BADWATER 2002 STORY BY ART WEBB

"Bridge over Troubled Badwater"

Bolts of lightening are slamming into the mountains and the windshield is being pelted with rain from the giant thunderheads filling the evening skies, as our mini-market laden van rolls south along Highway 395 towards Lone Pine and our eventual destination in Death Valley. Every year along this stretch of pavement, it becomes starkly clear, that soon I will be faced with the momentous challenge of running the toughest footrace in the world. Although I have worked very hard and I am completely trained, the harsh weather surrounding us reminds me of the enormous task ahead. I am confident, apprehensive and scared to death. This will be my fifth consecutive Badwater race.

Later, at the pre-race meeting in Furnace Creek, I get inspired by the presence of some of my heroes and Badwater ultrarunning giants. Memorable moments are shared with Lisa Smith, Marshall Ulrich, Steven Silver, Denise and Ben Jones. Everyone in the building chokes up when the first man to do Badwater, Al Arnold, gives an emotional speech.

To prevent congestion in this National Park there are three starting times (6:00, 8:00, and 10:00 am) with twenty-seven runners in each group. To receive a coveted belt buckle one must finish this madness in less than forty-eight hours.

While driving in for the ten o'clock start I am surprised to see Major Maples, (well known for his multicolor Badwater barfathons), in second place only a few feet behind the leader.  He said he would be taking it easy this year. It must be the Marine esprit de corps and all that stuff. I hope he makes it.

The moment that everyone has been waiting for is now only minutes away.  To preserve these memories tons of photographs are taken as we straddle the starting line and stare into the teeth of this most difficult 135-mile race. During the next few days we are all guaranteed a good time, as well as, getting blitzed by plenty of heat, misery and pain. But, as far as finishing goes, it will be a coin toss, a crapshoot, or the luck of the draw. Yet, we are still drawn to this race like a moth to a hot light bulb.  Even though it is already 110-degrees, I get goose bumps and butterflies when the National Anthem is played to honor all the runners. It is good to be back.

The word is given and off we go. "Start slow and then taper," said the legendary Walt Stack. Okay. Plan A is to take it fairly easy to Stovepipe Wells. Instead of my usual seven hours I will try for nine. It will be hard to slow down if I am going too fast, but if I am conservative here I should be able to attack the rest of the course. Sounds good anyway.

My crew, Christine Webb, Lina and Jacqueline Young and Jason Hunter will keep me hydrated and well fed. Attempting to keep me cool, they will use a super-soaker to wet down my Sun Precautions hat and jacket during the extreme heat of the day. For the first time my beautiful wife is here to help crew the entire race. I told her that if she came along this would be my last Badwater. I don’t think she believes me.

This year more than ever the runners are spaced farther apart and there are periods of time when no one is in sight. Running alone, as if on an island, I listen to the sounds of silence that are gently rising from this great sprawling salt basin surrounded by the incredibly chiseled mountains brushed with sparkling burgundy and other softer rainbow colors. I am easily hypnotized and totally engulfed by the immense beauty of Death Valley. This place is one of the most picturesque on earth and it is a gift for man to treasure. It is a litmus test for one's spirituality. It is a privilege to be running here.

While taking a drink at mile-twenty, something unusual happens. I knock out one of my front crowns and break the tooth behind it with my water bottle. Strange, I don't remember this in my race plans.

For brief moments during the day and into the night, I run with Paul Stone. He is crewed by his lovely wife, Abby, a budding cinematographer. She is worried when he is slowed by some horrid stomach problem. Keep the camcorder handy Abby.  I know that Paul's tenaciousness will fight this thing off and you can videotape him and everybody else at the finish. 

Just before the Beatty turnoff (mile-28) I run into Chris Frost who is captivated by the super soaking that my crew was giving me. My crew relented and gave him our spare soaker to keep himself cooled-down. I hope it helped him. I was also glad that mine kept working.

