line, though, between being responsible and creating burdens that become unmanageable. When the burdens of the life we try to create become unmanageable, we have nothing left for the burdens and responsibilities of life that God places upon us naturally through the course of time. Now, how does this relate to jobs and sports? Over time, there is a fundamental shift in our identity. Who we hang out with, where we go and what sports we play larger roles as kids, as we grow older our jobs begin to dominate who we are. When we introduce ourselves to people, the first question asked is what we do for a living. When I graduated college in 1999, I started working for Amgen, the largest biotechnology company in the world. It seemed like the right move at the time, a highly desirable company in a highly desirable field. It’s the kind of place where most people go with an eye towards retiring there 20 years later. Despite the benefits and company, I could never get comfortable there. I was a clinical drug manufacturing associate at Amgen, working on a specialized part of the drug making process. The high stress of the environment combined with the repetitive nature of the assignment often left me feeling frustrated and disconcerted. As much as I tried to tell myself that this was a means to an end, I couldn’t get over the fact that I was doing something I didn’t love doing. I felt like the analytical, creative and imaginative parts of me were being left behind. Even though I was passionate about helping others and helping to heal the sick, I could not in my mind make the leap from what I was doing to the end result down the line. In the grand scheme of things, I felt like I was wasting talent and ability in other areas to satisfy a means to an end. Was this what I had to look forward to for the rest of my life? Fatalistic? Perhaps. At 22, not a lot looks like the life imagined anyways. That grind worsened when the news that my maternal grandmother was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer in June of 2000. After complaining for months to the doctors about pain, they finally performed the proper tests to discover the cancer had returned. It was the fourth time she had been diagnosed with cancer. The previous three resulted in the removal of her voice box. This diagnosis, at the age of 87, was a serious threat. Her last bout with cancer was just a few years earlier, when her doctor at the time recommended she look at “quality of life” issues. “Quality of life” is basically the code words for give up and die. My grandmother responded by telling the doctor to shut up and give her the chemotherapy. This time, the diagnosis was coming late in the game. While we never doubted the power of prayer or the Lord’s intercession to heal her, there were a number of things to be considered with both the diagnosis and her age. A diagnosis of terminal cancer carries with it a number of things. On the one hand, there was the opportunity to put certain affairs in orders and plan appropriately with family. There was also the chance to spend time with various family members and provide a sense of closure to the whole ordeal. On the other hand, we knew the debilitating toll that cancer takes on the body. Cancer works in its own time, eventually causing the body to methodically shut down its vital organs. Choosing to try and stop or slow the spread of the cancer with chemotherapy could potentially increase the overall suffering. To be in a sometimes stressful career that you instinctively know is not right and then add to that the potentially slow, painful death of someone who pratically raised you is a scary proposition. Our hopes and dreams are predicated on seeing the future, which now was muddled with doubt. Even if in the end “it’s just a job”, eventually the other stresses of life add up. The rent and the bills don’t take job stress or cancer in the family as proof of payment. The hardest part of the ordeal was trying to find way to deal with it. I was struggling to find outlets for the pain and distress that I was feeling. You go to work and the stress is there. You go home and the stress is there. You go to church and the stress of dealing with trying to help the pastor build a church from scratch is there. You fly back to San Francisco to see family and the stress is there. My life was in one of those post-college states where it doesn’t all add up. You’re not sure where it’s all going but at the same time you’re not really sure how to put it all back in order. I had often found athletic activity to be a rest bit from the worries of my life, but I could only play games for so long. I needed to find a place away from it all, where my mind could rest. So, in the midst of all this, came running. This time, it seemed to make much more sense than just being underclothed with a bunch of fools that the Bay to Breakers experience I had had before. It had a much greater inward focus, giving me the time and space away from the business of life. The only thing required of me was that I lace up my shoes and go. But, the only running I did was the three miles we’d run in the mornings in preparation