The Badwater Salton Sea Story
All great ideas have a history: for Chief Adventure Officer and Race Director Chris Kostman, the concept of challenging runners for 81 miles over a blend of road and trail in California, on a course with elevation reminiscent of Badwater 135, made sense. For this adventure, the starting point would be the abandoned Salton Sea in Salton City, CA, at an elevation of 234 feet below sea level, with a shore chock full of crunchy fish bones. Along the way, runners would traverse scenic sun- drenched roads, challenging climbs through Anza-Borrego State Park on a single-track trail known as the California Riding and Hiking Trail, and a final push up Palomar Mountain, where runners would finish at 5,500 feet, with a total cumulative elevation gain of over 9,000 feet. But then there was the logistics involved in crew support for runners, as with the scorching heat and open road, and stores positioned at only three points on the course, runners would need help to make it to the finish line. Considering that the roads were often mountainous and winding, it didn’t seem likely to Chris that he would get permission to host a band of 100 support vehicles. Which led to the concept of runners teaming up and sharing the journey as well as a crew – not as a relay, but as teams of duos or trios who could never be more than 25 feet apart from one another at any time.
From Chris’s perspective, a team approach required runners not only to create a strategy amongst themselves on how to tackle the run, but also involved sharing a crew, which meant that the whole race would become an exercise in teamwork and sharing resources, which appealed to him. As most ultra-runners are aware, it’s hard enough to get oneself through a challenging ultra, so to add one or two others to your journey and have to work through the collective highs and lows is no small feat. Beyond that, the prospect of having 30-something cars out on the course versus 100 made Chris confident that the local authorities would approve the race. Badwater Salton Sea made its debut in 2013.
Team Lost and Found
On Friday prior to the race, which was to take place on Sunday to Monday, April 29 – 30th, our team and support crew met up in San Diego. Four of the crew flew in from Florida, while I flew in from D.C., where I had moved nine months back. We were all excited to be out in California together and to have a few days to do nothing but hang out, catch up, eat tacos, and ultimately, run Badwater Salton Sea. We had trained the best we could with work and life rampant and not always accommodating, and were at the point that whatever would be, would be. In juxtaposition to our daily responsibilities, this was to be a fun weekend, full of good times, laughter, and team work. For me, no matter how hectic or hurried life is prior to a race, the moment I absorb the enormity of the feat ahead, I begin to focus and allow myself to be immersed in the comfort of being with friends who are ready to partake in the journey ahead.
Lost and Found, our team name, signified the year to date for each of us – the daily demands of work, family, and life, blended with the drive and commitment to give 110% to all. I’ve long lived by the notion that it’s only when I acknowledge that I am lost that I can begin to find myself. We are all wanderers, finding our way through our own journeys, full of twists and turns, and sometimes, we get lucky enough to join forces with other wanderers and share the journey. For me, that was what lost and found was about: a collective journey in which we may get to catch glimpses not only of where we each were on our paths, but the ways in which our paths collided, and eventually, find our way forward.
Race Day
We were destined for success: race day weather was hot, but not unbearable enough to induce desert desperation. Seven miles in, we were surrounded by several teams, including the Tres Amigos Cruce USA, which consisted of the amazing Pete Kostelnick, Sandra Villines, and Marshall Ulrich, all of whom are Badwater135 Champions and Trans Continental World Record Holders; that alone was enough to induce a steady stream of inspiration. Then there was our crew, Jerry and Carla, who greeted us every few miles with boundless energy and good cheer.
Beyond all the logistical odds stacked in our favor, there is a dose of magic to Badwater races – the moment you are out at the start line and see the Badwater family, it is like coming home. The excitement and camaraderie are palpable. These are people who know the hard work of training, who want you to succeed as much as they wish to succeed. That collective energy is what makes many of us return to Badwater races repeatedly over the years.
3 Races in 1
The neat thing about Badwater Salton Sea is that it is really three distinct races in one: there’s the first 35 miles which are a blend of beach, a desolate neighborhood sprinkled with some dainty and surprisingly picturesque houses, and then road leading up to Borrego Springs Resort. The next 13 miles are a combination of five miles of road followed by eight miles of steep, rocky trail. The last 32 miles are a blend of uphill, downhill, and then steep uphill, all on road. It’s worth noting that the climates changes, too, from hot, to cool, to freezing cold.