The last five miles into Stovepipe Wells (mile-41), where one can savor the perfectly formed sand dunes stunningly shadowed by the early afternoon sun, has always been the hottest part of the race. This year is no different. As I begin to wilt in the 125-degree heat, I know that a shower at the motel is beckoning. Although it is enticingly inviting, I manage to stay out of the pool. It has always given me the cramps. After a 15-minute respite to snack on peanut butter, olives and power gel, I begin the long trek up the tough grade to Towne's Pass. Here we go.

Except for the overwhelming record setting 130-degree temperatures during my first Badwater race in 1998 and the extreme heat in the sauna during my training, the first two miles out of Stovepipe were the hottest I have ever been in my life. A gentle mountain breeze was picking up the 200-degree radiated pavement heat and blowing it right in our faces. Nor was there any relief on the shoulder of the road from this suffocating and almost unbearable heat. I thought I was going to melt.

Darkness began to set in and we couldn’t find our flashers or flashlights. Somehow they were left behind at Stovepipe. While my crew went back to get them, I waited on the side of the road on a berm of hot sand. It was like sitting in a frying pan. 

I should be able to run most of the next sixteen miles up this relentless pass.

Unfortunately the extreme heat had taken its toll and I was forced to resort to plan B. I strapped on my Sony CD player and I listened to my favorite music. I ran during a song and then powered walked the next. This alternating scheme worked so well that I was able to charge up the mountain pass. My crew said that all that they heard, for the next two days, was Arthur Webb merrily singing along and creating havoc with the music from Paul Simon's and Art Garfunkel's Greatest Hits Album. 

By the radiator stop at the top of Towne's Pass (mile-59), I felt a ten-minute well-deserved catnap was in order. Mistake number one. After a few minutes on the cot, I was hammered everywhere with incredible cramping. Two hours later when I was stabilized, I began the thirteen-mile run down the mountain pass and across the Panamint valley. Near the bottom I ran into Kari Marchant who is always full of energy even when she is suffering. After a few minutes of censored talk I took off again.

It was time for a refill of inspiration as I catch Rick Nawrocki by the Panamint salt flats (mile-65), which were eerily iridescent from the glowing full moon. This man, his life in peril from an invasion of cancer and suffering from the side effects of chemotherapy, had finished the last few Badwater races. Fortunately he has been cancer free for a year, but now is struggling with a groin pull and other problems. If you want to shed some tears and really get emotional just wait for Rick at the finish line. He will be there. This gentle giant will never quit. Rick is my super hero.  

After reaching the Panamint Springs Resort (mile-72), I stopped in the hospitality room for a bathroom break. Then I sat in a chair and waited for my crew to make the scrambled eggs that I always crave. Whoops, another big mistake. Ten minutes later I felt woozy and blacked out for a few seconds on the desert floor. While I was laying low and looking around at the sympathetic eyes of my wife and crew, I flashed on the dreaded DNF (did not finish) column during a brief weak moment.

Even though I was lying in the dirt feeling terrible and would rather have had my feet on the ground, I knew that quitting was never going to happen. The kids that I run for at the Valley of the Moon Children's Home, a crisis center for abused and abandoned children in Santa Rosa, CA, were following this race on local radio and the Badwater race website. How could I ever face them if I folded up my tent and went home. They have already seen enough giving up in their lives. Besides, scrawled on the side of my van was the motto, "The objective is to finish. We didn't come out here to quit. Do it for the kids." Strong medicine. Powerful incentive.

My biggest concern was that besides the Crystal Geyser water, PowerAde and my secret favorites, Cheetos, Starbucks Frappuccinos, and O'Doul's, there was nothing else in my van that would satiate me. I even spat out the eggs I was craving. Remember the saying food, food everywhere but nothing to eat?

