From depths to heights

130-degree heat? Exhaustion? Four Coloradans survive them in Badwater

Bill Scanlon, Rocky Mountain News

Published July 29, 2006 at midnight

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DEATH VALLEY NATIONAL PARK, Calif. - It's 130 degrees in the shade, and Dr. Scott Snyder's feet are turning to hamburger.

"I can still add, and I can still spell chrysanthemum," Snyder, 51, an emergency room physician in Louisville, said 30 miles into the 135-mile Badwater Ultramarathon. "I have some hot spots on my feet, but nothing to stop the show about.

"I could probably pass a sobriety test right now. I probably couldn't pass a psychiatry test, though, because I'm crazy."

Why Snyder and three other Coloradans decided to run/ walk 135 miles in the hottest place in the nation in the hottest month of the year isn't immediately apparent at midday Monday. Runners who participate in 10-kilometer races run for about an hour; most marathoners run for about three or four hours. These people will be running Monday through Wednesday.

"As my dad used to say, 'Cheer up, it could be worse,' " Snyder said before going back inside his head and trudging toward Stovepipe Wells, 11 miles distant.

It got plenty worse.

Starting low

Early Monday morning, when the temperature was still less than 110, the 85 starters were in a festive mood, joking, weighing in, posing for photos at the Badwater salt flats, 282 feet below sea level.

About to embark on the most difficult running race in the world, they savored their final pain-free, sweat-free moments.

Each of them had run thousands of miles to prepare, had run in saunas or on treadmills blasted by electric radiators. The four Coloradans had found the dustiest, hottest trails they could find to prepare for this and still they'd been unable to simulate Death Valley's heat, sand and wind.

Any small error - less fluids in than fluids out; more calories lost than regained - can mean disaster, misery or serious medical problems in these conditions.

Two minutes before 6 a.m., race director Chris Kostman, in a sado-sarcastic pep talk, tells the first 25 runners: "Just don't think of the 135 miles of scorching highway in front of you, the 130-degree temperatures. Ready to run? Walk? Hobble?"

A veteran runner trumpets the national anthem, the crews and the loved ones count down the final 10 seconds, and they are off running - all except Nattu Natraj, of Lafayette.

Natraj, 43, an operations manager, is one disciplined guy.

He had told himself he was going to run on some of the flats and the downhills but walk the uphills.

And the start of the race is a slight uphill, so he walks it, dressed from head to toe in white - sun hat with a comically long back flap, long-sleeve top, long pants, socks with built-in toes.

His crew of seven marvels at his precision, his patience and sunny demeanor.

An hour later, the 8 a.m. wave of runners starts getting ready.

Jack Menard, 56, a house painter from Denver, shows other runners the cold-water shower suspended from the top of his white van.

"I slept on the top of the van Friday night, meditating with the rain falling on me," he said. "It felt like Chinese water torture. But I feel like Dante. What else are you going to throw at me? I'm ready."

Snyder carefully ties his hair into a ponytail and tucks it through the hole in his hat.

"There's no mystery in any of this, at least not to me," Snyder said in response to the eternal reporter's question: Why do you do this? "If you want mystery, try figuring out our foreign policy."

Snyder's wife, Kate Felix, is worried, though. She said Scott has the type of metabolism that makes it almost impossible for him to ingest as many calories and as much sodium as he loses in such conditions.

"We've got peanut butter and jelly, candy, chips, pretzels and every salty carbohydrate we can think of," she said. "He really shouldn't be doing this."

Eric Pence, 40, a distribution manager from Eagle, just wants to finish without the misery of 2004, when he didn't take in enough fluids, and 36 miles into the race, he conked out, unable to eat, drink or urinate.

After resting and drinking for eight hours, he felt better and finished the race - in 55 hours, seven hours past the 48-hour limit to earn a coveted medal.

He plans to drink 60 ounces of water an hour, enough to counterbalance the sweat that can drip from fingers in a steady stream.

"Just getting through it without heat exhaustion would be a good goal," he said.

They're off - the house painter, holding a water bottle in each fist; the doctor, tall, lithe and determined; the distribution manager, giving a final hug to his crew - along with two dozen others.

At 10 a.m., the fastest runners begin, and none is faster than Scott Jurek, 32, of Seattle, the god of ultramarathoning, he with the perfect posture, flowing hair, friendly smile and indomitable will. He won't take his first walking step for 42 miles.

In all, 85 runners, representing 20 states and 14 foreign countries, start the race. They won't all finish.

Feet melt in Furnace Creek

From Badwater, it's 17 miles to aptly named Furnace Creek, past Dante's Peak on the right, the Devil's Golf Course and the salt flats to the left.

On both sides of freshly paved California 190 are rock rubble and sage in six colors of beige and khaki. Scorpions and snakes lurk nearby.

The land here doesn't look finished - it looks more like the leftovers of a plan for land, abandoned by a lazy construction crew.

Mostly, it's hot, pizza-oven hot. It's the kind of hot that astonishes the skin and saps the will.

Still, they keep trudging.

Snyder is disappointed he's walking as much as he is, but that's because the blisters got to him early, and it hurts each time he plants a foot.

Menard has serious foot problems, too, by Mile 33. His cold shower seemed like a good idea, and he used it at every mile interval, when his crew of two stopped the van to check on his progress.

But the shower got his feet wet, and when that happens, the shoes and socks start sliding and blisters develop.

It was Jurek, passing by, who warned him his shoes didn't look like they were fitting right.

On the plus side, Menard still weighs 141, his starting weight, and he has kept his fluids in balance with a combination of energy drinks, sodium tablets and water. He has eaten no solid food.

