Mr.

Bo Peep Runs Badwater

By Arthur Webb
Oh no, there are sheep
walking all over the highway and the cars are speeding  by at
seventy-miles
an hour and nobody is stopping to help save them. I just can't stand by
and let them all get run over, so in the blink of an eye I went from
ultrarunner
to ultrasheepherder. It seemed to take forever to chase them off the
street
and into the safety of a makeshift pen out in the middle of nowhere. How
come no one else is helping me? I wonder if I am the only one who sees
this happening. I have had some scary hallucinations out in the desert
but this is the worst one yet, because it is so realistic.
Yet this can't be a
hallucination, because it is still two days before the Badwater Race and
I am in my hometown of Santa Rosa, CA. This roundup has really happened.
Unfortunately, we are leaving for the desert in several hours and I will
have to leave these guys all alone for a few days hopefully with enough
food, water and lots of luck. Will they be all right or will they break
loose and run back on the road?  Will their owners find them? Will
they have enough to eat and drink or will the dogs get them? I will spend
lots of time over the next five days worrying about these guys as we head
for Badwater.
The van is filled with
electricity and excitement and there is the usual apprehension as my crew
and I leave Lone Pine and begin our journey across the mountains and into
the magnificent beauty of Death Valley.
As soon as we arrive
at Stovepipe Wells I immediately stumble into two of my friends and
heroes,
Lisa Smith and Marshall Ulrich. He has just completed his first, double
crossing. At the pre-race meeting I meet Ben and Denise Jones, Paul Stone
and his wife Abby, Steven Silver, the Major, Errol Jones, Rick Nawrocki,
Shannon Farar-Griefer and others. I attempt to get the autograph of every
runner for my annual journal. It is all so incredible. It is good to be
back.
As we mill about the
starting line just before ten in the morning, I find it hard to believe
that this is already my fourth consecutive Badwater Race. Very little
has changed. The juices are flowing and the butterflies are still the
same each year. Pictures are taken at the Badwater sign and at the
starting
line, which is draped with a Sun Precautions Banner.  Perched high
above our heads, at 282 feet on the side of one of the huge granite walls
of the sprawling Amargosa Mountain Range, is the Sea Level sign. The
entire
scene as usual is almost surreal.
As we nervously await
the start and stare into the maw of this most difficult 135-mile
enterprise,
we are all honored and privileged to have the National Anthem sung to
us by Barry Oschner, brother of Badwater runner Nathan.
The word is given and
off we go. After months of running high mileage, weeks of sauna training
and one year of waiting, this unbelievable trek is finally happening.
It feels good to be running and fortunately it's only 110 degrees. Early
 into the race there is no one to socialize with because everyone is
already
in single file and there are huge gaps between runners. 
I eventually settle
into a comfortable pace, while my crew (Lina, John, Pilar and James) begin
feeding, hydrating and keeping me sprayed down with cool water to help
protect me from the blistering heat. For the next two days they will keep
me going by doling out Crystal Geyser Water, Power Gel, Ensure, Cheetos,
Starbucks Frappuccinos, soups, watermelon, peanut butter, puddings, fruit
cups, bagels, chicken sandwiches, tuna fish, and two of my new secret
weapons, O'Douls non-alcoholic beer and GLACEAU fruit water. That should
do the trick.
As I run along monitoring
the needs of my body, I realize that I am completely surrounded and
engulfed
by the overwhelming and immense beauty of Death Valley. It is easy to
understand why this Great Basin, with its colorfully named landmarks,
has been established as one of our treasured national parks. Although
the desert and surrounding mountains are arid, desolate and sparse, the
views, which are breathtaking, continue to draw me to the Badwater Race
each year.
Everything goes smoothly
and it is rather peaceful and uneventful for the forty-two miles into
Stovepipe Wells. I do remember making a special effort to tell one of
the crew's that I thought they were too far ahead of their runner. These
people belonged to the eventual winner, Mike Trevino. Shows you what I
know. Feel stupid? Yeah.