Time for Plan C. Get to the finish line the best way you can. I got off the ground and started what I thought was going to be a gigantic struggle up this extremely steep eight-mile mountain pass.  Amazingly our cell phone rang after a few miles. It was my father-in-law and sister-in-law driving in from Los Angeles checking in on our progress.  I told them to stop at a Subway and bring me an assortment of cheese and meat sandwiches garnished with parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. By the time I reached the summit at Father Crowley's Point (mile-80) they were just arriving. Unbelievable. A special delivered catered lunch out in the middle of the desert. I sat on the stoop of the van (there will be no more lying down) and gobbled a sandwich and washed it down with Ensure. Feel better? Yes. Small miracle? Maybe.

A few miles later, where the road snakes along the side of the mountain and we have a spectacular view of a mini-like Grand Canyon, an F-15 on a training mission passes just above our heads. It was amazing to watch this silver bird sailing along the canyon walls. Near the bottom it went vertical for a few seconds then rolled over several times and disappeared into the horizon. Minutes later as he repeated the exercise we began jumping up and down honoring this awesome air display. Stay tuned Saddam.

The next ten miles of gently rolling hills should be easy to run but they are not. Having to face another hot day, the sleep deprived and overworked system begins to fight back. It is ironic that we have to eat and hydrate constantly to maintain, while the myriad of fragile plant life everywhere in this valley struggles for survival all summer long on only a few drops of water. And we think we are tough.

After another brief fueling stop at the Darwin checkpoint (mile-90), I run the next ten miles of slight down hills before stopping and taking group pictures at the 100-mile mark. Usually from this vantage point one can view the Owens Valley ringed by the massive granite walls of the Eastern Sierra and the equally impressive White Mountains. But not this year. The smoke from a gigantic forest fire on the western side of the mountains had blanketed the region. A notable race landmark, the metropolis of Keeler (mile-108), which seems to take forever to run to, was also blotted out. Not all news is bad. Only thirty-five miles to go. 

During the cool of the early evening, I really start to feel good and run most of the next twenty-two miles into Lone Pine (mile-122) I socialize with, Lisa Smith's husband, Jay (Mr. Mom), at the Dow Villa Hotel, while my crew tended to a small emergency.

As Jason and I make the left turn on the Portal Road for the thirteen-mile climb to the finish line, we see the large white LP (Lot of Pain) lettering appropriately emblazoned on a knoll high above the amazingly crafted Alabama Hills. Minutes later, in total darkness, a profound tic-tic-ticking began to close in from below. Heck, we had just started this climb and something was already after us. Fortunately it was just the Major tapping the pavement with a stick in each hand for cadence and balance. With his determined look and quick pace, he appeared to be storming the beach. He would get his buckle. Semper Fidelis Mr. Maples.

Weariness is creeping in as I begin to think and speak in fragments. I spend half an hour trying to recite (race winner) Pam Reed's Macbethian approach to this event, "If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly." But it only gets mixed up with other Shakespearean stuff. Although it never came out right, it will be my theme song for next year.

Suddenly from the pavement up ahead came this huge ghostly glob of transparent goo with a face full of beady eyes. It was heading straight for me but I was able to dodge away. Then little humanoids began to appear along the road and strange animals were crouched amongst the fern-like shrubbery waiting for us to falter.  Jason must have also sensed their presence as we both picked up the pace and managed to pass safely. Hallucinations or not, this is great stuff.

Just after our narrow escape I catch Toni Miller from the six o'clock start.  She was concentrating hard and moving up the mountain with all deliberate speed. Two more hours at the current pace and she would buckle. For encouragement and confidence, I praised her on the great job she was doing. I added that the last bit of struggle and suffering would be soon forgotten while the finish line and her prized buckle would last forever. 

Then I went twenty feet ahead at a slightly faster pace and started cutting all the corners to save precious time. I was hoping that she would follow suit, which she did. With two miles to go I told her that the sweet smell in the air was the finish line. Nothing was going to slow her down now.

