The Badwater 135 is touted to be the world’s toughest endurance race and draws the toughest men and women endurance athletes from around the world. It’s a 135-mile foot race that goes right through the hottest place on earth…in July. The race begins in Death Valley at Badwater Basin, the lowest point in the lower 48 states, -282 below sea level and ends just below the highest peak in the lower U.S. at Mt. Whitney Portal. When I first learned these things about the Badwater 135, I was amazed and in awe. “Do what?” may have been my initial reaction. These are the kinds of things that intrigue me and get my attention.
My friends and family were dropping jaws and amazed that there is such a thing. Most looked at me sideways as if to say, “but why?” That’s just the kind of reaction I love. Rather than causing me to pause and reflect on the wisdom of accepting this challenge, their concerned glances only served to goad me on.
More than 30 U.S. states and over 20 countries from around the world are represented. The roster is more a list of extraordinary human beings than just a list of runners. A quick scan and you’ll see career titles such as Yacht Captain, Motivational Speaker, Real Estate Mogul, etc. Everyone I met at the event, or heard stories about, had some kind of impressive back story. These are the outliers. They are the book-writing, Everest-climbing, expedition-leading war heroes that are walking among us, acting like one of us. As you’ll learn, they’re not like us. Not really. All of the participants had extremely impressive endurance competition résumés. Race Director, Chris Kostman, titles the starting waves “Fast, Faster, and Fastest.” In order to be eligible to run Badwater for the first time you must meet some very high qualifying standards, write an essay and be accepted by a 5-person panel. I’d guess there are thousands of applicants. Only 100 make the cut annually. There has never been a year in which all 100 entrants finished.
On July 13, after months of training, preparing, eating, sleeping and talking mostly Badwater, I arrived in Las Vegas at the LaQuinta Inn to meet up with my friend, Pete Kostelnick. He had asked me months earlier to be part of his crew for the 2019 running of the world-famous ultramarathon and the time had finally come. I met Pete and two of my three fellow crew mates at the hotel. I exchanged greetings with Pete and was introduced to the first two of three crew mates.
This was the first moment I questioned my place at that table. First was, Adam Melssen, childhood friends with Pete going back to preschool. This would be Adam’s third year on Pete’s crew. An Air Force officer of 9 years, Adam’s strong leadership skills would have him serving as the crew chief. Level headed and calming, Adam seemed to be a good fit to lead us through the coming hell. Brad Lombardi was back for his 9th year of Badwater experiences. He finished the race 4 out of 6 attempts. One year, in a true display of raw grit and unbridled determination Brad was the last to finish, just minutes before the cutoff closed the course. I learned in time that the slower, grind-it-out finishes often are the most grueling and painful. Within minutes I knew quite a bit about Brad and a few of his many and varied life experiences. He had lived on both coasts and spent a couple of years living in the middle of Death Valley at Panamint Springs. He was a wooden boat builder, surfer, tiny house builder, ultra-runner and madly insane over Badwater. He almost immediately began telling me that I would be bitten and infected by Badwater and that I would eventually try to do it myself. I liked his energy and enthusiasm, but I was skeptical. His taunting me felt like some kind of subtle compliment. I felt like resisting, but it also heightened my curiosity.
The three of them talked about previous years at Badwater. Sharing stories that were in no way comforting or soothing for me. I kept a game face on and repeatedly reminded myself of the training I had done to prepare. Regardless, I was gradually losing confidence with each new story regaled dramatically to me, mostly by Brad. The waning confidence and questioning my preparation began 15 minutes into the story telling.
Soon it was time for sleep. I shared a room with Brad that night. I laid there trying to calm my nerves while Brad continued his campaign of indoctrinating me into the Badwater world. I drifted off to sleep to the sound of his voice and images of running through fire while vomiting, cramping, staggering, crawling and doing a lot of whimpering.
We got up the next morning, had breakfast and began getting gear and registration paperwork in order. Gear consisted of things like reflective vests for runners and crew, blinky lights for all, headlamps, hydration vests, water bottles, and biffy bags. Biffy bags are for when nature #2 calls and you’re in a National Park such as Death Valley. These will come into play later, unfortunately. After that we headed to the local Walmart for nutritional supplies and to meet up with our final crew member, Doug Barnett.
Staying true to the Badwater way of all things exceptional, Doug also has an interesting and impressive background. From former professional basketball player to present day pro sports rep, rest assured this was his element. We lovingly referred to Doug as our tour manager. He was the organizer, planner, driver, photographer, and doer of all things needing to be done by someone not running or filling water bottles. He also would prove to be crucial to our success, to be sure!
A few words about this crew before moving along. These men impressed me. Right away. It wasn’t until later that their backgrounds were revealed to me. They were all accomplished and seasoned. Full of character and confident, they were also humble and kind to this “greenhorn” despite their great accomplishments. Each of them displayed some variation of type “A” personality, but made it clear that they understood the value of teamwork and the resulting synergy created by it. Pete had done well assembling this team, but I couldn’t quite see how my chair fit at that table, greenhorn that I was.
After stocking up at Walmart we bumped into a couple of other teams going through similar activities. We stopped to chat with each. The other guys on our crew knew most or all of the crews we met. The racers for sure knew each other and exchanged goodwill messages. With each passing minute I was feeling the pressure rise. I couldn’t help sizing up the crews and trying to see something in the eyes of the other racers. All of that nonsense only served to raise my anxiety. I also felt like an animal might feel when it’s slowly being cornered into something.
