Badwater Bandits

Badwater.

Before we first crewed there, several friends teased me that by the time the race was over I would have decided to run it.

No way, I said. First of all, it's road, and I'm a trail girl now. Second of all, it's just too dangerous. Too many variables, too much sheer torture. Nope. Not for me.

Wrong.

By the time the race was over, I was all in.

Time has since passed; actually, it's hard to believe it's been two years already. It never fully lost its hold on me, but it certainly weakened. Western States, Rocky Raccoon, a killer Burning River took its place. I'm a trail girl now.

But we were going to be in Vegas to celebrate Darrin's 40th birthday, so it was a bit hard to resist the call of Badwater in August.

Fast forward to a run the week before we left, when we decide that we "just have to" do something "epic."

After tossing around several ideas and discarding the majority due to hydration/crewing concerns, we had it.

The Badwater 17.

We would each run the first 17 miles of the Badwater course, from the basin itself (which serves as the official starting line of the race) back to the Furnace Creek Ranch, which was our hotel and also serves at the first official check in point for the race.

We likewise decided that we would each run the course solo so that the other could perform crewing duties. Having spent time crewing in Badwater, we were taking this quite seriously, and pretty much planned to take everything but the scale. Our biggest concerns were ice, cold fluids, a cold vehicle if needed, and, quite frankly, someone watching out for us if we got a bit bigger than our britches.

As we drove from Vegas out to Death Valley, Darris nervously watched the temperature gauge in the car. He was a bit concerned that it didn't seem to be getting much higher than 100. He had nothing to worry about.

Concern began immediately upon check in, where we were greeted by this solemn reminder. Make sure you check out the third bullet. It was a little before 2 pm, hardly "early morning" or "evening."

It was 115 degrees.

We packed up our supplies and headed out for the 17 mile drive to Badwater. The temperature was 117 when we exited the vehicle for some quick photos; I was immediately terrified.

I've been there twice now, and I still don't have words for the heat. I can only use the metaphors; imagine crawling into a pizza oven and then using a hair dryer for wind. Because that's what it feels like. What I can't describe is how oppressive and stifling it is. You can barely speak sometimes. All you can think about is the heat. It is downright overwhelming.

Darris was to run first. He took a water bottle, gave me a hug, and headed out from the parking lot.

I drove ahead a mile.

He arrived far, far too quickly.

Said he was fine, but he had barely touched his water bottle and was moving fast.

I drove ahead a mile.

This time he at least took ice. He said he was fine and having fun, so I told myself to trust him.

I drove ahead a mile.

This time he showed a little distress. Not a lot, but a little. He mentioned it was hot.

I asked if he wanted to soak his shirt and he said no. I told him he had to drink more and asked if he was okay.

I drove ahead a mile.

He said he was fine, but that he was only going to go 7 miles.

I still wanted him to slow down a little; he was running sub-8's. He said he was fine, but he just didn't want to do something stupid.

As I crewed him the next three miles, I got really scared. Darris LOVES the heat. LOVES it. If he could only handle 7, how on earth would I get past 5? To be honest, I almost backed out. I really thought I was in over my head and playing with fire. At the same time, I didn't come all that way not to try.

So I chugged some more Gatorade and picked up Darris, and we turned the car around and headed back to Badwater. I took an icy handheld, put a shirt in the cooler for later ... and left the parking lot.

It's a pretty surreal feeling to leave the parking lot, in 117 degrees, running, and just trust you'll make it to the car in a mile.

I had a bit of a different strategy than Darris; I had (of course) obsessively planned my attack on the course on the flight. My plan was to take my ipod and drink during every chorus of every song; I figured that would break down to every two minutes or so. I was going to run 5 minutes, walk 1 minute throughout, and change into an icy wet shirt every two miles. It was partly because I wanted to see how quickly it would dry, but also because I had seen so many people do it during Badwater itself.

But at the last minute I ditched the ipod because it clashed with the desert. I felt called to do this quietly, silently, and I am so glad I did.

There are no words for how hot it is, or how incredibly aware you are of your own body.

I loved it. I loved every minute of it. I don't have a play by play, but I quickly fell into a routine. Run 5 minutes, walk 1. Run another 5ish to the mile marker, where I would tell Darris I was okay and to go a mile ahead. Run another 5 minutes, walk 1. Run another 5ish to the car, where I would get a fresh water bottle, change into a wet shirt, and have a bite or two of a salty snack. Repeat.

I got a little scared twice (see below), but otherwise, I found an amazing, beautiful rhythm that day and felt like I could go forever.

Well, kind of.

Some observations on Badwater:

1. God was everywhere. In the burning wind, in the exquisite silence, in the rocks and the mountains and the blue sky, in the heat waves I could see radiating up from the ground. His presence was unmistakable.