When she realized that all her hard work was almost done, emotions began to take over. Toni excused herself for all the tears. Forget it. Cry a river. This is the best part. Everyone was filled with excitement and there were plenty of hugs and cheers being passed around as her friends ran down the hill to greet her. I patted her on the head for the magnificent accomplishment. I knew that the last few feet were going to be the most cherished in her running life.

She wanted me to cross the finish line with her. I begged off. This crowning moment was hers. It was the reward for all the hard work that she had done. I stepped aside and watched Toni and her friends break the tape in forty-seven hours and thirty-nine minutes. It was worth the trip just for this touching moment. I must admit that Toni would have buckled without my intervention. I just hope I helped her make it a little easier.

Minutes later I cross the finish line with my excited crew. The forty-three hour mission is finally over. The next few minutes are filled with enormous pride and satisfaction as the yelling and weeping spill forth. This celebration is the result of a successful yearlong journey that thoroughly tests you mentally, physically and at far greater depths where the will and soul reside. In my little running world completing Badwater is as good as it gets.

After the fanfare and a brief medal presentation, I am poured into the van and we head down the mountain. The entire area is shrouded in smoke and haze, which gives the sun a muted orange-red appearance. There is a string of runners pushing up the hill attempting to fulfill their dreams. I think they are all going to make it.

After we arrive at the hotel, my shoes are pried off and the socks are peeled from my severely blistered and swollen feet.  Unable to sleep from a post-race buzz, I start to stroll down Main Street. Seconds later I trip on a small rock and do a belly flop in front of a group of tourists. On my knees, as I wipe the gravel and dust from the strawberries across my elbows, one man gives me a seven point five for my sidewalk springboard dive. To prove it was no fluke I did it again one block away in front of the post office. I better get to bed before I really hurt myself. 

Later, after hearing some wonderful stories at the post race dinner and saying our heartfelt good byes to the runners at the buffet breakfast, we start our homeward bound trip to Northern California.

During the long drive home, the adrenaline begins to dissipate and my frayed mind and body are overtaken with extreme weariness. Although my thoughts are many miles away and this race seems just like a dream to me now, there is still a small pocket of endorphins racing around somewhere deep inside that are already looking forward to the 2003 Badwater race.

I can't wait to send in my entry form and then wear a hole in the carpet as I nervously pace and salivate like a caged wild animal waiting for the selections. Hope springs eternal.

I can't wait to start the heavy-duty 120-miles per week running regimen and the 170-degree baking sessions in the sauna. Even at 61-years-old, I should do better next time. I believe that I have finally figured this race out. And, as they say, the sixth time is a charm.

I can't wait for the Badwater summer training clinics out in the desert where I can hang around with all my friends and heroes. Especially the ones who every year, like a broken record, swear that they will not be coming back. The camaraderie here is top-notch.

I can't wait for the preparation and the journey across the desert when we drive to the starting line and everybody is full of energy and excitement.

I can't wait to run through the spectacular beauty and all the magnificence of Death Valley and Mount Whitney. This place refreshes my faith and helps me feel young and alive. I love Death Valley. I can't wait to come back.

Thanks to race director Chris Kostman and everyone else at AdventureCorps. This was your best race.

Thanks to Ben and Denise Jones for all your extraordinary compassion and help.  Everybody loves you.

Thanks to my crew for suffering along with me out in the desert. Without your help I could not have made it.

Thanks to Ted and Sue’s Deli Express. I promised I would do anything for those sandwiches. Yes, I am still going to paint your house in September.

Thanks to Tony Maddox at KMGG-FM, Jim Grady at KSRO-AM, Channel 50 Television, all the Santa Rosa postal workers, and Post 21 of the American Legion for your support and the contributions to the children I run for and their special interactive project.

Thanks again to my wonderful and understanding wife. Honestly, next year will be my last.

Thanks to everyone else a million times over.

It was an honor to be part of the toughest footrace in the world the Sun Precautions 2002 Badwater Ultramarathon.

Blessings to all.

Respectfully,

Arthur Webb

Badwater

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