I don’t recall how much I let on to the other guys, but I was in a state of mental warfare with myself. As the race drew nearer and I got a better sense of how things would play out, my panic level was rising. I was beginning to question my preparation. I didn’t feel like I had done enough for my endurance. In addition to that, I was hearing Pete talk about his heat preparation. My heat training was simply running in the hottest part of the day with extra clothes. Pete did that, but he also drove around in his car with the heater on. So, these things were going around and around in my head. I had not really prepared for long runs, and I suddenly felt like I wasn’t heat trained at all. To take it a step further, I thought the first section I would be doing was going to be 14 miles. That was now bumped up to 18. I had some concern. I was very fearful that I was about to let Pete down and disappoint the team. How was I going to explain my lack of preparation? Can you imagine? I’m on a team with a world class, world record holding athlete; my teammates are all obviously very successful and driven. They’re expecting me to pull off about 50 miles of this ridiculous idea of a death race, and I’m thinking, “I hope I can do at least 4 miles before I die.” Seriously, these were my thoughts. I was ill. Moments after these kinds of thoughts, I would find a way to convince myself that I can do this. I reminded myself that I am tough, I have grit. I was receiving messages from friends saying similar things. People were telling me that Pete chose me for a reason. He believed in my abilities. This was enough to keep me sane. Until someone brought up a story about the time someone died trying to cross a 9 mile stretch across the Badwater Basin, or some other unnecessary story for me to hear. I was in a revolving door of feeling very small and inadequate alternating with “you got this” feelings.
We made our way from the Walmart to Badwater Basin in Death Valley. Badwater Basin is an obvious and unique place. It’s like a huge bowl with a big flat, white bottom. There are canyon walls all around. At first sight it looks a bit hellish. It’s a huge expanse, but somehow there is a feeling of being trapped. There’s no escape. It’s hard to believe you’re still on earth. That feeling is returned many times in Death Valley. Pete wanted us to do a 2-mile run in the basin. I guess an orientation of sorts. I was ready. It had been a few days since I had run. I had a lot of surplus energy churning and some anxiety to deal with. Running is just the cure.
We stepped out of the vehicles and wham, the heat! It warranted more than my acknowledgment; it wanted my full attention. The heat whooshed right up to my face as if I’d stuck my face in an oven. The wind felt like it was a torch wafting at my face. Someone mentioned that the car display read 120*. Pete looked directly at me and asked what I thought, big grin on his face. I nodded at him, faked a smile and lied, “This isn’t so bad.” He smiled like we had just been dropped off at Disney World. Thankfully I was able to cover my lie with sunglasses. He would have seen right through me. Brad pointed across the floor of the basin to the other side and asked how far I thought it was. My guess was 4 or 5 miles, I think. Wrong! 9 miles. The same 9 miles that someone hiked across and died on the way back. Out of water. This was not a friendly place and mistakes turn to death. It’s easy to literally get cooked here. Disney World. Pffft. Just another reminder; out of my league.
Four of us took off in the direction of death while Doug stayed back to notify next of kin and direct the search party. The wind was coming at us from the left, swirling the heat all around us. When I spoke, my throat dried and felt like sandpaper. Under our feet came the same crunch sound and feel you get from walking on an icy sidewalk, melted and then refrozen. I tried to imagine an icy sidewalk. I couldn’t. Around a half a mile into the run I relaxed and actually felt ok. I took several breaths and relaxed as much as I could. I had a genuine thought that things were going to be ok. Brad’s hat blew off before we reached a mile. He stopped to get it and waited there for us. Smart move. We turned to head back in and couldn’t see Doug or our vehicles. There was just the tiniest glimmer on the horizon. Out there alone, I might have felt like I had dived 20 feet down into the ocean and couldn’t find the surface. About half way back, I was feeling a huge energy drain from the heat. My throat was dry and I wanted to be done. We finished and everyone scrambled into cars to make our way deeper into hell. As soon as I was in the van I began sweating profusely. My brain was racing and I couldn’t stop repeating words that rhyme with duck. I was in for it. Brad, who is 50 and has more enthusiasm than Tigger, turned back towards me in the back of the van, grinned, and said, “You’re gonna definitely come back.” I grinned back, but I was really freaking out. I was now realizing that it was going to take every ounce of grit I have. Pain and suffering were in my future and all I had around me were super humans and Death Valley.
We continued on to the racer check-in and meeting location. Along the way we took a scenic bypass which went up into a canyon to see “Artist’s Palette.” The van overheated because the back was overloaded with water and we had the a/c going. Adam made the decision known to us that we would not be using the a/c during the race. At that moment I wasn’t very happy with my decision to be there. In fact, I was kinda mad.
Racer check-in was at a place called Furnace Creek. Not that I needed it, but that name was just another reminder of how friendly and hospitable the place was. There were already many teams there checking in when we arrived. Pete got signed in and then we took a couple of team photos. We hung around Furnace Creek checking out some new buildings and renovations and visited with other teams while we waited for the racer/crew chief meeting. It was an obvious reunion. Once the meeting was over, we had a team dinner and then headed to our place of lodging for the evening, The Amargosa Opera House.
We arrived at the Opera House past check-in time, but there were keys left for us. We had a brief few moments of concern because the keys would not unlock the doors. As it turned out, there was an inside entrance that we weren’t aware of. We got into our rooms to find out that we would be sharing beds. On the wall behind the bed I would be sharing with Brad, was a giant painted peacock with its tail fanned out. How appropriate, considering Brad’s Instagram handle is “The Salty Peacock”.
It had been a long, hot day. My eyes had been opened. The nagging thoughts were relentless. All day, beginning at breakfast, I could not shake the feeling that I was underprepared and that I had underestimated this race. It grew worse during the day with each new exposure to the environment and race components. It was no longer a race. It had become a scary and ferocious monster. I settled into bed next to Brad, trying to calm my mind. I took some slow breaths and ran a couple of mantras through my head. I was feeling the calmness that comes the instant before sleep when Brad uttered his final words to me for the day, “You’re gonna love this.”
The next day was a long waiting game. It was the day of the race, but Pete was starting in the 11:00pm wave. We had time to kill. Mostly we just lounged around. We made a trip to the nearest town, Pahrump, for breakfast. In the afternoon we got the van ready with the appropriate markings and signage on the exterior. We toured the Opera House which killed another 20 minutes. After the tour we watched “Running on the Sun”, a documentary from 2000 chronicling that year’s running of the Badwater 135. A lot of things about the race has changed since then, but not the conditions. There are some great quotes in the video that came back to us over the course of the next two days. We had a last meal of pizza. Then it was time to pack and load the van.
