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Badwater 135 Miler 1998 Report: Fred Vance

Badwater '98 Report

I lean forward on my ice axe, weary and fatigued. It's been
56 hours since I left Badwater and I've only had a couple
of catnaps since then. The pitch from Trail Camp to Trail
Crest comes after 143 miles of intense heat and three big
climbs. It is so steep that I can see two people several
hundred feet below me between my legs. They are following
in the snow steps that I'm forming as I break a new path to
the crest. I'm wondering if they are stupid. I'm terrified
and think I'm making a mistake, but I've planned to do this
for years and failed twice before. I can't stop now.

Yesterday I recall hearing a hiss and splatter and looked
down to see the water drip from my Foreign Legion hat hit
the pavement. The ice I put in it is melting faster and
when it hits the pavement, it sounds like water thrown in a
hot frying pan. I play with the water drops for a moment
and then drift across Highway 190 to the sport-ute with my
crew Joe Florio waiting at the side. "Hey Joe, watch this!"
It doesn't work. I mumble something, exchange my water
bottle which is getting too hot to hold for one that
rattles with fresh ice, and drift back across to the
pedestrian side of the highway. As I trot along in 120+
degree heat, I wonder whether the road is hotter on one
side or whether my mind is playing tricks on me.

On Thursday, as we drove to the start at Badwater, the
murder of Ravens wasn't present at Furnace Creek. I wished
I had taken a picture of the pair I saw at Stovepipe Wells
sitting on the branch of a willow in the man-made oasis.
They stand stoically in the midday heat, massive black
birds holding their beaks open to cool themselves by
evaporating moisture from their tongues. Why are they
there? They certainly aren't dressed for the weather in
their black feather cloaks.

Joe was beginning to believe that all my wild tales were
true. He had seen for himself the panting ravens, heard the
German accents and seen this year's crop of German test
vehicles parked near the swimming pool at Stovepipe Wells.
He had even noticed my web toes and double-jointed ankles
as I iced down my feet on the way to Death Valley. I was
trying to get the swelling down that resulted from the
pounding down hills and 60,000+ feet of elevation change at
the Hardrock Hundred just four days before Badwater was to
begin.

We were sitting outside the Stovepipe Wells registration
office sipping cold beer after the pre-race meeting on
Wednesday, when "POW!" Suddenly the hood was up on a BMW
coupe and six German engineers were crowded around. Like a
Normal Rockwell painting, a crowd of swimmers was out of
the pool peeking down at the engineers trying to figure
what had blown.

The Mayor of Badwater, "Badwater Ben" Jones was at the
pre-race meeting, and at the start line with first lady,
Denise. It was my first opportunity to meet Ben, though I
had corresponded with him before. His stature and visage
impressed me. He seemed unearthly, like a spirit or an
apparition, or maybe it was my imagination, but talking
with him I realized that he is a caring, intelligent
person.

The twenty-nine runners and crews had met at 5:30 in the
morning to take pictures and clown around before the race.
I heard "... est eine Mensche!" or something like that. It
was the German runner Bernard Schoeneck. I wondered if it
was the equivalent of "You da Man!". In Death Valley in
July, German is more prevalent than English. Bernard must
feel right at home.

On the salt flats for the traditional group photo with
Telescope Peak in the background, I talked with fellow
running club member, Ephraim Romesburg, running his first
Badwater at age 67.  His devoted daughter, Laura was
crewing for him. I recalled with mixed emotions, my wife
and daughter crewing for me and worrying about their health
while knowing that they would take care of me if I pushed
too hard and slipped into heat exhaustion and
unconsciousness.

I also met Internet Ultra Listers, Vicky and Gary Hoover,
people that I had exchanged email with, but never met face
to face. I saw Eric Clifton and then I was talking with
Gabriel Flores, a fine SoCal runner whose name I had seen a
lot as winner of many ultras. We compared shoes and I
thought, "What a normal guy." What a great sport when you
can mingle and talk with your heros.