My plan was to run
this race in under thirty-hours. I arrive at Stovepipe Wells on schedule.
It has taken me seven-hours and I am feeling tremendously strong and
confident.
I reward my effort with a cool and refreshing dip in the pool because,
at five in the afternoon, it is still a scorching 126 degrees.
Although my doctor
suggested that I take up swimming for my age-related arthritis, I told
him I wasn't sure but I didn't think it was possible to swim across Death
Valley. Maybe he meant doing a couple of laps when I spend a few minutes
in the pool. I am sure that's what he meant, so in I go. But after ten
minutes in the water, everything changes drastically.  I suddenly
become hampered with a bad case of cramps in my calves and hamstrings,
which keeps me sidelined for an hour.
Lying on the ground
attempting to recover, I look around at all the large black ravens sitting
in the trees all fluffed up with their beaks wide open and their tongues
hanging out trying to find relief from the scorching sun. They are
shinning
examples of the animal kingdoms struggle to survive even in the most
extreme
conditions. We are only out here for a few days but they are here all
summer. Admire their will? You bet.
I consume lots of salts
and electrolytes that my friend Bobb Ankeney has given me. My crew
massages
my legs and the cramps begin to diminish. Fortunately I had recovered
enough to start the long trek up Towne's Pass just as Major Maples, who
was in the pool, began his lengthy Technicolor Barfathon. One of my strong
points has never been a good puke spectator.
For unknown reasons
 I have always felt bad along this 18-mile climb to the top at Towne's
Pass. I always feel great every year when I arrive at Stovepipe Wells
and terrible when I leave only minutes later. It's puzzling and
mysterious,
so next year I think I will try something different and just sneak on
past the resort. My theory is to keep doing this race until I get the
job done properly.
Halfway up the momentous
climb I run into Steven Silver and Shannon Farar-Griefer. Shannon (who
I would have the pleasure to run with through the Santa Monica Mountains
in Southern California a month after the race) has just had a bad case
of blisters attended to by the "Blister Queen" and crew person,
Denise Jones. We run together for a few miles and have a good time joking
and kidding around.
It is nighttime in
the desert and we are all treated to a spectacular display of hundreds
of shooting stars amongst the billions of other glimmering stars peering
down from the heavens. Every year I get goose bumps from this awe-
inspiring
spectacle.
Suddenly from somewhere
out of the darkness, my body is clobbered by extreme weariness, which
practically stops me dead in my tracks and will plague me for the next
forty-miles.
After my struggle to
the top of Towne's Pass (59-miles), I spend an hour seeking a few
unfulfilled
minutes of desperately needed sleep. For some reason I have always had
trouble sleeping on this course. I try the old trick of counting sheep
but it doesn't work. All I can see are my buddies that I had left penned
up back home jumping over the fence and dodging all the cars on the
highway.
It will be two more days before I can get home to see what has happened
to them.
Since there is to be
no sleep, I drink and eat as much as possible. I am mentally and
physically
exhausted. It takes a major effort to get up and get going again. I gather
some steam by running down the hills and power walking across the salt
flats to the Panamint Springs Resort (72-miles), where I seek another
hour of unrewarded sleep. I am in terrible shape and I know that the
upcoming
mountain climb will be torturous.
I have a craving for
scrambled eggs but the restaurant is not quite open. Kari Marchant, who
is crewing for Shannon, gets the cook to make me some eggs and I am
treated
to breakfast on the side of the road about three miles up the climb out
of Panamint.
A few miles further,
as we edge up the mountain pass, we witness a spectacular fly by from
an F-15 cruising along the canyon walls. This guy really gets close and
he tips his wings just before banking off and in seconds disappears into
the horizon. Yet another special treat out here in the desert. It must
have cost the race director a bundle to put this display on.
It is early in the
morning when I take a much-needed rest after the eight-mile and extremely
steep and difficult climb to the top at Father Crowley's (80-miles). While
 sitting in a chair I look across the canyon and see this man falling out
of a gigantic multicolor hot air balloon. He lands on top of a huge green
trampoline and starts bouncing around. As soon as I point this circus
act out to my crew it all disappears into thin air. Although everyone
thinks it was a hallucination, I know it was for real and that’s all that
counts.