We piled into the van and because the middle seats were stowed and I am the shortest, I volunteered to sit on the floor. I was already a little irritable, probably because it was bed time and I was just a little edgy feeling, but it didn’t help that I sat in a huge puddle of cooler water soaked into the carpet. Now my entire backside was wet. All I really wanted to do was go to sleep somewhere cool. I may have been projecting, but I felt like there was some tension in the air. Not the bad kind of tension. It was the coiled up, ready to unleash itself pre-battle tension. You know there’s a fight coming, but you have to wait for it. Similar to my anxiety, it’s something that happens to me before any big event like this.
Anyone that knows me will tell you, I always have this pre-race, sick-to-my-stomach, jittery energy. It’s like I forget that I’ve gone through it all before and I need to be reminded and reassured. In this case, it was a new experience. This was much bigger than anything I’d ever done before. The biggest factor though, was that it wasn’t about me. This was about Pete and I did not want to be the fool that messed it up. There was no way I would let that happen. I was literally planning to run until I dropped before I would quit. Not smart, I know, but that’s how some of us operate. So, the anxiety was normal for me, but it was more intense and I didn’t recognize it for that. The truth is, it felt more like fear. It was nearly time for me to come to terms with that and I was relieved that the wait was nearly over.
On the way to the start we passed the first two waves of runners. It was dark, but there was a full moon so visibility was pretty good. We could see the mountains being washed in the moonlight on either side of us. The desert floor had a soft night light glow, and there was a gusty, warm wind. Crew vans were strung out along the desert highway with flashing lights blinking back at us. The beginning procession of the worst parade I’ve ever participated in. My nerves were at their greatest height and I knew relief was coming soon. Do or die, I was going to get my chance to find out.
We arrived at the starting area, Badwater Basin, where we had our “warm-up” run the day before. We had about 30 minutes to go. We all jumped out and began final preparations. Pete sat in the van as long as he could and listened to some kind of relaxing music using headsets. Outside of the van crews were busy making final preparations and adjustments. The wind was whipping down in the basin and it was pretty warm. I recall it being around 110 degrees. Finally, Pete jumped out, weighed in, and headed to the starting area with the rest of the runners. Race director, Chris Kostman, made final announcements and introductions. One of the racers and one of his crew members played the national anthem on trombones. I watched all the runners in awe, imagining how their nerves must be. Here they were, about to start an epic journey through the desert, knowing that pain and suffering could soon be their entire world. From Chris Kostman, “3-2-1 and you are racing!” and off they went. We all stood watching them disappear down the desert highway and then scrambled into the van.
As we exited the parking lot, we had one final stop from retired state trooper, Scott Wall, who checked to ensure we had reset our odometer and had our seat belts on. Then we were off, and into the race. We passed all the runners and continued until we got to about 2 miles from the start where our first exchange with Pete would occur.
For nearly all of the race, we leap frogged with Pete roughly every 1.5-2 miles, sometimes a little less. At these exchanges Pete would never stop. He would run past us and we would hand something to him while simultaneously taking something from him. For example; I would take an empty water bottle and his hat, and hand him back a new hat that had been soaking in ice water. Brad would be 10 or 20 feet down from me and he would hand Pete a new water bottle with whatever nutrition was on the schedule, along with any info Pete needed to pass on to us or requests for the next exchange. Basically, every 10-15 minutes we were doing some sort of exchange with Pete. In between those times, we spent a couple of minutes preparing for the next meeting. There was really no rest for any of us. I knew there wouldn’t be, but I had not considered this and now the realization was slapping me right in the face. Midnight in the desert, tired and hot, and just getting started.
Among many other things, ultrarunners are strategists. They study race and training data. They dissect it, looking for clues and shortcuts to faster finish times. Pete is an exceptional runner, and this data crunching might be one of his strengths. He has studied the data from all of his Badwater experiences, and probably compared notes with some of the greats. Who knows how much time he puts into this, but I believe that he puts a lot of stock into it and he has the results to show for it. So, he had a plan, as always, and he stuck to it with amazing discipline. For many of the early miles he stuck to his conservative pace while some of the top contenders sped on ahead of the pack. Mile after mile we positioned ourselves at the next “pit stop”, watched and encouraged the front and middle packers come by and then Pete would come, not far behind, exactly, precisely at the time we expected. Brad and I talked in the van about how wise and disciplined Pete was. It showed great patience and confidence.
Around 20 miles in I got my first glimpse into what this race really is. I saw the silhouette of a runner cresting a hill, hands on his knees, violently vomiting. I felt bad for this guy having issues this early in the race of a lifetime. For all I knew this could have been his one and only chance at this race. What a shame, I thought, to already be a casualty. And then he stood up, walked a few steps and then began running again. I kept my eye on him for a while as we continued leap frogging with Pete. He appeared to be running as if nothing had happened. I was a little shocked, but as it turns out, this was a trivial thing. The equivalent of, say, having your shoes come untied. Mundane. I mentioned it to the guys in the van and Brad said, “I told you this is awesome!”
We continued on throughout the night becoming more and more efficient in our duties. We all settled into our particular roles and kept things smooth and calm when interacting with Pete. All of us, sleep deprived and hot, may have experienced a few small moments of conflict. Despite that, we kept Pete first, squashed our minor complaints, and got the job done. These guys were pros. It was clear early on that they all handled pressure and stress remarkably well. Being around these guys raised my game. I really felt like I was a part of greatness in those moments. I was slowly starting to understand a text I received from Pete a week earlier, “It’s Christmas in July!”
Forty-two miles into the race, the runners come to a place called Stovepipe Wells. This is the base of the first big climb of the race. The beginning of a 5000’ climb achieved in about 17 miles. It’s also where the runners may have pacers join them. This is where Pete wanted me to join him. Originally, I was expecting and preparing for 14 miles, but in the preceding days he let me know that he wanted me to do the entire summit with him. I’d been fretting this for days, but now all I wanted was to get on with it. Conquer or be conquered, I was ready to face it and have relief from the suffocating anticipation.