for lacrosse season in college. Everything else was sprints and light jogging during the season, and the pickup basketball games I’d run in at the Occidental Basketball gym or local parks. I had a friend from a church, John Soggs, that I had visited who was a personal trainer living in Pasadena and was experienced in the Ironman competitions. He and another friend of mine, John Oh (yes, the three Johns together), used to hang out at a local pub after hours eating bar food and sipping a drink on random weeknights. We talked about his Ironman experiences when out of the blue we came up with the idea to run the Los Angeles Marathon the first Sunday in March. At the time, it was already December of 2000 and we wouldn’t be able to start training together until early January. It was also a bit unconvential with most marathon training schedule recommending at least three months of training. However, it was a challenge that neither of us could resist. To me, the marathon represented everything that my life wasn’t at the time. It would be exciting to be out there with over 25,000 people running through Los Angeles. It would challenge me in ways my job didn’t. It would help me channel all the frustration and angst at my grandmother’s cancer and put it somewhere other than inside of me. For all intensive purposes, this was one of the craziest adventures of my life. I had never run more than a 12k (7.8 miles) before and the marathon would be over 3 times as much. I never liked doing everything by the book, and training for and competing in the Los Angeles Marathon in 7 weeks was certainly different. We would train by running laps around the Rose Bowl, which was almost 3.2 miles. The longer laps helped me begin to develop the focus and patience to complete the 26.2 miles. If I was halfway through a lap, I couldn’t just stop there because my car was parked on the other side of the loop. I had no other choice than to at least complete the lap. It at least encouraged us to try and do more in a shorter period of time. John lived and worked as a personal trainer in Pasadena and I lived in Glendale, which was only a five to ten minute drive for either of us to the Rose Bowl. The biggest factor in all this was peer pressure. John had competed in track and field in college, once logging a 4:08 mile, which is incredible. Although he was in his thirties, John still had a lean, muscular build to him. During our laps around the Rose Bowl, I could tell that he was stronger than me when I would feel myself gasping for air when sprinting towards the finish of our runs. I would glance over and see John continuing to move with a smooth stride and nary a sound. I didn’t want him to see that I couldn’t do it, so I never said anything. The silver lining in all of this was that it continued to push me further in a short period of time. I almost couldn’t believe what came a short while after the race; my pastor was diagnosed with terminal liver cancer. It was a double dose of reality, recentering my life on what was important and taking my eyes away from what wasn’t. I felt blindsided, first trying to juggle my time and commitment to my grandmother and then adding to it with a diagnosis that I felt physically too close to. The reality was that my life and the people in my life never belonged to me. I thought they belonged to me because of the place that each of them had in my life and the unique ways in which they impacted me. I finally turned my attention to running in early 2001. At the time, I was dealing with my grandmother's fourth bout with cancer that began in June of 2000. At the same time, I found out that my Ugandan (East Africa) mentor and pastor of 2 years, had advanced liver cancer. I dedicated my run at the San Diego marathon to them. When my mentor/pastor and grandmother passed away within 2 ½ weeks of each other in July of 2001, I was left with a gaping hole in my life. I kept running numerous marathons every year, but over time, the desire and challenge waned. The memory of their passings and everything they meant to me was still fresh in my mind. I needed something new to push me, something that expressed both my own character as well as the faith and perserverance my grandmother and mentor/pastor had displayed in their multiple fights against cancer. As an avid backpacker, it was during my 8 day backpacking trip to Mt. Whitney in August of 2003 that peaked my interest. While enjoying the view from the summit, I learned of the Badwater Ultra race. I began telling friends about the race, making pacts that if I were to ever run the race, that they would come out to support me. However, I knew the path would have to include a 50 mile race, and then a successful 100 mile race in order to meet the qualifying standards to apply. In April of 2005, I competed in and received the 1st place plaque for my age group (18-29), 9:53 at the Ruth Anderson 50 miler in San Francisco in 2005. It is a 50 mile run in San Francisco, an up and down road course. It’s a fairly straight forward course around Lake Merced. Then in September of 2005, I competed in and finished the Angeles Crest 100 race (www.ac100.com). The