2. I could see how quickly Badwater becomes a routine, and how helpful this must be in a race where the scenery rarely changes. I was running in five minute increments; stopping in ten minute increments; getting a "full crew" every twenty minutes. In spite of this, the run seemed to go by before I had even blinked.

3. The scenery rarely changes. It is stunning scenery to be sure, but one could easily feel as if they were on a treadmill in the middle of the mountains. It is VERY exciting when you first spot your crew vehicle.

4. The sounds of silence. There were certainly vehicles going by from time to time, but for the most part, I was surrounded by the most peaceful, tranquil silence imagineable. If silence can be described as "magical," it was. For long stretches, the only sounds I had were of the desert wind at my back and the sound of my footsteps on the pavement. It felt like some higher form of meditation I hadn't yet experienced; it almost felt sacred.

5. Badwater is lonely. Once your crew is gone and you're out there on the highway, it's very overwhelming. You have no misconceptions of exactly how small you are. I was blessed to have the "company" of many dear friends and ultra mentors as I ran along. I thought of Bart (Yasso), and his famous story about Tom Possert and the banana "bread;" I thought about Rich Benyo and Rhonda Provost and how enchanted I was when I first heard them speak of their journeys through Badwater; I thought of Marshall Ulrich and the sheer insanity of covering the course four consecutive times; I had such fond memories (yes, fond) of the year Robin, Maneesha, Darris and I crewed there.

6. Nick Billock. For those outside the inner circle on this, a good trail friend, Nick Billock, is currently deployed in Iraq. Nick is really missing the trails. During the Buckeye Trail 50K, I picked a stick up early on the course and carried it with me to the turnaround, in effect helping Nick "run" part of the race. "Nick the Stick" then traveled back to Burning River to help Darris crew, but due to the day I had, we weren't exactly in a picture taking mood. The night before the Badwater 17, I emailed Nick to let him know what we'd be up to the next day, and that "Nick the Stick" would accompany me. Remember how I said Badwater was lonely? Nick, I really felt like I was running right next to a friend out there, and I'm so glad I had the stick with me. I thought not a few times about how much deeper your loneliness must be out there, in that same kind of desert heat, day after day, without the bountiful luxuries we have here at home. I reflected often on the fact that my exposure to these conditions was for "adventure" while yours is the protection of us, our families, and our freedoms. Thank you is not a strong enough phrase.

7. There are stunning mountains all around you, but there were some that had this green tint to them that I didn't remember. They were so magical, a pale green and dark brown layered together like mint chocolate chip ice cream. I called them the "mint chocolate mountains" and was desperate to get a shot of them, but the camera had died. The sun glinted off of them differently the next morning, and the moment was gone. Camera or not, I will never forget those mint chocolate mountains.

8. There's a time warp on the Badwater course. You're working so hard to stay safe; you're being so careful to monitor your body and its response to what you're doing. Even though the run seemed to go by quickly, the five minute intervals to the walk break seemed endless. I would look at my watch regularly and find that only 45 seconds or so had gone by. The effort level to run safely in the conditions is just so much more extreme; time slows down to the point that it seems half an hour has gone by in the five minutes it takes for the watch to beep and signal the walk break. I started picking out landmarks and challenging myself to see how long I could go without looking at my watch.

9. I've already said how grateful I am that I didn't take my ipod. But remember how I said earlier that my plan was to drink at every chorus during every song? Oh Star of little faith. One need not be reminded to drink at Badwater. Ever. It is simply a constant. You drink. And drink. And drink. Without thought, without reminder. You just drink. How much? For me, seven 20 ounce water bottles in a little over 2 hours.

10. "Dry heat" is a myth. Yes, Badwater is the driest place on earth. (This is fact - driest place on earth. Arguments have been made for a section of the Sahara, but Badwater still has it pretty much locked up.) I almost have to make an argument for humidity. Dry heat is still oppressive. Within four or five miles, I was horribly congested and had bloodshot eyes and chapped lips. It just dries you out. Nasal passages, eyes, lips - all fried. About six miles in I realized my face was caked with granular salt and threw some water on it. Big mistake; salt in the eyes to boot. I looked high as a kite by the time we got to dinner.

11. Did I tell you it's dry? Part of my routine was to alternate white short sleeve shirts. Every two miles, I would put one shirt into a cooler of ice water, and remove the other from the cooler to put on. Did you know that cold can hurt? It does. A shirt removed from a cooler of ice water, dripping wet, slapped onto a torso above 98.6 degrees hurts. Especially on the stomach. But not for long. In the Badwater basin itself, my shirts were drying within a mile. And I am talking out of the dryer, bone dry. Crunchy dry. Later in the run, it took about a mile and a half.

