Death Valley
I get asked often, why go to Death Valley in July, let alone run there? Some places leave indelible marks on our soul. Death Valley is one of those places for me. When I first experienced the 135 miles spanning Badwater Basin to Whitney Portal Road in 2015, the sheer expanse of the landscape captivated me. The steep mountain passes, the daunting cliffs, and the steamy straightaways seemed insurmountable. I believe that when you tackle the vastness of the desert on foot, your body and soul form an intimate connection with the land. My dad had a similar awe-struck experience when he drove through Death Valley during my first Badwater 135, and I’ll never forget how he loved the Alabama Hills in Lone Pine, where so many of the western movies he loved to watch over the years were filmed. Whenever we talked about Death Valley, he nodded and smiled, as if it was a password between us, encapsulating serenity and grandness. The one thing that was constant since I pulled out of Badwater 135 in 2023 when it was clear my dad had days left to live, was that I wanted to return in 2024 to run the race in his honor.
Ultrarunning
People who have been running ultras and crossing finish lines for years tend to be committed, driven, and gritty. Many of us weekend warriors train as if our life depended on each race, and push through suffer fests all for a belt buckle, or sometimes a plaque or medal that we wear around our necks on a string, and arrive back at work Monday morning ready to hit the ground running at work, albeit a bit sleep deprived. We push forward for the sense of peace and joy we find by journeying long and far on foot. Crossing a finish line is about the quiet satisfaction we get from knowing how hard our journey was, how much we overcame, how easy it would have been to quit at so many moments, and that we persevered.
While I fell short at Badwater 135 this year, only I know the story behind my DNF (did not finish) and what it meant for me to show up and try. I was so sure I was going to quit at miles 7, 10, then 16, but kept going, because I believe in possibility, honor commitment, and have experienced miracles in motion in the past. Running has taught me that movement makes me better – it’s how my mind functions best and is often a conduit to opening my heart. The outdoor cure is what I call it, but what I’m really talking about is moving through the world and processing what I see and think and feel. Ultrarunning, like life, is always about the journey, and the more ultras I’ve run, the more I’ve come to accept myself and my fellow travelers, and marvel at the roads and trails that I’ve been fortunate to pass through.
Finding My Why
Caring for my mom, who had terminal cancer, was a huge priority in my life for so many years. When she died, I devoted that energy to making my dad’s life fun and adventurous. Losing my dad in the past year uprooted me and left me feeling directionless. While my career provides me with purpose and passion on any given day, the last few months, the moment that I’m outside of that structure, I tend to feel lost.
I believe our emotional pain seeps into our body, giving it physical form. I also believe that we are transformational beings. What we feel one day, shifts the next. Over the years, running has helped me to breathe, experience, and trust in the universe. I have had so many magic moments during runs, and have run both away from and to myself, each equally important depending on the day. When a run enables me to lose myself long enough to be part of the pulse of the world, I feel like I’m on my path.
As my favorite yoga teacher used to say, “no feeling is final.” I remind myself of that often and believe that when you are uncomfortable and ready to give up, you may be at the starting line for your next chapter. The willingness to keep trying, to keep going, to stay open, to let curiosity win, is why I show up.
The Year in Review
Up until June, despite injuries, I had not taken a break from running since my dad passed. I thought I was supposed to keep going. In the weeks before my dad died, we made a pact that he would be with me spiritually when I ran in the same way he had accompanied me in the flesh to dozens of ultramarathon races for over a decade. When he passed away, I was so grateful for the space and time to grieve and process that running afforded me. In many respects, running saved my life during those initial months of loss, just as my entry into running ultras had saved my life over thirteen years back, when my mom passed away, by bringing new meaning, goals, and friendships into my life.