It is day two and again
we are all faced with the extreme challenge of surviving this monstrous
undertaking while being consumed by the blistering, drenching and
relentless
heat. With these happy thoughts embedded in my frazzled brain, I start
running.
Three miles later my
wheels begin to come off as I continue to suffer more bad spells. The
weariness continues to be overwhelming and I can no longer move forward.
Sleep deprived, my body is screaming for some shut-eye. The sandman still
does not cooperate as I lay in the hot van and only feel worse. I told
my crew that things were getting desperate and I was beginning to have
some doubts. I have been running ultra's long enough to know that the
body has an amazing way of recovering even during extremely bad spells,
but since this one has lasted so long I feel that only a minor miracle
would get this old beaten and battered body to the finish line.
Lina Young tells me
that she didn't come all the way out here to see me quit. She reminds
me of what I had put on the race bulletin board only a few days ago,
"If
Marshall can do this thing four times then there is no reason that the
rest of us shouldn't be able to do it once." That did it. It was
like getting hit square on the forehead with a sledgehammer of guilt and
shame. I have written enough in the past about not giving up and now it
was time for me to dig down deep. I knew I owed it to her and all the
kids that I run for in Santa Rosa. It was now time to practice what one
preaches.
I loaded up on as many
carbohydrates and liquids as I could swallow.  Looking for more
relief,
I take off my running shoes and put on a pair of shower clogs. Then I
crawled out of the van and started moving forward. With words of
encouragement
from my crew I was able to somehow struggle the seven-miles across the
heat of the valley, passing the Death Valley National Park entrance sign
and the Saline Valley turnoff, before arriving at the 90-mile checkpoint
at the Darwin turnoff.
Another hour slipped
away at this rest stop while I guzzled juices, ate and cut the toes out
of a good pair of running shoes. Amazingly, after being physically
tortured
for twelve-hours I finally start to feel better. Actually I started to
feel a little more positive about a mile ago after the "Mayor of
Badwater," Ben Jones, stopped by for a brief chat. I think he doused
me with some of the magic that I have witnessed him use over the years
to help revive other physically and emotionally broken down runners.
Anyway,
I knew that the next eighteen- miles to Keeler (108-miles) were mostly
downhill and with this new lease on life I was able to run to the old
mining town in less than three hours.
Along the way we stop
for pictures at the gravesite with the large white cross, which is about
 one hundred feet off the highway. Although the cross makes a terrific
landmark at mile ninety-six, I wonder the same thing every year, why are
these people buried out here in this desolate place?  I will ask
Ben Jones. I think he knows the story.
I stop briefly around
the 100-mile mark where one can finally see the panoramic view of the
great sprawling Owen's Valley with the majestic Eastern Sierra and the
towering Mt. Whitney in the background. Absolutely stunning.
Arriving at Keeler
I wonder what would be more appropriate than for a postal worker to have
dinner on the bench in front of the post office, which is located two
streets deep into this tiny burg - and that's what I did. Wow! I could
live, work and train here everyday. Then again, maybe not. My wife
wouldn't
really like it out here, since there doesn't seem to be a Macy’s anywhere
in sight.
Now I am feeling really
strong and healthy and run the fourteen miles to the Dow Villa Hotel in
Lone Pine (122-miles) in two hours. This is the way I had planned on
running
the entire race - well, maybe next year. I was able to generate lots of
speed as I zipped by the mosquito-infested bridge over the Owen's River.
Man, were these guys hungry for blood.
Before the final assault
to the Portals, I gobble down a couple of malts and French fries.
Ironically,
as I make the left turn onto the Whitney Portal Road, I meet Steven Silver
who is also ready to go. We talk about finishing together like we did
two-years ago, but for various reasons there is separation as we both
struggle and trudge up the 13-miles towards the finish line.