race is run through the Angeles Crest National Forest in Southern California beginning in the town of Wrightwood near the Mountain High Ski Resort east of Los Angeles and ending in Pasadena. Total distance is approximately 100.5 miles with elevation gain of 21,610 ft. and elevation loss of 26,700 ft. The race starts at 5890 ft., peaking at around 9300 ft. elevation, and ending at a few hundred feet above sea level. My final finishing time was 31 hours, 45 minutes, finishing 44th out of a starting field of 93. There were 58 finishers overall. It was a difficult race which ultimately tested my physical and mental health in ways that I had not seen. However, it only inspired me further in my goals of competing and finishing the Badwater. When one thinks of what it honestly means to run 135 miles, it’s daunting. Driving 135 miles is enough to make any person tired. However, I don’t merely run for “the thrill of it” or try to achieve the “runner’s high”. I run because in the midst of my pain and trials, it became a place of solace which transcended a world of chaos. I see my running journey as both a revealer and developer of character, and the Badwater is the logical next step in the process. Running in the Badwater, for me, represents the ultimate rite of passage. In many cultures, going into a state of deprevation, fasting and suffering are rites of passage. They require the individual to reach breaking points, from which the old is shed and the new is born, like the Phoenix rising from the ashes. The desert is no stranger to these rites, a place of extreme heat which elicits images of bones and scavengers. The desert’s bare and lonely landscape illuminates its uninhabitability for man, devoid of many of the things necessary for human life, let alone the creature comforts we groan for now. Many runners have even experienced hallucinations, brought forth by the extreme stress the body is under. For me, though, what resonates most is the image of Jesus fasting in the desert for 40 days only to culminate in the temptations of Satan before entering his ministry. I want to go to a place where the challenge requires me to be extraordinary and where the chance of failure matches or outweighs the chances of success. If being extraordinary is simply doing the ordinary extra, what more ordinary than the act of placing one foot in front of another? And what more extra than doing so in the most extreme of conditions? The Badwater, to me, is about finding my true identity and moving forward in the life set before me. There are few days in a man’s life where he can look back and say he was truly extraordinary. But for all the days of my life that I have either failed or barely met the standards I set for myself, competing in and finishing the Badwater in 2006 was truly a great testimony. To do it as the youngest competitor at age 28, finish in 43 hours and 33 minutes, and finish 37th out of 85 starters was icing on the cake. This year, I am training for a sub-36 hour finish with the goal of being race competitive the following year. For everyone who has inspired me, everything that I stand for and everything that I believe, this is ultimate race. Running the Badwater is a testimony for all of them. I dreamed about running the Badwater, and when I was able to in 2006, it was one that I, as well as my crew of friends, family and other supporters, will never forget. It will be a testimony I would hope to pass on to others whether in deed, written word or spoken word so that they too would pursue their passions extraordinarily. It is an honor to compete in this prestigious race again and it would be an honor to represent you in this effort. Your consideration to donate funds for the charitable organizations listed or for personal race supplies/needs is greatly appreciated; your support in any form means a tremendous amount to me. Currently, I have a primary crew of 6 others handling many of the logistical needs at the race, as well as pacing me for significant portions of the race. I am actively seeking the support of corporate and business sponsors interested in becoming a part of the effort, as well as potentially local TV and newspaper coverage. I am currently sponsored by the Injinji sock company, which supplies me with performance socks for use in ultramarathon events. The sponsorship allows me to connect with any other companies for all other needs. More information about me and my efforts are on my website at www.seegundyrun.com or Injinji’s website at www.injinji.com . Charitable Focus: I hope to raise funds for World Harvest Mission (WHM, www.worldharvestmission.org) because of my personal connection to the group’s founder, William Kasiyre, who was a close friend growing up with my mentor/pastor Eridard Mukasa in Uganda. After Eridard’s untimely passing of liver cancer in 2001, I was approached by William about making an extended trip with his team to Uganda in 2002. I made the trip in June of 2002 and was awed by the beauty of the country and its people. It was an incredibly rewarding personal journey, meeting with the former associates of my mentor/pastor and seeing the country he was