We pulled into the filling station. This was one of the few places to resupply ice and fuel so everyone jumped out to take care of errands, sprinting in all directions. My sprint was directly across the street to the bathroom. As soon as I came back and looked up the road, there was Pete. There were several teams in Stovepipe as we passed through and Pete got the attention deserving of a humble champion. Many eyes were on him and there were lots of “Go Pete!” calls from the onlookers. So, imagine the lift I got when, despite the attention he was getting, he saw me, got a big smile and hollered, “BRIDGEMAN!! Get out here!” What a thrill that was for me. A moment I’ll hang onto forever. Gladly, I got out there!
The job of the pacer is normally just as it sounds. Control the pace and the runner. That’s not how they do it at Badwater. Here, the pacer runs either behind the runner or on the inside shoulder of the road to the runner’s left. The purpose is mostly two-fold. First, to be the mule and carry anything the runner needs; water, nutrition, etc. Second, for morale, encouragement, support and sanity. Synergy.
I fell in behind Pete. He was very fresh and in a great mood. I sensed that he was in a good place mentally, so I just stayed quiet and let him dictate how the conversation went. As we rolled out of Stovepipe Wells and into the beginning of the ascent, we passed several other crew vans and Pete continued getting cheers. I could feel the energy from all of these people out here in the desert, all with the same goal. We were all on this mind-boggling expedition together. I was just beginning to realize the tight knit bond this group of people share. Badwater is a family. Everyone put their heart into it. They were fully invested and nothing else existed at that moment. I could feel that energy.
We made our way past the crews and now we could talk. Pete was in great spirits and was happy to have me join. He talked some about his time splits and was pleased that he was hitting his planned splits pretty accurately. It didn’t take long and we settled back into the ways of two Midwest boys sharing some miles. Conversation always comes easy with Pete. I don’t know if it helped him any, but it sure got me calmed down.
We were just a few miles down the road when he told me we had reached 1000’elevation. I was surprised at that because, so far, I had barely noticed any climbing. I was pleased because I knew that over the course of the next 16.5 miles, we would be gaining close to 5000’ in elevation. The climb was what had me most concerned. Then he told me we were in the easy section. After that we would have about 8 miles of intermediate hills, and the last of it was what Pete called advanced. I made a mental note and adjusted my sails in anticipation of the hardest yet to come.
As we worked our way higher up, we passed several runners, leap frogged with a few and watched one or two go on ahead at a more daring pace. Pete stayed steady, for which I was grateful.
Time has a way of erasing pain. I know from memory that this was not effortless. I know that at the end of this 16-mile stretch, I was suffering a bit. Yet, I cannot recall any part of this run when I was really suffering or struggling. Maybe I was distracted by the moment? Here I was running a section of one of the toughest races, with one of the best to ever do it. I was aware of it and in awe of it. If there was any struggle, I didn’t notice.
Somewhere around 4-6 miles in, I realized that I hadn’t taken in much water. Our focus was fully on Pete. I started thinking about what I might want or need. Strangely, I asked for pickle juice. I never EVER ask for this, or crave it. The only thing I can come up with for an explanation is that I knew it was something we had in the cooler on ice. I’ve heard other runners talk it up and maybe that played into it. It’s probably exactly what I needed and at the next exchange I was handed two pickle spears. They were cold, crisp and juicy. I can taste them right now. Eating those pickles with the hot desert sun on my shoulders, the back of Pete’s blue Hoka shirt in view and the summit still miles ahead and a few thousand feet above us, that’s a moment in time captured forever. I don’t know why certain moments stay with us, but this is one of them.
We moved into the ‘advanced’ section of the climb. We started doing quite a bit more power hiking. Pete is quite good at it. I had to break into a mini jog every ¼ mile or so to keep the gap between us closed. I found myself preferring to run over walk. I knew in advance that we would be doing some of this, but I underestimated it and did not train for it. That was a mistake because different muscles are used when walking versus when running, and some are used in different ways. This was probably the most challenging for me and it is also what I attribute to most of the soreness I experienced following the race.
The entire 16 miles took 3:24, but it seemed to pass much more quickly. During the last 3- or 4-miles things seemed to slow down. I started looking more and more for our crew van. I wondered with each new corner turned if I would finally see the summit. Pete never seemed to tire or slow from it. In fact, he maybe was getting stronger. I do remember being happy that I made the entire summit, but also being ready to be done. Suddenly, knowing the job was done, I got what I call “the horse sees the barn” syndrome. When you see the finish line, just as a horse sees the barn, you make a final charge and expend whatever is left. We made it to the top! I veered off towards the barn. Pete’s parting shot, “Eat a lot of protein, I need you back out here soon.” I mumbled and nodded before collapsing behind the van, out of his sight.
My initial concern after that first run was what I would have left for the remaining sections I had yet to do. I had roughly 28 miles ahead of me; over two separate sections. At that moment, I really didn’t feel like it was possible. Heck, I was just wondering how long it would take for me to be helpful to the crew again. I wanted a coke. I knew that would give me the calories and sugar kick I needed. The problem for me is that whenever I push myself hard like I just had, it takes a while for my stomach to agree with things. I fall into a semi-nauseous state. So, I struggled with knowing what I wanted, but not being ready to take anything in. Recovering for me is much like crawling your way back to life from a hangover. It takes time and fluids. It’s also nice to have some cool, quiet place to gather yourself. Well, not on this day. I climbed into the van and sprawled as much as I could. I got some cold, wet paper towels to put on my head. Then my crew mates started reminding me that there was a job to do. They offered to help, but kindly let me know that there would be no laying around. Somehow, I got that coke down. Then a banana. Then some coconut water. I gathered myself together and thought about where I was and why I was there. I just thought about the opportunity I was given. I thought about the trust Pete put in me. I thought about what the runners were going through and realized how trivial my problems were. So, I got over it and got back out there.
Pete’s first words to me when I handed him his water, “Did you get some protein? I need you back out here in about 45 minutes.” I don’t think I answered him, but I did run back to the van and started gobbling down peanut butter and jerky.