Prior Badwater winner Bill Menard of Sarasota, Florida was
in a serious party mood this year. He and his crew were
wearing mid-thigh-length tee shirts that sported the front
and backsides of bikini wearing women. Bill even had a
baseball hat with a fake ponytail sticking out of it. Joe
tied a couple of the balloons on our crew vehicle that Bill
and his crew were passing around to add to the party
atmosphere. During the first couple of miles, Bill, John
Rosmus, and I ran together and jovially endured a constant
stream of whistles and comments to the effect of  "Hey
Sweetie, what are you doing tonight?" as crew vehicles
leap-frogged us. The start of Badwater is more like one of
those European cycling tours with crew vehicles jockeying
for position than it is an endurance run.

As six AM approached, I grew nervous because the runners
weren't lining up at the Badwater crosswalk for the start.
I started feigning a miler's start and then began calling
out to everyone, "It's going to get hot, let's get out of
here, let's get this show on the road!" The coolest hours
are right after dawn.

Somehow, the race started pretty close to 6 AM. Maybe they
thought I would leave without them. Eric Clifton jumped
into the lead and was steadily pulling away from everyone
just like last year.

I had asked Joe to start with a short overlap in case I had
forgotten something. Thereafter, we went to a 0.5 mile
overlap and I occasionally sent him off exploring on side
roads so he could see some of Death Valley while it was
still relatively cool. The hotter it got, the closer I
would want Joe to me.

At about two miles, we began to see-saw, as I tried to
concentrate on my own pace. At one point, I found myself
matching pace with Gabriel Flores. I said, "Don't worry
about Eric, he'll blow up. Run a smart race, take it easy.
I know you can win this." He said he intended to do that
and then it was time for me to ease back to my pace again
and watch with fascination, the motorized effect of
Gabriel's feet and legs steadily pulling away. I lost sight
of  Gabriel, and Bill, before Furnace Creek. Near Furnace
Creek, I was with John again, but I think he stopped for a
rest there.

A couple of miles from Furnace Creek, I sent Joe ahead for
some down time in the air-conditioned store and restaurant.
I didn't stop at Furnace Creek. I was alone, but confident
and comfortable leaving Furnace Creek. The runners seemed
to be spreading more and I lost track of everyone around
me. I don't know if I stopped looking forward enough to see
anyone or whether the land was rolling enough to hide
people ahead of me.

The day compressed with the distance and I found myself
viewing the sand dunes that herald Stove Pipe Wells. I was
ahead of schedule. Past the dunes, I carefully considered
the distance and called for Joe to pack the hydration vest
with ice. When it was ready, I donned it, and with an extra
bottle of ice water, I cut Joe loose to register at Stove
Pipe and try to catch a nap before I arrived. I said I
would be there in an hour or less.

I hadn't seen anyone in a long time. Bill's van came out to
meet me, passed and turned. Then I could see them stop by
Bill ahead of me. I don't know if they were dropping him
off or just checking on him. I caught up with him soon and
slowed to chat. I asked if his crew was getting too hot and
tired. They weren't jogging with him any more. I picked up
the pace saying I wanted to get in before Joe had to come
looking for me.

As I approached Stove Pipe Wells, I could see three orange
flags fluttering in the increasing wind. I thought I was
going to pass three runners, but it turned out to be a road
warning sign, not the orange flags with runners numbers on
them. I placed my flag at the edge of the parking lot and
weighted it down with some rocks. I stopped at a pay phone
and called my wife to tell her how well I was doing. The
phone was almost too hot to hold, I dropped it when I first
picked it up.

Joe was napping when I arrived. I took a quick shower, and
changed out of the pajama bottoms I started with, into some
compression shorts, expecting that the temperature would be
dropping as I climbed out of Death Valley toward Towne
Pass. I had crease blisters on both feet from swelling in
the icy waters of Hardrock. They were hurting, so I tried
lancing them but there was no fluid in them. I pinched one
and the skin tore away, so cut both off with a pair of
scissors and applied Suzi's famous Tincture of Benzoin and
Elastikon taping technique. It worked beautifully with no
more blisters or foot problems.

Bill caught me shortly out of Stove Pipe. I slowed to let
him pass. I can't tell whether I'm running my own pace when
someone is near me. When Joe caught up with me, I was
beginning to feel an edge of nausea about me, a harbinger
of heat exhaustion. It was still hours before dark, and the
temperature seemed to be climbing not dropping as I climbed
toward Emigrant. I opted to return to the motel to settle
the food I had eaten prior to leaving and to get back into
my pajama bottoms.