Beach – Borrego Springs (miles 0 – 35)
By mile ten, team Lost and Found began to spiral downward. Teammate Megan, having endured a rough last few months, was struggling. She pushed on as best she could, moving as fast as possible as we climbed en route to Borrego Springs, where our first race cut off was at 35 miles. The conditions were good, but at some point, in the early afternoon, fierce winds began to battle us as we charged forward; it was all about keeping our heads down as we advanced.
To make the cutoffs in a race, the math matters: you must know what pace you need to sustain to arrive within the time limit at any check point. Teammate Melanie had spent considerable time reviewing past race statistics and had calculated pace estimates that we needed to hit for best and worst-case scenarios. For this race, I had opted not to wear a Garmin and was intent on letting my teammates set the pace. I chose to stay a bit ahead (within our 25 feet limit) to keep the team moving; as someone who often runs with runners who are faster than me, I am well versed in the concept of keeping moving so that I don’t lose the person in front of me. Somehow, as they always do, the miles happened, although as the afternoon wore on, it became evident that we were in jeopardy of missing the 35-mile nine-hour cutoff. We persevered, and with some blood, sweat, and tears, we literally just made it to the 35-mile check-in with not a moment to spare.
Borrego Springs – Trail (miles 35 – 48)
One leg over, and the second leg of the race began: we had two hours to make it to the trailhead, don our gear for the climb, and enter the trail by 5:30 pm, which was the cutoff. For those who have run races with me, they know that the thing I dread most is not being ahead of cutoffs. Races are stressful enough; to just make it to cutoffs adds way too much stress and tends to take whatever joy there is out of a race. Once again, we just made the cutoff to enter the trail, starting at 5:26 pm.
This was to be the most difficult section of the race as the trail involved a lot of steep climbs, and never having covered this trail in the dark, I was concerned about the footing. The wind – that was another story! It had died down for a bit, so we were all hopeful that it wouldn’t be an impediment. I knew the rocky climbs and cliff-like ledges ahead of us, so really wanted to move quickly in the remaining daylight. Armed with packs full of everything from extra water, food, headlights, and warm coats, we were all about forward motion. After a day of struggle, the trail was Megan’s downfall. Our first mile fell into the 45-minute range. It was going to be a long and arduous climb. I began to grow nervous when the temperatures dropped; I was still in a running skirt and not sure I was going to be warm enough for such slow moving. It took us roughly three hours to complete four miles, and at one point, my eyes exhausted from the focus of leading the way, Melanie switched places with me, and I moved into the spot behind Megan to bring up the rear. As the darkness enveloped us, the cooler temperatures hit like a blast of winter air. That’s when the wind started back up, with gusts that made our footing unreliable. The trail sweep was close behind us, and at one point, she ordered us to move faster and get off the cliffs as soon as possible. It was slow going, and the winds grew brutal, so that at times, I had to crouch and hold on to rocks nearby for fear of being pulled away by the wind. It was the first time in my ultra-running career that I felt panicked; I knew that we needed to get onto the downhill section for us to be safe, but Megan was clear she could not move faster. When my teeth began to chatter, and my body began to slightly convulse in the cold, a new fear emerged: I was too cold and not moving fast enough to build heat.
The thoughts moving through my mind went something like this: this is the stupidest thing you have ever done, never again, nothing is worth this risk, you have too many things in your life that matter to you to put yourself in this situation, and so on. The reality was that there was no other way to get through the trail and off the mountain but moving one foot in front of the other. A bit over five hours later, we immersed from the trail and back on to the road, where our amazing and tireless crew was waiting for us. We were in last place by over an hour, although we had started the trail in the vicinity of at least three other teams.
Ranchita to Palomar Mountain (miles 48 – 80)
It was at this point that Megan opted to drop from the team and tend to her aches and pains, which was a smart decision considering her beaten-up shape. Although teams can only be ranked if they finish as a group, teammates can continue the race and be counted as official finishers if they cross the finish line. That left Melanie and I to make the decision to keep going or to quit. It was in the 40-degree range and the winds were fierce and whipping. It was the type of weather that you could not have paid me to run a 5K in, let alone tackle 32 miles. But then there was the reality that we had close to eleven hours to accomplish our goal and that there was nothing really wrong with either one of us. We also acknowledged that 24 hours later, we would regret choosing comfort over adventure and growth. We had come to California to run and finish the race, and that was what we decided to do.