Pete did the descent into Panamint Springs solo as the sun’s intensity continued to increase. At Panamint Springs, Brad jumped out to run with Pete. Adam, Doug and I did a 3-way split and scrambled to get ice, gas, and food for Pete. An official at the time station told us that Pete was in 8th place. I didn’t think he was that far up yet, because I didn’t remember him passing runners that we knew were out ahead of him. That was exciting news that kept me energized and ready to jump back out there.
Pete and Brad made the climb up Father Crowley Point. Another huge climb. This one is a bit tricky as there are loads of twists, turns and blind corners. The road itself has very little shoulder and there are sections with guardrails to protect automobiles from sheer drop-offs hundreds of feet down. Pete made the ascent around mid-day, so there was quite a bit of traffic going both directions. It became really nerve-wracking for me after I saw a blimp of a motorhome screeching down the hill. Also, around this time the sun became noticeably more intense and there was no escape from it.
Pete had to make the last 2 miles to the top without any water or support from us because there was nowhere to safely pull over. We drove into the visitor center parking lot and reorganized. I had been struggling to keep up with icing down the water while Brad was running. The effort it takes to keep your runner going strong is surprising, especially when you’re a man down. When there is a pacer, the crew inside the van is one less, now providing for two runners.
While waiting for Pete and Brad at the top, we spoke with a young couple who recently met while camping nearby. He was from Germany and I believe she was from the UK. They were excited to see our van with Pete’s name. The young man knew about Pete and they waited around, excitedly chatting with us, while we all watched for them.
It felt like we had been at the top waiting for longer than it should have been. There was a brief moment of concern. We did some calculations. I think a bit of delirium had set in because we had to do a bit of math to figure out that only 15 minutes had passed. A moment later we got sight of them coming up around the corner below.
About this time I noticed that more and more runners struggling. We were still passing some of the 1st and 2nd wave runners. These would be the faster runners of those two waves, and the race and the environment were catching up to them. They were worn down, wobbly, limping. Some laid down on a blanket or towel under the opened hatch of their crew vans. The parade of runners was becoming more and more like an exodus of survivors of some sort of catastrophe. I saw one participant walking with a staggering gait and hunched over slightly. They were clearly sick and weakened, and I made a comment about how bad this was getting. Brad replied to me that it was just getting started.
Brad stayed with Pete after the summit as we made our way to the Darwin turn-off. Not long after the climb up Father Crowley, Pete had stopped to stretch. Adam noticed in the mirror and made an “oh no” kind of comment. We all turned to watch him bend forward at the waist to stretch his hamstrings. I didn’t really get concerned at this point because I have a lot of hamstring issues myself and the issues usually come after big hills for me. I figured this was something he could work through.
But, try as he might, (he can never be accused of not trying) he couldn’t work through it. He became so tight in the hamstrings that he could not even stride beyond a walk without extreme pain. His achilles tendon was also swollen. He continued walking. Adam took Brad’s place.
I lost track of the exact mileage he walked to the Darwin checkpoint. Maybe in the neighborhood of five. He went to the check-in / medic tent that was set-up along the highway by the turn off into Darwin. Just like most of the course, it was desolate out there. There were no buildings in sight in any direction. Just the tent and some warm and welcoming volunteers. I missed the initial conversation Pete had with the race officials, but when I joined everyone under the tent, he was in a lawn chair, looking a little pale. There was a lot of conversation between Pete and key officials. One was the lead doctor for the medical team. She didn’t appear to be overly concerned about him and mainly quizzed him about his nutrition and offered some suggestions on what to eat. One of the other volunteers offered his sandwich, which Pete reluctantly and gratefully accepted. Another volunteer tried to help Pete stretch and massage his hamstrings. The stretching may have given some mild relief, but not enough to allow him to run. They were all very eager to help in whatever way they could. Some offered sage advice and made mention about how far ahead of most of the field he was. Despite walking for maybe 3 hours, he had not been passed. While at the check-point, only 2 or 3 runners caught up. He really was in a great position. Fourth place according to the board at the Darwin checkpoint!
I had been told many times that 90 miles is where the real race begins. We were about to go through Panamint pass. There’s a nice long downhill run into the valley. From there it’s a 23+ mile run into Lone Pine, CA to the base of Mt. Whitney. Then the final 13 miles up to Mt. Whitney Portal and the finish. The top racers position themselves and strategize to get to this point in the race with something left to give. We were right there. Right there! This didn’t feel good. My mind was racing for ideas that wouldn’t come.
I was so naïve at the time. I saw Pete, and he did not look good. I feel bad for this, but I thought he was done. He could only walk, and barely at that. He was clearly in a lot of pain and anguish. I didn’t know what to say so I stayed back on the outskirts of the buzz around him. While a lot of people talked about how he was now so deep into the race and close to the finish, I was fixated on how he was going to be able to walk in his condition, in this hell on earth environment. He was still 45 miles from the finish! On top of what you already know, he had some other issues going on. Issues that, on their own, would probably have caused people to drop out of lesser races. The only thing I remember Pete ever talking about publicly is the hamstring and achilles problems. So, I will leave it at that.
I think we were at the Darwin check-point for around 20 or 30 minutes, when, much to my surprise, Pete decided to get back on the road. We were hopeful to see him break back into a running motion. Alas, that did not happen. He continued walking, with Adam keeping him company. In my mind I was trying to fathom this. Was he really going to walk 45 miles to the finish? One of the officials had actually mentioned about how Pete was so far ahead of the cutoff times that it was possible for him to walk the rest. He had 48 hours to complete the race, and he wasn’t more than 15 or so hours into the race. Walking that far seems bad enough. Imagine walking that far while in pain and in a weakened state.
As he continued forward, seemingly growing weaker and further aggravating his legs, I secretly watched for runners coming from behind. In the pit of my stomach there was a dark and dismal dread. It saddened me to watch this happening. It was like having the best day of your life and then having a bomb go off right in your living room. We were derailed and beside ourselves. You could feel the sadness and disappointment in the air. We were shell shocked and helpless. It sucked and I was truly aching for him. We all were. The agony!