from. I also had an opportunity to work with a number of school children, medical personnel and church organizations dedicated to improving the living conditions of all of Uganda’s people. The relationships I established and the continued fruit of those relationships live on to this day. My friend’s spirit and hope have become driving forces behind my personal support for this organization. I hope to one day help link people and groups from both countries to promote growth in the region, a focus of my post-graduate education. The humanitarian crises in East Africa with AIDS, malaria, economic depression, and civil unrest are just a few of the issues that continue to need to be addressed, having been brought to the forefront in recent years. I hope to help grow WHM’s presence in East Africa, seeking to meet all the needs of the people. It is their global focus which epitomizes the legacy my grandmother and mentor/pastor leave and which I hope to continue well into the future. Latest Update 8/6/06 I have so much to talk about, so I'll update more on Monday and confine this update to the pre-race section of the course to Stovepipe Wells. To be honest with you, I was shocked at how incredibly well this part of the race went. Spending 45 min. at 190 degrees at the local gym apparently helped, although you trully never know until you get to Badwater. Getting to the start area was an adventure in and of itself. We woke up just past 4 am after to leave by 4:45 am for the 6 am start. I was a bit groggy, rolling over in the bed with my head face down on the pillow. Maybe I was hoping that with My father, Mike and George had arrived late in the night after I went to sleep, so I said a quick hello, with my dad handing me the orange bracelet in honor of my friend Patrick Caurant to wear during the race. At that moment, he took a moment to make a request. “You know, if you feel like there’s something wrong or your sick, promise me you’ll stop.” I replied, “I promise. I might get sick or nauseous, but I will not go beyond a point that would endanger my life.” While I was aware that there would be a certain amount of pain and overall uneasiness, I wanted to reassure him that all precautions necessary to help ensure my safety would be taken. It was just a father worried about his son, and that I understood. There was some mild running around and confusion, with my Uncle Andy yelling to get in the van and my Uncle Jose yelling to bring it down a notch. But once the van was loaded with crew 1 (Uncle Andy, my Dad, Wilma, Jenn and Brian) and I, we were off on the 17 mile drive to the start. A quick bathroom detour on the side of the road delayed us slightly, but we still got there with 45 minutes to spare. Before the check in, we had a wonderful opportunity to take a few photos and take in the scenery. The sights, the rising heat, the veteran runners and the smells left me speechless. I smiled as I reveled in the surrealness of the experience. A large sign way up the side of the mountain next to the road which hemmed in the valley indicated where sea level was. It was shocking to me, a sort of reality check of the brutally long climbs which awaited me. This whole place had only lived in pictures, video, documentaries, and my dreams. What was once in my mind a vision was now a reality, a very big reality. I wanted to take it all in. While some people walked out onto the salt flats, I stayed closer to the road, continuing to take in fluids with an ice towel wrapped around my neck. After check-in and weigh in at 180 lb, and another trip to the restroom to get rid of last night's big dinner of spaghetti and meatballs with the gang, I spent the final 15 minutes quietly in the start area, mostly praying silently and staring at the orange bracelet with the name of my recently deceased friend Patrick Caurant and the words "Our Domestique". I was determined to finish and determined to work relentlessly like the Domestique my friend was in cycling. After the horn rendition of the national anthem by Adam Bookspan and the dead pan humor of the race director announcing the 6 am wave start (there was also 8am and 10 am), . I was not nauseous, like I normally am before big races. I was not scared and I was not thinking about the fact that this was 35 miles longer than my previous long race. I had waited almost 3 years from the moment doing this race was conceived in my head, and now it was finally here. I just wanted to get it on. I looked briefly at the other competitors, sizing them up and wondering if they felt the same things. Others just had this dead, emotionless look that said "Leave me alone, I'm in my own world right now", so I did. I could only see my Uncle in front of me and after the countdown and start, it was a complete blurr. Cameras flashing, people cheering and feet finally moving. It felt much better than just standing there doing nothing. The long journey had begun with much hoopla and cheering, but the eerie silence of the valley of death awaited up ahead. CONCLUSION Running is just something that I do. I just happen to do it to an extreme that few athletes choose to go. It’s funny to see