I don't know how long I stayed at Stove Pipe Wells. I think
it was two hours, an hour longer than I had planned because
my alarm didn't rouse me. When I went back out on the
course, we had trouble finding my flag. There were three or
four crews and runners loosely grouped. We drove past them,
but didn't find the flag so I had Joe take me back behind
them to a place I was sure I had been before. After letting
me out, Joe continued searching for my flag and finally
found it in front of the other runners. He came back and
drove me up to my flag.

This must be exasperating to runners and crews alike to
have someone show up and take a position ahead of them
after having rested. One of the runners caught up with me,
but couldn't make it stick. I was too fresh, the sun was
down, and I was moving at a fast walk uphill. I continued
to pull ahead and passed other runners on the way up to
Towne Pass. Some of them were retching.

At the pass, I lay on the gravel parking lot and slept for
15 minutes to prepare for the fast down hill into Panamint
Valley. When I woke, I rolled off the pass into Panamint
Valley at the steady rate of about 7 miles an hour. I was
holding back for the floor crossing and climb to Father
Crowley's Point which I could see from Towne Passe in the
moon light. I slowed significantly on reaching the floor,
averaging only 3 mph for the twenty mile section from Towne
Pass.

Panamint Springs was a busy place. Joe was able to get
three bags of ice before they began limiting to one per
runner. As I climbed out of Panamint, I asked Joe to go
back and get a sandwich. I hadn't had any real food for
over 24 hours. He came back with the best ham sandwich that
I've ever had. I saved half because I knew the danger of
over-eating in high heat.

The climb didn't stop at Father Crowley's Point, it
continued to the Darwin Hills, and rolled along till the
Darwin turn-off. I tried to press the run down from Darwin
to Keeler like I did in '97, but I couldn't seem to get my
momentum going. By Keeler, I figured I was an hour slower
than the previous year.

I called for the hydration vest and sent Joe ahead to Lone
Pine to check-in at the Dow Villa, and find food. While he
was gone, the sun was moving lower and getting into my
face. I put a kerchief over my face and must have looked
like a bandito. A photographer leap-frogged me three times,
setting up his long focal-length lenses and whir-snapping
away as I walked the white line, too hot and uncertain
about Joe's return to try running.

Joe came back in an hour with another great sandwich and
some ice cream. After eating, I went back to the white line
and watched the sun edge toward the snow covered Sierra
peaks in a space blue sky void of moisture. When I judged
the sun to be 5 minutes from being eclipsed by a peak, I
stripped down to running shorts, socks and shoes. By then I
was in  shadow and started clicking off miles in rapid
succession.

Julie Tieger's RV came into sight. I was moving fast enough
for half mile overlaps. In half an hour I was passing her
and as the sun set, I was couple of miles ahead. In a
matter of a couple of hours, I had gone from being an hour
behind last year's schedule to half an hour ahead.

There's a tremendous difference between moving at 2 mph and
8 mph. The mountain's shadow had cooled me enough to allow
me to run fast before it got dark and my pace slowed. I
can't seem to run fast with a flash light.

 At the Dow Villa, I cleaned up, ate, and re-taped my feet
for the final push. I left Joe behind to catch up when he
was ready. It was good to be on the Whitney Portal Road. It
was night and pleasant with the temperature dropping as I
climbed. I passed someone on the way up to the portals, but
was surprised that I couldn't see several crew vehicles
spread out up the mountain.

In the last few miles, I had Joe play loud music for me to
help me stay awake. I recall the Beach Boys' Kokomo. The
poor campers probably didn't know what to think. The
official finish came sooner that I expected, a half hour
faster than last year. I crawled into the back of my crew
vehicle and Joe slumped down in the passenger seat and we
slept for twenty minutes before being waken by hikers with
head lamps looking for their friends to start up Mt.
Whitney.

Joe and I were the first Badwater team to head up the
mountain at about 6 AM. We had heard that Marshall Ulrich
would be starting up the mountain at that time too.
Marshall and his two man crew passed us above Lone Pine
Lake and took the lead for the summit quest. Rangers were
waiting to check our day permits.