About halfway up, in
the refreshing cool of the evening, as the brilliant quarter moon slips
behind the mountain peaks, it occurs to me that being familiar with this
course should make the final stage of this race seem shorter. But a
phenomenon
of this event, that I believe everyone who has already been here knows,
is that this climb appears to get longer each year and the switchbacks
go on forever. Is this just an oddity or maybe the mountain continues
to grow taller? That's it. We are all running too far. I think it is time
to dig around in the old toolbox and get the measuring tape back out.
Fortunately I was able
to get through the switchbacks safely by sneaking past all the prehistoric
animals that were after me last year. They must have been snoozing.
Passing
the last mile marker, I send word down to Steven that we will wait for
him to catch up so we can cross the finish line together. I was just going
to stop and wait but I was becoming nauseated and lightheaded and felt
I would pass out. So I slowed to a crawl and, a few hundreds yards from
the finish line, Steven and his crew finally catch up.
While holding hands,
and surrounded by both crews, we run the last few feet screaming, yelling
and crying. It is all over and we have both made it again. The deed was
done in forty-hours and nineteen-minutes. Not exactly what I had intended
but I will gladly take it.
Although I am extremely
exhausted there is still a tremendous sense of accomplishment,
satisfaction
and enormous pride spilling out during the next few minutes of emotional
 release. It is one of the few moments in life that gives you an incredible
high. It has always been worth the struggle to get here. It is my number
one reason for running this Badwater Race every year.
Although the race is
over, I have one special task to accomplish. Later in the morning I will
climb to the top of Mt. Whitney. It will be my first time.
Back at the hotel in
Lone Pine I spot Marshall who is about to begin his climb to the Portals.
He wants me to summit with him and his crew. He says it will be a
"hoot."

While waiting for Marshall

to get prepared to summit, I spot Rick Nawrocki who is about to complete
his race. What a great sight it is to watch this gentle giant, with all
his cancer related problems over the last few years, break the finish
tape. What a proud moment for this honorable human being who had everyone
crying.
Marshall, his crew
Bob, Ernie, Jay, David and I, begin the assault of Mt. Whitney at three-
thirty
in the afternoon.  It's incredible but this man who has already run
some 450-miles still has an enormous amount of energy and he sets a quick
pace as we charge up the mountain.
As it starts to get
dark in the middle of the switchbacks a park ranger who checks our passes
and thinks about stopping us, relents, but has some trepidation about
letting us continue up the mountain. "Don’t do anything stupid,"
she says. I have to chuckle to myself about all the irony. Here is a group
of people who have probably challenged and conquered most of the extreme
events in the world, including having just run across Death Valley in
the blistering summer heat. No, we wouldn't do anything stupid.
In the darkness along
the western side of the pinnacles our flashlights would occasionally brush
across the sheer face of the granite walls, which seemed to fall for
thousands
of feet into a dark abyss. I realize that one misstep or stumble anywhere
along this narrow trail, which winds along the mountain for miles and
is filled with rocks and boulders and you would be history. Maybe it was
better to be doing this climb at night since I am afraid of heights, or
as George Carlin says, "afraid to fall from heights."
David gets altitude
sickness and Jay volunteers to help him descend. Though we will only have
two ten-minute breaks up this eleven-mile climb, Marshall, Ernie, Bob
and myself continue to briskly forge ahead. Marshall with his wonderful
personality and his ever-present warm smile offers me words of
encouragement
There is no whining, complaining or negative vibes from anyone. This is
serious stuff and our main objective is to summit the mountain with all
deliberate speed.
I promised Lisa Smith
that I would help look after Marshall on our way to the top. Problem is
that he winds up babysitting me. It took everything I had just to keep
up with him. This man has earned enormous respect from me. I have been
around lots of rugged people but I have never known any man as tough as
Marshall. He is in a class by himself. Close to the top around 14,000
feet, I have trouble breathing but manage to gulp enough air to continue
on. So this is what a "hoot" is all about.