I was able to get through a few races after my father passed – Beast of Burden 100 on his birthday last August, and then Himalayan 100 in November, although that’s when the injuries began. Between cleaning out his house, getting his estate in order, my career, and managing my life as a depleted version of me, I felt haggard. In December 2023, days before I was to run Daytona 100, I got the flu, and was sick enough that I pulled out of the race. A few weeks later, days before I was supposed to run my 5th Long Haul 100, I got Covid. I opted to show up at race packet pick up that Friday, still feeling off. I started the race, and 36 miles in, Paxlovid creating a bit of havoc in my body, I chose to drop. A month later, the pain in my hip, chronic bursitis, raged. The first cortisone shot of 2024 worked and I was back to running in days, optimistic and rejuvenated. After I ran LOST 118 self-supported with a baby stroller in February 2024, I had a few great weeks of running with minimal pain.
Then, a few weeks out from Keys 100, when I got my next cortisone shot, my orthopedic was tentative. Since the pain moved from the joint to the hip flexor to my IT band, he began to suspect there was more than bursitis at play. We made a pact – he agreed to administer another cortisone shot if I agreed to get an MRI of my hip. It was a deal.
I relied on running as my time to experience my dad’s energy and feel his presence. So when running wasn’t working out for me, I struggled as I didn’t want to break our pact. That mindset made me inflexible. I had to run, but the realist in me also began to question if all the injuries and mishaps were a message somehow from my dad that I shouldn’t be running. It seemed too coincidental that so many issues kept coming up prior to running races. I was torn between listening to my body and listening to my mind, which were saying different things.
I got a free pass in May for the Keys 100. My body cooperated and I felt good for most of the race. I was beyond relieved. Then came June and the Miami 50/50, an adventure race through Miami that involved running with a partner each step of the way. I was running with Nate, and although our spirits were high, early on my legs began to ache and throb: the hip again, and overall pain that moved from my quads to my knees. My legs felt heavy. I knew that it was going to be a long day after pain killers were not providing relief. Although Nate and I managed to finish strong, at the end of the race, I was clear that I needed to take a break. This wasn’t an ultrarunner tantrum; my hip and legs felt destroyed. That week, I returned to acupuncture for the first time in months, and made an appointment with my orthopedic to review the results from the MRI of my hip I had taken at the end of April. Time flies when you keep pushing and signing up for races.
I was now about six weeks out from Badwater 135. According to the MRI, I wasn’t quite broken, but my hip needed some rehabilitation. Coach Lisa Smith-Batchen and my doctor helped me to create a plan. I scheduled acupuncture twice a week to work on my legs, and my orthopedic was set to give me a cortisone shot on July 5, roughly two weeks before I headed west for Badwater 135. I shifted to pool running, spinning, and maintaining my daily yoga practice. At first, I felt optimistic. Then as the days of not running went on, I began to question whether it would be possible to run an ultra as challenging as Badwater 135 without getting runs in. Coach Lisa was clear: “Let your body heal.”
A week after the cortisone shot on July 5th, my bursitis had improved, but I still experienced acute pain when I tried to run. I went back to the pool and spin bike. I kept debating Badwater 135 and wondering if I could pull it off. I visualized the course daily, and saw myself at the start line at Badwater Basin, making my way to Furnace Creek, Stove Pipe Wells, Panamint Springs. I knew that it was still possible to drop out of the race, and yet each day, I kept moving towards going. I was concerned if my body would let me run, and then I was talking daily to my crew, packed up, and ready to go. After two crew members’ flights were canceled and rebooked, I began to feel that I was moving in the right direction. Badwater 135 was a go.
Timing is everything in life and in ultras. Last year physically I was fine, but emotionally I was broken from the passing of my dad weeks prior to the race. This year I was broken physically, while emotionally I had made progress. I have since learned that if you have good health to do something today, it’s critical that you get out there and chase your dreams. We are mortal beings whose bodies don’t always align with our dreams and aspirations. I opted to show up at Badwater 135 because I believe that you never know when your miracle may happen, but also respect that sometimes timing is not on your side.