Around 2 PM, Joe and I were ascending the switch backs from
Trail Camp to Trail Crest. They were mostly covered with
snow. At the cable hand rails, I ran into an over-hang that
was dripping water and forming a chasm in the deep snow
pack which looked dangerous to cross. I decided it was time
to traverse the snow field to a point where I could make a
vertical ascent to Trail Crest.

As I edged away from the cable rails, Joe followed and
asked, "Is this dangerous?" I suddenly realized how scared
I was, and replied, "Joe, this is dangerous as Hell, and
I'm terrified. I think you should go back down the switch
backs the way we came and wait for me there."

Joe got mad, but contained it pretty well. I reminded him
that we had agreed to evaluate the conditions when we got
there and make a decision whether to proceed. I also told
him that I had promised his wife, Mary, that we would not
do anything dangerous. I almost panicked at the thought of
trying to explain to Mary and Joe's three young children
why their dad didn't come back alive.

I couldn't make myself think about what my own wife and
children would do without me. I had to focus on making one
step at a time and try to quit looking between my legs
every time I leaned on my ice axe to rest. There was
nothing down there but and upside down world with ant like
people below me. I had to forget that I was on a 1000 foot
vertical sliding board, covered with snow, with large
boulders at the bottom.

I tried hard not to think about how I was going to get
down. I could only think about reaching the summit. As I
reached the crest, I met hikers waiting to glissade down
and asked how one did it. They looked at me like I was
joking. Here's a guy with an ice axe ascending a 1000 foot
snow field and asking how to get back down!

Two miles to go to the summit and I meet Marshall and his
group headed back down. I ask how they are going to get
down. They plan to use the switch backs. Apparently they
had managed to get past the spot where I would not go. For
the next four miles, I would wonder which way I would go
down. I would ask each new group that I met if anyone was
still at the summit. Finally the last group passed and
said, "No, just you and the marmots."

I reached the summit at 4:48 PM and was the last to sign in
for the day at the stone shelter's registration log book. I
noted that Bill Menard had made the summit although I later
learned that he had not completed the course. There must
have been 30+ successful summits that day as Marshall's
name was back at least a whole page.

I took a couple of quick pictures of the stone shelter
house with my gear piled on the registration book. The
marmots were unwilling to come out and snap a shot of me in
all my splendid glory.

It wasn't until I reached trail crest that I knew that I
had to glissade down. I was too weary and fatigued to take
the slower path down the switch backs. I yelled Joe's name
three times, hoping he had waited for me, but ready to
accept the possibility that he had gone down the mountain.
I imagined that all the backpackers at Trail Camp heard my
call and would be watching as I careened out of control.

I sat down and began my descent before I could think about
it too much. I was trapped into a chute that other hikers
had made on descending and it was too fast, so I struggled
to bring myself to a stop and worked my way out of it. I
blazed my own path. It was bumpier, but slower. As I sped
down the mountain side, I threw a couple of glances at the
switch backs wondering if Joe was there. As I approached
the boulder field at the bottom, I spotted Joe's red
tights, and was immensely relieved. Everything was going to
be alright.

I had run out of water at trail crest, so the first order
of business was for Joe and I to filter some more.
Unfortunately, the filter stopped working, so we went the
last four hours down the mountain without water. Night
caught us at Lone Pine Lake. We had one AA flash light,
with no extra batteries or bulb. I expected a 14 hour round
trip to the summit, but the snow field had slowed me by two
and a half hours. We finally reached the trail head without
incident, at 10 PM. We were even fortunate enough to get
back to Lone Pine before the Pizza Factory closed at 11 PM.

In retrospect, I don't know whether the glissade from Trail
Crest was as dangerous as it seemed or whether that was a
side effect of 60 hours of fatigue. I don't intend to find
out any time soon. I'm hanging up my drop bags and
hydration vest. I plan to take up fly fishing with the kids
next year. Barkley, Hardrock, and Badwater were my ultra
running swan song.

I plan to write a comparison and contrast of the three runs
and answer the question which (IMHO) is the hardest. Stay
tuned.

Regards,

Fred Vance
fred_vance@moldev.com

Barkley, April 4, 1998: 60 miles, 39:23:xx
Hardrock, July 10, 1998: 101 miles, 51:38:48
Badwater, July 16, 1998: 146 miles, 58:48:00 (2nd place)