12. You do sweat at Badwater. It's a myth that evaporation gets all of it. But it gets most of it.

13. It is so beautiful I was weaving across the street sometimes. I would turn to look at this mountain, that salt flat, an odd piece of greenery that managed to survive. I'm lucky I didn't do this when Darris was around, or he probably would have disqualified me.

14. Tourists loved us, but no one tried to stop us. It occurred to us post-run that it was maybe a little upsetting that no one stopped us or even checked to make sure we had support. Then again, I reminded Darris, the Badwater run isn't exactly a secret, and I know a number of people visit the course for heat training. That part aside, we are proud to announce that we will soon be appearing in a number of random tourist's vacation shots and videos. One guy (German, I think, based on the accent) even got low to the ground to take footage of my feet and legs while I was running toward him. "Amazing," he said, "it's just amazing!"

15. BADWATER IS NOT FLAT. Nope. Not even down in the basin.

16. Badass v. Fool. As we were preparing for and participating in the run, Darris and I were quit proud of ourselves for being such badasses. There were, however, two moments at which I was extremely concerned. Earlier in my run, I had the signs of a headache coming on, and then I began to hear the blood rushing in my head and one of my ears started ringing. We didn't go into this trivially; we knew the risks and had crewed Badwater in the past. But I admit, I was concerned. At that point, I had a crew stop approaching and pushed through; a fresh ice shirt and plenty of ice in my water bottle were enough to correct it. The second instance came when I was running a long uphill around my eighth mile or so; I was momentarily dizzy and overcome by the urge to just sit down right there. It passed quickly, but it was sobering. Running Death Valley is dangerous. We can label it adventurous, but at the end of the day, it's an equal part dangerous.

Those are the observations.

As to the run, I had the time of my life. Despite a few momentary glitches, I was centered, focused and entirely at peace. In context of the circumstances, I actually felt quite good and was on a huge emotional high. Even better, approaching mile 10 of my run, I knew I had the 17 miler locked up. I was running in segments, but I knew how much I had put out and how much I had left, running in those little segments, and I knew I had it. I was a badass that day.

Badwater brought me back to basics real fast. Darris was doing a great job on duty as crew; concerned but supportive and incredibly encouraging. I could tell how excited he was for me and how happy he was to see me having so much fun. (Especially because I kept yelling "This is so much FUN!")

But as I was approaching mile 10 of my run, I got to thinking about how I would feel if the shoe was on the other foot. Sure he went out a little fast and he was kind of stubborn about drinking enough and he wouldn't soak a shirt which I really thought would have helped ... but that was kind of going to suck for him. If he had gotten in seven miles and then I went out and did the whole 17 mile "epic." I knew if it were me, sitting in that car crewing and watching him nail it after I had fallen short ... I would want another shot at it. I would. And we runners do have this thing about numbers.

I realized that I really wanted to share. I knew I could do the Badwater 17, and I won't lie, I really, really wanted to. But I was overcome by how much I wanted to share.

When I got to mile 10, I told him I felt great (so as not to worry him), and that even though I could finish it, I was thinking that if he wanted, maybe I could run to 13.1 (the Badwater Half Marathon), and then he could run us the last 4 miles to the finish? That way, he could get back out there after crewing for 2 hours, and if he ran 4 more miles, he'd have double digits for the day?

He loved it, and I loved seeing the smile on his face when he realized he was going to get to run some more.

Hands down, one of our favorite days ever. We decided it goes in our top 5.

The Aftermath: In the three hours directly following my Badwater Half Marathon and his Badwater 11, we decided/realized we were fools. We were no longer feeling like badasses. We were a little bit sick, drawn and drained. We had headaches and literally felt dry - our lips, eyes, throats, skin. We realized again how dangerous the undertaking had been, regardless of how educated we felt were or the precautions we thought we took. We thought anew about how your crew is your life and death out there.

We looked stoned as we wobbled and weaved our way over to dinner and almost fell asleep between our salads and the pasta course. I worried like the hypochondriac that I am that I wouldn't wake up the next morning; I decided that if I did, I just might feel like a badass again.

It was just one of those life highlights for us. I don't even know that the race itself could compare to this particular feeling, because this was just us, doing our thing out of styrofoam coolers in a little white rental car, bandits at Badwater at 4 o'clock in the afternoon on a random Wednesday in August.

I woke up Thursday morning sobered but revived. Definitely feeling a little bit more like a badass.

As we drove out of Badwater back to Vegas, we stopped for a few more pictures and felt that dry wind blowing across the valley again. It's a seductive wind out there to be sure, and it didn't need to tell me what I already knew.

I'll be back someday, and it won't just be for 13 miles.