As runners always do, we had all been doing calculations in our heads. Right up until the wheels came off the bus, we had all been silently thinking we would be finishing up this race well within 24 hours. I think we had our hearts set on that. Now, unless something miraculous happened, it was going to be a much different story. I hate to say I had this doubt, but I have to tell this story honestly. I imagined him finally giving in. Too weak and damaged to go on. I then imagined the mood for the rest of the trip. It was not going to be fun. That was the thick and unescapable mood inside the van.
During this next stretch Brad began getting phone service and was seeing social media posts claiming that the Japanese runner, Ishikawa, was ahead of Pete’s course record at each of the checkpoints he had reached. The last thing any of us really wanted was for that to happen. Brad relayed this to us and we all agreed that we would not share this with Pete. Unfortunately, we didn’t have to share because he began asking about it. Brad tried to only give him pieces of the news and made it sound as if there was some inconclusiveness to it. However, the look on Pete’s face told the story. He knew. I hated this. If Brad made one mention to me about wanting to come back to this place, I would have lost my mind.
Ten miles and around 4 hours later we came to Panamint Pass. The finish was still 35 miles away, but it was now in sight. The entire valley was visible now and I could see why this is where the race is won or lost. After all of the ascending and descending, we now had a wide-open mountain valley to run through. Anyone who could still run would be revitalized by the view of this valley, knowing the finish was at hand. I saw this and knew it right away. Bitter disappointment was dominating me. I tried to keep believing. In fact, I really did hang onto a sliver of hope, even though I knew it was beyond a longshot.
This place of hope only served to be one of despair and heart break. Pete stopped here for a rest. Adam got in the van with Doug, Brad and me. It was a surreal and uncomfortable time. It also is a place in time I will forever remember and relive. Us on the inside of the van discussing the situation. Pete on the outside of both conversation and vehicle. We all had varying, but fluid opinions. Two primary options were discussed. Push on or DNF. The thought of pushing forward was really disturbing to me. He was very clearly hurting. Maybe he was even damaged. Some of the discussion was about whether or not he was injured and would there be long term consequences? What would this do to him psychologically? But what would quitting do to him? Ultramarathon people are ultra-everything people. They believe in breaking limits. They are the most extreme deniers of reality. Pete was no exception. We all had to ask the question, if he quit how would that change him? This was clearly a situation in his life that was going to alter who he would be on the other side. We all were very aware of this and did not take lightly how to respond to it.
I don’t know how much time passed, but eventually Pete decided to lay down in the van with the a/c running. We all got outside the van and he got in. Our conversation continued. Eventually runners began coming into sight. Not a steady stream, but one or two every 10 minutes or so. Unbelievably, it had been 7 hours since the trouble started for Pete. The front end of the mid-packers was just now catching us. I marveled at this, but also, the realization of this slipping through our fingers gutted me. A few runners passed and clearly realized who it was inside the van. Some inquired if he was ok and we would nod and tell them he was just resting.
Finally, Pete decided he was going to stake out and go into Lone Pine to rest and eat. Each runner is given a wooden stake with the runner’s bib number on it. For whatever reason, if the runner needs to leave the course, they can drive the stake into the shoulder of the road as a place marker and leave. When ready, the runner returns to the stake, removes it and continues on with the race. This was an option I had not even considered and I was so happy Pete did. We drove the stake into the ground, piled back in the van and headed into town.
Pete and I got dropped off at the hostel in Lone Pine. There were only two rooms and two beds total, so the other guys went to get food for us before going to a different hotel. We planned to meet up at 3:30am, drive the thirty minutes back to the stake, and resume. It was now 8 or 9pm. I took a shower, ate and went straight to sleep.
I woke the next morning ready and hopeful. I wasn’t sure what condition I would find Pete in. If it were me, I don’t know if I would have been able to get out of bed without some limping and hobbling. In fact, I did have a little soreness in my left hip from that long climb just hours before. Pete seemed to be moving fine and was ready to go when I knocked.
Adam picked us up and took us to get Doug at his hotel. Brad stayed behind with hopes that Pete would need him to be rested for the last and final climb to the finish. We were 19 miles from the last stop sign in town to the stake. It was a quiet drive out there. All of us still a little shell shocked and unsure of the situation, I think. Not much to say, but hopeful as hell.
For some reason, Pete drove the crew van back to the stake. Not sure, but that’s probably a first. As we drove out, we passed runners making their way towards where we had just left. One of us would spot them and holler “runner” in case Pete didn’t see them. There was no shoulder with barely room for cars and runners on the road..
Many of the runners we saw were clearly in rough shape. Stooped, limping, just barely moving. You can’t see it and not be affected by it. I was moved by their efforts. I watched many banged and battered, weary and weakened runners grinding forward. Grinding. Clearly in pain and discomfort, but refusing to stop. To me, when you look into the face of someone in this race, they are somewhere else. They’re in a battle that we know nothing about. They need us, the support crew, to logistically stay in the battle. In return, we get to witness and take part in this amazing journey. This was an incredible display of the human spirit. It was finally starting to click for me. For the first time, I was thinking Brad might be right.
We found the stake and surprisingly, the blinky lights we draped over it were still blinking. Pete and I got out of the van and readied ourselves with reflective vests, blinky lights and water bottles. We crossed the road and prepared. I had been wondering all morning, as I’m sure was the case for everyone else, if Pete was going to walk or run. He still had another 35 miles to go and 13 of those were all up the side of a mountain. We started off at an easy jog. I felt like we were running on eggshells for ½ mile or so. Then we gradually started easing into a more comfortable pace. It was quiet and we didn’t say much for 15 minutes or so. I think Pete was taking stock of things. I was too and I couldn’t see anything in his gait or mechanics to tip me off to a problem. My first taste of relief.