people’s reactions to my 135 mile run afterward. It seems to be a mix of awe and questioning of sanity. In some ways, the running of ultramarathons has begun to define me. I once starting a contract job at one company, and ended up spending a half-hour of an hourlong meeting answering questions about running during my first week there. When I get introduced to friends of friends or friends of my girlfriend, I’m the “guy who ran 135 miles”. It’s becoming something that defines me. The thing I want people to see is not just the athletic talent, but rather the character that allows that talent to shine. If I run a 100m dash against someone, you might say it was athletic ability that should determine the winner. For many, including myself, 135 miles is a long way to drive, let alone run. I know people that will probably take decades before they go 135 miles. It requires a focus and vision that few possess or are able to muster up. In our every day lives, how often are we required to muster the effort required to run 135 miles? Our lives our filled with regret, things we could have been or could have done. Sometimes we’re a day late and other times, a buck short. But this race was different. For one day, I wasn’t left with “what if” questions or regrets. For one day, I finished what I started. I could look back at what I had done and simply smile. Of course, like any athlete, a week later I could point out key moments in the race where questions abound about what if I had done this or that. But why fret it? It happened and it’s all in the past now. In the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter because the bottom line is that 135 miles is 135 miles. The inspirations run across a wide spectrum of the good, the bad and the ugly. I talked a lot about the deaths of my pastor and grandmother being catalysts for the start of this running journey. But in order to keep going on this journey, you have to commit all of yourself to it. Sometimes you’re fueled by love, other times by anger, and other times by sorrow. In end, it’s whatever is my heart at that moment that pushes me forward. If it’s hate, I want to feel the intensity of that hate. If it’s love, I want to feel the fullness of that love. If it’s sorrow, I want to feel the depth of that sadness. The day I lose that sense of self is the day that I die, figuratively and literally. I can not ignore the good and bad that has happened in my life and I can not ignore the power of the emotions that it invokes. There’s this idea out there that to be fueled by anger is necessarily a bad thing. To be angry is to be human, just as it is to love or to hate. I needed to get angry about my pastor and grandmother passing away; I needed to feel the loss of two people so instrumental in shaping who I was. I wasn’t angry at God or angry at the world. I was angry because sometimes shit happens and you just have to deal with it. Those events had pushed me to an edge that I could not handle without being true to myself and my emotions. Badwater pushed me to that same edge, creating a space for both the emotional freedom and the growth that would come from it. Of course, everyone has struggles and for every struggle I’ve described in this story, I’m sure someone has one that’s a hundred times worse. I hate it when people use their struggles or their privilege as a sort of one-upmanship on other people. My journey through Badwater and in life is no better and no worse than anyone elses; it simply is what it is without comparison. This is the lot and path the Lord gave me in life and this is how he made me to travel it. I don’t need someone there to tell me that I’m some great person or great athlete, because I’m not. I’m a sinful man with sinful tendencies. I’ve lied, cheated, stolen, drank, smoked and quit. I didn’t invent the longer lasting lightbulb and I didn’t cure cancer. I haven’t won any races or have dozens of accolades to my name. I simply ran a race, albeit a bit more out of the ordinary. I don’t expect that thousands of people are all of the sudden going to want to come out to Death Valley to be “cleansed” or “purified”. You can be “cleansed” or “purified” in the decisions and situations you face everyday. To be at Badwater was a choice, just like going to the desert to be tempted by the Devil was a choice for Jesus. Badwater will always remain on the fringes of athletic pursuit; too daunting for some, too short for others and just right for a select few. But everyone has plenty of opportunities to experience what I have experienced at Badwater. Everyone has their own Badwater, the memories of struggles past and the expectation of struggles to come. You’re not always sure where you are in the journey, except that you’re always closer to the finish than when you started. In the end, the only thing left to do is to keep running the race until the finish. You won’t remember where you started, how long you’ve been running or how you got there; you probably won’t even care. I just hope that you reach that finish line and the Lord comes down and says, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” Only then will I stop running.
