Ultramarathon Man (16 page)

I don't know precisely when I broke through the last wall, but it was sometime during this final melee. The initial breakthroughs along the way had all been physical, about trying to deal with exhaustion and bodily fatigue. After mile 50, they had been battles of the mind. But this last breakthrough was much more hallowed, and it touched me on a deeper level than the others, more like an awakening.

It struck me in the space of a few steps that my past as I knew it had suddenly ceased to exist. Nothing would ever be the same to me from this point on. I'd been profoundly transformed by this journey, in ways I had yet to understand. This person who was staggering and crawling and persisting at mile 99 was a different being than the guy who had started the race just yesterday morning. I was more capable than I imagined, better than I ever thought I could be. This realization was like stepping into another dimension.

Covering 100 miles on foot was more than a lesson in survival, it was an education on the grace of living. Running is a solo sport, but it was no longer about me anymore; I became almost irrelevant. My struggles were not about a single runner trying to finish this unfathomable challenge but about the greater ability of a human being to persevere against insurmountable odds. The many supporters who'd provided encouragement and strength along the way didn't really care about me per se—hell, they didn't even know who I was. What they cared about was that a person had taken the time to train, and sacrifice, and dedicate himself wholeheartedly to the pursuit of a dream. It was a powerful message; I was just the host. And proud to be. Upholding my end of the commitment meant crossing the finish line, and I was now going to make damn sure that happened. For all of us.

I ran freely now, paying little attention to the ground in front of me or the pain. It's funny how a dream that has almost been lost can come back to life with such power. Its rebirth infuses you with a vitality that's both playful and shockingly resolute. Suddenly obstacles cease to exist. The only thing that matters is making that dream come true.

That final half-mile into the Placer High stadium was run as though nothing else mattered. My shoes were falling off, my toes were bloodied, my shirt dangled by threads—all irrelevant. What mattered was making it to the finish line.

Big tears streamed down my cheeks as I entered the stadium to run that final lap around the track. I began laughing and crying at the same time as I ran those last few steps. It was just after 2:00 A.M. and the stadium was nearly empty, except for a few diehards that fed off this sort of raw energy. They were standing on their seats, clapping and cheering as I ran, proudly crying, across the finish line. If pure emotion and passion are what these people wanted to see, they had come to the right place.

Medical check at the Western States finish

Laid out at the Western States finish

The emotion
got the better of me as well. That announcer at the start of the race had been right: I was forever changed by the Western States experience. Everything took on new meaning. My demeanor grew more carefree, as if the important things in life had become clearer. My outlook became more expansive; my shortcomings less significant. Others were treated with greater compassion, increased tolerance, broader humility.

I liked the transformation this race brought about, and I wanted more. Scarcely a month after completing the event, I found myself lusting for the next challenge. My official finishing time was twenty-one hours, one minute, and fourteen seconds, and I had come in 15th place overall. Respectable for a rookie, given that this was one of the most elite ultra-endurance running fields on earth. Not that I cared much about my placing. Passion had fueled my progress, and I hungered for more.

It was optimistic to think that I could run farther than 100 miles, especially under such demanding conditions, but I yearned to test the limits of human endurance and stretch the limits of self. I was listening to my heart, finding my place in the world. If it could be done, I wanted to do it. Because I needed to know how far I could go.

—Van Halen

There is a temperature
at which bread begins to toast. I'm not exactly sure what that temperature is—but I can say from experience that running in such heat is not advisable.

After I'd successfully completed the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run, life became a little more vibrant. There was a certain spring in my stride, a newfound levity in my disposition. Even if most people I interacted with had no idea of what I'd done, I knew. That was all that mattered. The greatest rewards of high achievement, I had come to believe, were intrinsic.

Beyond Western States, I didn't know of any physical challenge more demanding. That is, until I read a short piece in the
Los Angeles Times
about an obscure footrace across Death Valley in the middle of summer.

Badwater is the lowest point in the Western Hemisphere, smack in the middle of Death Valley, at the southeastern end of California, 282 feet below sea level. Summertime temperatures can exceed 130 degrees Fahrenheit, and the asphalt can get better than 200 degrees. Not your ideal place for a jog.

But the summer after I completed the Western States, I found myself standing at the starting line of the Badwater Ultramarathon, drenched in perspiration, shaking with anticipation, waiting for the race to begin.