We ran a light, steady and comfortable pace. Over time I could feel the strength returning to Pete. I don’t know how to fully articulate it, but there is a chemistry and synergy that is often developed between runners or groups of runners. Through this chemistry I believe a person can pick up on some of these things from the group or the fellow runner. It was this chemistry with Pete that I could feel his strength returning. We chatted as if it were a Saturday morning long run back in Hannibal where we met. I can’t say if there were any concerns or worries in the back of Pete’s mind. I didn’t ask. It didn’t seem so. Our focus was simply on the moment. One of my favorite things to tell myself when overwhelmed in a race is, “You can only run one mile at a time. Run the mile you’re in.” That’s all we were doing. One mile at a time.
Imagine the predawn hours in a wide-open mountain valley. The morning is quiet and still. The stress of the previous day behind. We were done with that old business of yesterday. Now we have new hope and clear eyes. A task at hand with a firm grasp on it. The air is fresh and clean. As the sun begins its rise, the majestic Sierra Nevada range before us is slowly revealed. This is a gift I was given and I was fully aware of it. I took a few deliberate breaths. I opened my eyes as wide as I could. I felt my body moving smoothly across the valley. I saw Pete’s legs moving rhythmically like pistons of an engine. This was bliss. I had so much energy. “Christmas in July” Pete was right. And just like that, I felt the magic. I was in love with that moment. Still am.
Gradually we overtook many of the runners we had passed on the way to the stake in the darkness of that morning. Pete knew many of them. I recognized a few. We exchanged encouraging words. Some could only mutter back. Some were wide-eyed at the realization that it was Pete and asked how that could be. I know there were some delirious minds out there and I couldn’t help wondering if some of these runners became confused about their time and place in the race. It didn’t make sense to them that Pete was behind them. One lady who knew Pete asked what happened and he told her that he was running a double and was on his second loop. We laughed, but her face confused me. I think she might have believed him. Another guy we passed watched us pass him, his mouth agape, then he said to Pete, “Why are you so slow?” It struck me as funny, but he was really just asking what in the world had happened.
It took an hour or two to pass the bulk of those runners. We had run 15 or so miles and Pete showed no signs of any trouble. He was still getting stronger. We watched the sun slowly work its way down the east side of the mountain range and continue across the valley before us as we ran towards it. We tried to pick landmarks to reach before the sun did. At one point we ran past the van with Adam and Doug asleep inside. We both got a kick out of it and ran past quietly, hoping to get out ahead of them before they woke up. It wasn’t long though, maybe a half mile, before Doug spotted us. Doug is an excellent cat napper and grabs sleep in 5-minute increments.
We reached Lone Pine, the town where we spent the night, and made our way through the checkpoint in town. Excitement was mounting. This was the last checkpoint and all that remained was the 13 mile climb I had been hearing about for days now. When Pete set the course record, he ran that 13-mile section in 3:10. Normally, 13 miles for Pete is easily half that. Needless to say, there was still work to be done.
We ran by Brad, who was standing in front of the hotel waiting for the van to pick him up. Shortly after that we made the last turn out of Lone Pine and started up the mountainside. We had run 22+ miles together that morning so far and I was finally starting to feel it. My legs had some soreness from the day before and I could tell I had a pretty bad blister started on one foot. I had been ignoring these things for the last 15 or 20 miles, but now, knowing I was about to get a break, I began to feel.
We passed a lady Pete knew from his home state of Iowa. To our knowledge she was the only other Iowa native out there. They exchanged well wishes and as we passed, she yelled, “Go Pete! Kill your pacer!!” We laughed and I couldn’t resist the urge to run backwards and give her a smile and two birds.
As we were entering the Alabama Hills, I could hear rushing water coming down from the mountain. I could smell it even. The terrain was changing and as I looked up the side of the mountain, I saw pine trees. My spirit was so high!
Finally, we approached the van and Brad stepped out. We were on the hill now and in a super human state of being, Pete showed no signs of slowing. I could no longer keep with him. I had run 23+ miles with him that morning and was on top of the world. That morning run with Pete across the valley is one I will never forget. It was memorable to me in many ways. Knowing what he had gone through just hours before and getting the chance to witness, firsthand, this remarkable return from the dead, I was so proud and thrilled and full of joy. Even removing the race and related factors, the run alone was such a cool experience. I’m very grateful to Pete for this and it’s a memory I will always hold dear.
When I got back into the van there was an excited buzz in the air. Doug and Adam both congratulated me and talked excitedly about how great Pete was doing. I told them that Pete was planning to run the entire 13 miles up to the finish. This stirred their buzz into a frenzied giddiness. We were exhausted and rejuvenated simultaneously. The end was near and our guy was making an unprecedented attack on the hill.
Doug took a phone call from legendary ultrarunner, and Pete’s mentor, Marshall Ulrich. Marshall called for an update on Pete. There was some discussion between Doug and Marshall about what Pete was doing. Just hours after a tortuous 100-mile day, he had already made the valley crossing in a considerably fast time and was now turning out a blistering pace on arguably the toughest part of the entire 135 miles. Marshall declared to Doug that Pete is unquestionably the best multi-day runner on the planet. To give that statement full impact, here are a few of Marshall’s accomplishments. He has finished Badwater 20 times. Technically he has done the Badwater 146, not 135, because he always goes to the summit of Mt. Whitney. He’s done 24+ crossings of Death Valley, including a 586-mile ‘Badwater Quad,’ covering the course four times – consecutively. The list is long and impressive giving him credentials to make such an impactful statement.
After 3- or 4-miles Brad waved me out and handed the pace runner’s bib back to me. As we exchanged, he told me that he couldn’t keep up! I had only had a 30- or 40-minute break since doing the 23 miles earlier in the day. I was a little concerned about what I had left in my legs. Just as I did with the blisters and sore hip muscles, I simply did not allow those thoughts to enter into my mind. Instead, I looked up the mountain and remembered what was happening. Pete was determined and I wanted to stay with him so, I pulled up my pants and held on. I wasn’t with him long and either Doug or Adam jumped out. I can’t remember which. From that point on we swapped in and out with Pete for shorter distances. The longest section I ran consecutively on this section was a little over a mile and honestly, that was about all I could handle without really having to dig deep, deep down. I was exhausted and my legs were jelly. There was nothing left in them and the only thing that kept them moving was my desire for them to.