Badwater 135 – The Race
The massive rainbow that spanned the overcast sky as we drove down to Badwater Basin to the race’s start emanated hope. As we arrived at the starting line, vibrant orange hues dazzled above, erasing the rainbow from the impending night sky . The energy was contagious as we all made our final preparations.
Joyce Lee sang the Star-Spangled Banner, RD Chris Kostman counted us down, and the 8 pm wave of runners were off. The first few miles were dense with humidity as thick as smog, and within moments, the rain soaked us. At times, the wind became so steep it blew us to a standstill as the rain plummeted, hitting us sideways. I moved slowly and deliberately, catching my sunglasses before they blew away, and stashed them in my run pack. There were a few moments when I wondered if we would be able to keep going, and then it calmed down, and it was just raining. I felt fine up to mile four, and then as it always does when I traverse the road out of Badwater Basin, the queasiness hit, and then I was dry heaving and vomiting.
With no one around me as the desert darkness set in, I felt alone and desperate. The pain in my hip didn’t roar until I had thrown up a few times and then it throbbed, so that with every step I focused on landing gently to keep the electricity of my body at bay. Around mile 15, after slugging down a ginger ale, I threw up one last time with crewmates Megan and Mollie by my side, encouraging me that I was looking great and that things would improve, and they did – my stomach settled down.
By the time I met my crew a few miles later, at the gas station beyond Furnace Creek, I had figured out that walking hurt more than running, so I committed to a slow and steady jog. As the miles went on and I settled into the race, the routine of seeing Mollie, Megan, Will, and Nate’s smiling faces every few miles beside the road helped me to shift. Their optimism, good cheer, and expertise at trouble-shooting reminded me how lucky I was that we were in it together, and that all I had to do for the hours ahead, was focus on one foot in front of the other.
There were moments in the middle of the night when I was all alone on the road with my breath as the soundtrack that I felt connected to myself in a way that made me deeply grateful to have come this far in life. Between the earth and that star-filled sky, I understood my small and transitory place in the world and that the universe would keep going long after I’m gone. Those thoughts prompted me to think about how I was going to show up – at the race, and in life. I could bemoan my failures and losses, or I could face them and move forward despite them. Reality, with all its hiccups, was okay. The quicker I accepted my fate and aligned it with the universe, the more possibility I was opening myself up to.
Throughout the night, I jogged for 20 – 30 minutes, and then walked a few minutes, starting my jog back up before the pain in my hip raged. At some point, Ray Sanchez – 15x Badwater finisher – and I began to lap one another. Ray, who seemed to be dealing with knee issues, would pass me and say, “you’re it,” and then he would meet up with his crew and I’d pass him, until he came back on the course and passed me. I was grateful to be near him and his upbeat crew throughout the night, and to intersect with so many upbeat runners and their crews, too. There’s something mystical being out in Death Valley, making your way on the course, knowing that each runner is fighting their own battles, trying to survive, and managing the undulating road.
As daylight took over Death Valley, the sky a clear and vibrant blue, I knew that I was going to have to push hard to hit the 42-mile check in at Stovepipe Wells, and then climb the roughly eight miles up the 2,000-feet elevation sign at 50.8 miles, which marked the first major race cut off at 14 hours. I couldn’t get back the first three plus hours I had lost throwing up and adapting to pain, which meant there was no stopping for me as I made my way. If I hit that cut off, I would have 34 hours to complete the remaining ~84 miles.
When I arrived at Stovepipe Wells, my crew iced me down before Nate, my first pacer, joined me on the course. We had a little over two hours to climb to the 50.8 cutoff. At first, we moved well and managed the heat with my beloved ice babies (various sized Ziploc bags full of ice), which have helped me through prior Badwater 135 races, and all other hot weather races. Nate sprayed me with water and I chewed on ice cubes and kept guzzling blue Gatorade, which for this race was my antidote. I was a mess of emotions by then: my hip and leg throbbed, I was worried about missing the cutoff, but also deeply grateful that my body had let me go that far after not running for over a month. Nate, Will, Mollie, and Megan were relentless in keeping me cool and moving, all while cheering me on. As we neared the 50.8-mile mark, my heart began to race as the minutes and the miles left were not adding up. With Pamela Chapman a few feet ahead of me, and Ray behind me, I was grateful for the good company.