We changed into warmer clothes, tried to find a few things to eat—we were at the point that nothing was appealing—and with some trepidation, we left the warmth of our support vehicle, heated seats and all, and hit the road running. We moved as fast as we could those first few miles to warm our bodies back up; my teeth chattered the whole first two miles that we ran, until my body adapted and accepted the brisk air. We stopped and took a photo with Ranchita along the way – a must-do for Salton Sea racers.
The next ten-plus hours were full of some good cheer, some misery, some sleep walking with quick moves out of the road when big trucks passed. The final eleven miles consisted of endless climbing uphill in wet, extremely foggy, cold conditions. At one point, we both wore mylar race capes so that we looked like superheroes on the go, and I even wrapped myself in a warm blanket-like scarf that I asked our crew to pull from my luggage. We struggled, endured mind games telling us to stop, to quit, to go be warm in the support van, and persevered, pushing one another forward, all the while cognizant of our pace and our goal: to finish. The long and winding road is never an easy one, but our tireless and upbeat support crew was there to help us as we persisted, offering us Coca Cola, water, crackers, and M&M’s along the way.
With an hour to spare, temperatures rising so that we were no longer freezing, Melanie and I crossed the finish line and completed Salton Sea. We were the last finishers of the race.
Why Ultras
During most ultras, there comes a few hours or a stretch of miles – usually when I feel like I cannot go on or don’t want to – that I ponder why the heck I am out there. There’s tons of other things that I have to do, let alone want to do on the weekends. Coordinating planes, rental cars, and hotels is not my idea of good times as I travel often for work. When I start each race, I know why in theory – the challenge always helps me to grow in some small or big way, and the races are a strong dose of humility in a short time frame, not to mention reunions with dear friends. But beyond that, there is something to feeling sure that I cannot manage the next ten or twenty or forty miles – something to my feeling broken, dismayed, and unsure of myself – and then witnessing myself move forward and tackle the miles, one by one, that fascinates me. Ultras teach me that even when I think I cannot, even when my mental dialogue is less than positive, I can find a way to keep going, change my negative chatter, conquer that which frightens and challenges me, and succeed.
I have learned over the years that when you embark on an ultra-journey, you need to know what it is that you aspire to and keep it close to your heart and mind at all times, so that when melt downs hit – and they always do – you have the tools to pull yourself up and out of them. There is both excitement and fear when it comes to running ultras: it is the excitement of challenge, and the fear of immersing oneself into uncharted territory. In ultras and in life, it is impossible to know at the beginning what the end will be. I believe that we grow by walking out of our comfort zones and into situations that frighten us and force us to find our way. While it’s easier to pursue that which we know, when we take the roads less traveled, we jumpstart our journeys into awakening and awareness, and often catch glimpses of what we are capable of.
Ultras teach me that I am not my shifting mindset, that it’s okay to rely on other people, that it’s okay for people to see me suffer, and that when I am at what feels like my weakest moments, I can emerge stronger, better, and motivate others along the way, too. Ultras have taught me not to take myself seriously, to understand in an intimate way that others suffer just as I do, and that we are all a little crazy, a little sane, and everything in between. Ultras have taught me to laugh at myself and to know that I won’t always feel as bad as I do at any given moment. They have taught me that I can feel horrible, happy, and calm, all within the same 10 minutes. But most importantly, they have taught me about forward motion, about the ability to propel myself ahead when the logical thing to do would be to quit. They have taught me to be tough, but empathetic and compassionate, too – not only to others, but to myself. They have taught me to look around at the world, but also to keep an eye on the clock, which doesn’t stop for any of us. They have taught me to crave and enjoy the miles and the course of life, to accept the challenges as they come, and to seek solutions that enable me to keep going. And beyond all else, they have taught me about trusting the process, trusting others, trusting myself, and knowing that whatever comes up is okay and exactly what I need at any here and now. They have taught me to be more humane, to love the ones I am with, and to enjoy it all while I still can.