Word of Pete’s incredible day of running, and his charge up the hill was making its way up and down the mountain. There was a buzz around us. A few times we had someone with a GoPro running out in front of us and I noticed a few others snapping pictures and taking cell phone video recordings from the other side of the road. Pete was so locked in I’m not sure if he even noticed it. His mind was made up that he was going to smash this hill. He had been totally devastated just 15 hours or so ago. A beautiful, clean run had suddenly derailed. I have seen a lot of athletes deal with pain and discomfort at high levels. I don’t know many that would not have walked away from what Pete had to deal with. Remarkably, he did more than stay in the race and finish. He worked through his problems. He found the resolve to not just finish, but finish in incredible and memorable fashion. No one ever runs up this entire mountain. Yet, here we were, just about to finish.
Usually the entire crew finishes the race with the runner from about ½ mile out. We were just a mile or so from the finish so Doug, Adam and I took the van past the finish to the parking lot and then ran back towards the finish. Coming through the trees from the parking lot we looked up to see Pete and Brad had just crossed. Pete was going so strong he beat us!
Triumph! I do know how cliché this sounds but, truly, an eruption of emotion overtook me. I was deeply moved and beaming with pride. I could see it on the faces of the other guys too. Pete’s face, in stark contrast from the face I saw at mile 101, had Christmas morning written all over it. I had all but written this finish off just hours before and now here we stood, celebrating like 12-year olds! This felt like one of those sports moments you see on television when an athlete pulls off some incredible feat and everyone is celebrating. This was, in fact, one of those sports moments. There were no television cameras to capture it, but there, near the top of that mountain, was an elite level athlete celebrating with his crew after a remarkable comeback and an unprecedented finish at the Badwater 135 Ultramarathon! This was indeed one of those great sports moments. Because it wasn’t televised and no one was awarded a million dollars, it means even more.
We stood around near the finish line at Mt. Whitney Portal, the gateway to the summit of the highest point in the contiguous United States. I had been so laser-focused on the race I failed to fully take in the landscape. We stood in a piney forest of giant evergreens. Through the trees came the sounds of rushing water cascading down the mountain. The air was cool and sweet. I inhaled it deeply and felt filled with life. This was one of those fully aware of life moments. I saw it on the faces around me as we smiled and patted one another on the back and began retelling our stories. Finally, able to let down our swords and shields. For the past 36 hours we had been switched ‘on.’ It was over and now I could relax and really think about what had just happened.
Pete entered this race a known and proven champion. He has many accolades to his name and there’s no challenging that. He has real talent and he is smart. He analyzes and strategizes and he has great discipline. I think all of this was known. What was not known or proven, at least to my knowledge, was his heart. His determination is on a super power level. He had to deal with having an epic race, all things running as smoothly and as efficiently as you could ask for and suddenly, it was snatched away. He got the “Go directly to jail” card when he was in perfect position for an incredible finish. While still chewing and swallowing that, he pried it out of us that his course record was in jeopardy, and shortly later, he learned that it was gone. Tell me truthfully, how would you respond to that? Pete bit down harder and did not accept defeat on any terms. He found a new way to win.
While anyone would, and should, call finishing Badwater a victory, I don’t know if that’s enough for Pete. So instead, he smashed the final 35 miles of the course. And he was working with damaged goods by that time. He ran these 35 miles in 6.5 hours. Remind yourself, he did that with 100 miles of Death Valley in his bones. And the final 13.7-mile climb? As I mentioned, when he set the course record, he did that section in 3:10. Well, he improved his time to what is now the fastest known time of 2:23. Only five people on record have done it under 3 hours. Sometimes you don’t come in first, but you know you’re still a winner.
Brad was right all along. I do want to go back. I’m not ready to say I want to run the whole thing, but I might be close to saying I’d like to see if I can qualify for it. I definitely want to go back as a crew member. I feel a strong pull and belonging now. I remember feeling angry for getting myself into it in the biginning. I remember wondering how in the hell anyone could be talking this place and this race up like it was the greatest thing. It’s easy to list all the things that make it the austere and unforgiving place that it is. But the good stuff is there too. It just takes a little bit of punishment and suffering to get to it. Yes, I want to do this again. I can’t get it out of my mind.
Telling the story of this race was easy. Telling you about Badwater, the thing, not so easy. The Badwater 135 is not just a race. It’s a gathering of incredibly determined and accomplished people. The people that come to do this race are not just accomplished athletes, they all have extraordinary and busy personal lives as well. Consider what amount of training, hard work and time you would need to dedicate just to make it to the starting line of this race. Now add all of that time to your very successful career and personal life. I bet, if you’re being honest, you’ve already lost interest. The kind of people who do the Badwater 135 don’t see that time commitment as an option. For them, there is do, or don’t. These are good people who work hard, do what they say they’re going to do, and they only see obstacles and challenges, no dead ends. For the people alone, I want to come back.
The Badwater 135 is a real test. A test of will, strength, determination and the human spirit. Everyone gets broken here and has to decide if they want to go forward or quit. The rub is, people that start this race are not quitters. They work through problems that can’t be ignored. They suffer, willingly. They embrace the suck and ask for more. They go until they finish…and many times they just go until they physically can’t. They don’t just quit. It’s amazing and beautiful and inspiring. The best comes out of everyone. Through this experience, I was reminded that there is greatness in us all. I was also reminded that greatness doesn’t just show up. You have to mine deep within yourself to find it. You need adversity and desperation and fear to find it. Badwater has all of that in spades. So often, we challenge ourselves to do certain tasks to achieve goals. Usually, you know deep down that your challenge is achievable and likely. How would you feel if you were facing 135 miles of Death Valley in July? Finishing this race is questionable for every runner that starts it. It’s scary and has a lot of uncertainties. These things don’t sound fun, but there is so much growth and potential within you. If you want to feel strong and confident and alive, find your Badwater and never, never, never quit.