At eleven-ten we arrive
 at the cabin on the top. What an honor it is to be standing with these
three tough as nails people on the peak of Mt. Whitney. Although it is
a pitch-black evening and you can't see anything it doesn't matter. The
emotions are still indescribable. It's almost as exciting as crossing
the finish line. I have finally completed the goal I have had for years
- the 146-mile trek from Badwater to the top of Mt. Whitney.
After we take a few
pictures and sign the guest book by the cabin, we start to descend. The
climb down is swift but is slowed as we meet an extremely sick David.
Marshall, who is now on the last leg of his quadruple crossing, darts
ahead with Jay as we escort David down at a more leisurely pace. We have
problems with our flashlights working properly and eventually will have
to nestle alongside the trail for an hour until daybreak.
Near the Portals we
run into Shannon Farar-Griefer, Rick Nawrocki and Scott Weber who are
just beginning their climb to the summit. I have only had one hour of
sleep in the last four days and did not even recognize that it was, Denise
Jones, who was with them, who was giving me a big hug.
At the Portals I hitch
a ride to Lone Pine where I find my worried crew who figured we had all
run right off the side of Mt. Whitney during the night. After saying our
good-byes at the morning breakfast, we pack the van and head home. Just
before I go comatose and get some much-needed sleep, I spend a few minutes
reflecting on this Badwater Race.
It is hard to believe
that the six days out in the desert have gone by so quickly and the entire
experience is already over. Although I am totally exhausted, I already
miss so many things.
I miss the months of
training and the baking sessions in the sauna at the 24-hour fitness
center.
I miss the journey from my home to the desert when all of us are fresh
and full of vigor. I miss the reunion with all my friends and especially
all the camaraderie.
I miss all the energy,
apprehension and trepidation at the starting line. I miss the two days
of challenging this most difficult event as we raced across the heat of
the valleys and the relentless climbs over the three major mountain
ranges.

I miss the buzz during

all the good miles from all the endorphins rushing through my system.
I even miss all the miles of torture and suffering (but not as much).
I miss seeing Ben Jones and Chris Kostman who were always somewhere out
on the course making sure everyone was okay.  
I miss the all the
excitement and the emotional release as we crossed the finish line. I
miss climbing Mt. Whitney, especially since it was my first time. I miss
the unbelievable picture postcard beauty of Death Valley and Mt. Whitney.

But most of all I miss

everything -the entire package. In my little ultrarunning world it does
not get any better than this. I cannot wait to recover and start training
again for this all-consuming and unbelievable adventure. I will be back.
Thanks to Chris and
Keith Kostman and all the people at AdventureCorps who made this race
possible.
Thanks to Ben and Denise
 Jones just for being Ben and Denise Jones.
Kudos to race winners,
Anne Langstaff and Mike Trevino, and all the other runners who were brave
enough to toe the starting line for this very difficult race.
Thanks to my crew,
Pilar, John, James and especially mother hen, Lina, who knew instinctively
the right things to say and do during some of my desperate times, which
enabled me to keep going and reach my goal?
Thanks to Lisa Smith
(the toughest lady I know) and crew who helped Marshall Ulrich who
inspired
everyone by completing his quad for starving children.
Thanks to new heroes
Chris Moon (running for several charities) and Shannon Farar-Griefer
(running
for children with cancer) and all their crew's help, while each completed
a double-crossing.
Thanks to all the other
crew's who helped everyone fulfill their dreams.
Thanks to SCORE INTERNATIONAL
and the American Postal Workers Union for their sponsorship.
Thanks to, Christine,
my beautiful and understanding wife of 33 years for being so special.
And no we are not moving to Keeler.
For the fourth year
in a row my crew and I had an incredible week being around all the
wonderful
people and all the beauty that is in Death Valley. It was again an honor
to be part of the toughest footrace in the world, the Sun Precautions
Badwater 2001 Ultramarathon.
Thanks again to everyone
a million times over.
Blessings to all.
# 94 Arthur Webb
Badwater 98, 99, 00,
01
PS: By the way, all
the sheep were okay when I returned home. Their owners had found them
and had herded them back to the safety of their own pens. Amen.