Twenty-four of us were about to embark on what is called
The World's Toughest Footrace
—a 135-mile trek across Death Valley to Mount Whitney, the highest peak in the contiguous United States. While the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run had been grueling, Badwater is widely considered the ultimate test of endurance and human resolve. Or just plain insanity. It can go either way.

Athletes have traveled from across the globe to take on Badwater. The fittest of the fit have come here to push the body to unthinkable limits in hopes of reaching the finish within the official cutoff time of sixty hours. Unlike Western States, Badwater is a road race held entirely on paved highway. But there are still plenty of hills to contend with along the route, even before the road begins its twisted ascent up Mount Whitney.

Scanning the starting line, what I saw was the most elite squadron of extreme endurance athletes on the face of the earth. They were clad in white desert suits, muscles taut underneath, preparing to embark on the ultimate physical challenge. And there I stood among them, heart pounding in the sweltering heat, ready to rumble.

I'd spent the entire year training for Badwater, adapting my routine in preparation for the harsh conditions by running in a wool sweater and ski parka, attempting to simulate the desert heat. In talking with some of the other competitors around the starting line, it sounded like my training might have been light. Many of them trained inside a sauna.

With a chorus of hoots and primordial screams from the racers and support crew (I didn't see a single spectator in the crowd), the race began. The heat was like nothing I had ever encountered before, completely otherworldly. Undulating waves of solar radiation rose from the pavement in massive sheets as we made our way down the long, straight, featureless highway. A runner in the distance quickly became engulfed by the mirage that distorted everything on the horizon.

Because the route we followed was entirely along the roadside, I'd decided to rent a motor home as a crew vehicle. Bad choice. As we'd crossed the desert in it on the way to the starting line, the alternator had fried, leaving my family and newly arrived daughter, Alexandria, stranded in a 125-degree immobile motor home. It was a risky decision bringing Alexandria, at six months old, to this event. Most guidebooks advised not taking children to Death Valley in the summer months. But I didn't want to leave her. Luckily I had Julie, my folks, and my uncle George along for support.

Fearing for Alexandria's safety, and ours as well, we hastily abandoned the broken-down RV and fled for shelter, leaving most of my running gear, food, and supplies inside.

Thankfully a park ranger found us shortly after we'd left the vehicle on the roadside, and he drove us to shelter. With the RV cooked, Julie, my mother, and Alexandria got a ride with the ranger back to a hotel near the end of the race in a little town called Lone Pine. Uncle George went with them and picked up his Mazda sedan that he'd left in town when we met. I would now be supported during the race not by my entire family in a motor home, but by a skeleton crew consisting of my father and uncle in a compact car. We had only salvaged one small cooler from the RV, and we had very little ice. It was far from ideal, but out in Death Valley you take what you can.

The ordeal on the way to the start had been unsettling, but I tried not to let it break my composure. Every inch of my flesh was covered with a white UV protective suit—like a running mummy—to prevent the sun from searing my skin. I needed to focus on staying cool, on not overheating inside the suit. There wasn't a tree in sight, not even so much as a rock to crawl under for shade.

Running down the white line on the highway to hell

The asphalt quickly grew so hot that it literally melted my first pair of running shoes within an hour. I didn't see it coming, the soles just disintegrated. I switched to a second pair. Watching some of the other competitors, I learned to run down the white line that edged the roadside, which reflected enough heat to keep this new pair from melting, at least for the time being.

Even running down the white line, the inferno radiating off the road surface was like a blast furnace. Within twelve miles, my feet developed blisters. By 15 miles, blisters formed on top of my blisters. We stopped and cut huge swaths out of my shoes, reducing them to makeshift sandals. It helped a little.

We'd been advised to carry a plant mister to help me stay cool, and we'd brought one. But without ice, the mister was useless. As hard as I sprayed, most of the mist evaporated as it came out of the nozzle and never reached my body.

Earlier this year, a European tourist had roasted to death in the mudflats beside the road. Apparently, he had walked out to take some pictures. The coroner's report noted that the corpse's feet were severely disfigured. Poor bastard had stepped through the narrow surface crust into a layer of molten-hot mud. Trapped by the ankles, he'd literally baked to death. He, too, had been carrying a water mister—a lot of good that did him. . . .

Furnace Creek is the first remote outpost along the course, seventeen miles from the start. There is a small service station—which was closed—and a hotel, and lots of scorching red sand blowing across the road. To conserve our limited supplies, I guzzled from the gas-station hose before noticing a small placard next to the spigot: NON-POTABLE WATER.