I was pulled from the Badwater 135 course minutes from reaching the 50.8-mile mark. I had been here before, so I knew that RD Chris Kostman was going to pull me and the runners near me. So many emotions traveled through me in no specific order when RD Chris told us we were out, from I’m never coming back, to I pushed as hard as I could, to I’m so grateful I made it this far. And that last sentiment was the one that surpassed the others. Weeks later, when a lumbar spine MRI provided clarity about the bulging disks in my lower lumbar, sciatica, and SI joint issues, the depth of my gratitude that I had made it that far was intense.
I got into the crew car defeated, but somehow happier and more complete than the fragmented version of me who toed the start line some 14 hours and 10 minutes earlier. I had my answers: yes, I could run through injury and pain; and no, falling short didn’t make me come undone. I joked that I was a “grateful loser,” and it was true. It was a gift to be out on that course, in that desert, with an amazing and loving crew supporting me as I moved through the night with that magnificent full moon above and those impressive mountains as the backdrop. While I was disappointed not to journey with my crew over the mountain passes ahead and into Lone Pine on foot, I was also deeply thankful I had showed up at the start line and persevered 50 miles on a course which has come to mean so many things to me since I first completed Badwater 135 in 2015.
The thing about life that coincides with running races is that at some point, time is going to run out. And this time around, while I timed out, I pushed to that edge so that when I hit the time limit, I had no regrets.
Now, in retrospect, I have accepted that not completing the race this year is where I am at. It’s not about wishing or hoping for a different ending. The loss of my dad has taught me that what happens in my life is my curriculum. I’m getting exactly the education that I need to be the person I’m becoming. No matter how much I may want to change the channel of reality I’m tapped into, I must live through each chapter to arrive at the next one. I’m learning to leave excuses and frustration behind and let the universe guide me down my path. I’m learning to accept ambiguity and that no one has the answers; we find them as we go. By showing up as an open-minded traveler, I get to experience my unique journey every step of the way.
Fun and Friendship
There’s the race, and then there’s being at Badwater 135 with crew and friends and all the minutes and hours that lead up to the race and come after. The laugher, jokes, and camraderie while shopping for race supplies, prepping, and eating meals together, and in the case of my crew, Starbucks runs, was uplifting and life affirming. We were all in it together with a common focus. It’s not like work, where we all have different agendas and climb our own career ladders. At Badwater, we have a common goal – to survive and arrive at the finish line. When that doesn’t happen, the goal becomes how can we all practice gratitude even though we got the runner-up prize.
When I was able to get out of my own way and realize that it was okay to fail, that it didn’t make me a failure, that it was a just a chapter I needed to live through and learn from, I had fun. At a time in my life when I am trying to work through grief and injury, laughter, engaging conversations, and fun and friendship is a gift that surpasses any finish line.
There’s a question on the Badwater 135 application that asks applicants what Badwater means to them. Each year I’ve applied to run the race, the answer shifts for me. This year the answer came to me after the race, when my crew and I gathered around a horse in an enclosed pasture by our hotel, taking turns feeding it apple pieces, and holding our collective breath as the horse chewed each piece, swallowing it down, slowly.
Our focus and desire for the horse to enjoy the apple was one of those moments I’ve replayed many times since. In this frenetic paced world, where we are always ingesting information and doing and going, that singular focus on the well-being of a horse in a pasture on a beautiful morning with the Sierra Nevada mountains as a backdrop, was a reminder to me of the small, kind gestures and the joy and meaning they bring, and how the power of a common purpose has the ability to unite and still us all, like a rainbow that streaks the sky that we all pause to take in, filling us with possibility, wonder, and hope.
2 comments for “Chasing Rainbows – Badwater 135 – 2024”