"I'm feeling fine," Menard said. "I just have to get to the top of that (expletive) hill."

Pence closes in on the spot where he had his meltdown in 2004. His crew is pampering him with fluids and pills.

At the van, he trades his hot bandanna for a damp one, then wraps an ice-cold, sopping-wet shirt around his head. It will be bone dry in another mile, but then there will be another one waiting for him.

"I've been drinking more than I ever have in a race," Pence said. "They keep shoving it into me, and I'm able to stomach it."

He's drinking 650 calories an hour.

He passes the spot of his 2004 meltdown, and that's a psychological boost. He thinks he'll make it.

Legs burn, stomachs churn

At Stovepipe Wells, barely a dot on a map but a thrilling oasis to the runners, one runner is out. He lost 14 pounds and had to take an IV at the medical tent, and that disqualifies him. Another dropped out because of a knee injury.

Pence jumps into the swimming pool at the only motel in Stovepipe Wells, and his crew brings him a plateful of chicken fingers, which he eats while he soaks.

Menard stumbles into Stovepipe Wells, his crew asking him what he needs.

"Ice water and a new pair of feet," he grumbles.

Crews are being solicitous, putting ice within reach of the runners, changing out shirts and shoes, massaging shoulders.

Natraj needs a massage at Stovepipe Wells because his legs aren't working. Crew member Valerie Zanon rubs his legs and gets them working again.

Natraj passed the sand dunes "in the nick of time," Zanon said, just before the wind kicked up and blew hot, burning sand into runners' eyes.

Natraj, on the road again, recalls growing up in Madras, India, where temperatures in the 100s were normal.

"But I've been here too long," he said. "Twenty-one years."

"I feel pampered by my crew," he said, walking a steep 17-mile climb in almost pleasant 108-degree temperatures as the sun sets. "I couldn't do it without them."

Suddenly, at Mile 50, Pence, seemingly the strongest Colorado runner, is in trouble.

"I've lost 9 pounds," Pence says, propping his feet.

Memories of 2004 surface. He has lost that delicate balance of calories in, calories out. Someone scrambles for fluids while another gives him options: "Saltines? Chips? Cheerios? You should eat anything that sounds good."

His real need is Rolaids. They get him some, and about 20 minutes later, his stomach calms down, able again to absorb food.

Frights, morning mirages

They walk through the night, dressed in fluorescent vests. By morning, the climb to Towne's Pass, 4,956 feet, finally is over, but the misery is not.

The downhill is crushing on the legs, and they can see, miles below, what looks like a lake. But, of course, it's not a lake, just another oval of sand.

Nine-thousand years ago, there was plenty of water here for the Nevares Springs people who could end a day of hunting and gathering with a swim in the basin. Now, it's just a haunting, soul-crushing mirage of white and beige.

Next comes a harrowing climb along sheer cliffs, but it's worth it because, finally, there is some red in the rocks - rust red, if they can trust their eyes.

At Mile 79, Snyder isn't enjoying himself. He has cut away the top part of his left shoe to give his foot some small comfort.

"My feet are mush," he said. "I can't put my feet down. I have a V-8 engine, but I can't run it because I don't have tires."

A few hours ago, he was sure he would finish. Now, it's a toss-up.

He has lost his confidence but not his sense of humor.

"I'm going to lose all my toenails," he predicted. "And I just spent all that money on a pedicure."

His wife sprays him with mist from a garden sprayer, and he's off again.

"This is where you earn your big-boy-running points," Snyder said. "I didn't come out here to go home."

To toughen his feet, Snyder had practiced on the hottest roads on the hottest days in Colorado.

"But there's just no way you can simulate the 170-degree heat of the pavement here," he said.

He wasted a couple of hours in Stovepipe Wells getting a foot treatment that failed.

He's listening to a book on tape - Blind Man's Bluff, about naval warfare, while he walks.

"Otherwise, all I'd think about would be the pain," he said.

Above his ankles, the heat hasn't been much of an issue.

"I needed to get ice put on my groin just once," he marvels.

At Mile 88, high noon, 100 degrees, 4,500 feet above the Death Valley floor, Menard says, "My feet are gone! Just gone!"

The white line on the highway has turned to cracked marble in his mind, but there's nothing fake about the dead rabbits and other roadkill he passes every 100 feet or so.

Still, he has taken no solid food. His new predicted finishing time is 44 hours - not the 40 he had hoped.

The desperate hours

At Mile 90, in 100-degree heat, Natraj seems to be going like clockwork, but there's trouble inside.

"That was a rough night," he said. "I was too sleepy, too tired, and I just didn't feel like eating.

"I was being stupid, not diligent. They told me to eat more, and I wouldn't. Now, I'm back to eating enough."

His optimism triumphs.

"My feet are fine. Compared to yesterday, this is almost winter."

Pence reaches Mile 97 at 12:40 p.m. and asks his crew for a fruit smoothie. He has gained back a few of the 9 pounds he lost and is feeling confident.

"I think I ate too many chicken fingers," he said ruefully. "But, boy, they did hit the spot."

Through the evening hours, they trudge across the endless Owens Valley, where, 75 years ago, Los Angeles sucked up the water and turned it into desert.

Across the sprawling sage-dotted valley is Lone Pine at the foot of Mount Whitney, but each mile, it seems farther away.

Pence finally reaches Lone Pine at 9:30 p.m., but the other Coloradans are hours behind.

Suddenly there is a torrential downpour. Natraj's crew quickly improvises some garbage bags for hip waders so he can slog through the puddles formed in the swales.

Mentally, this is the hardest part of the race because there seems to be no end, Natraj tells his crew.

Finally, about midnight, he stumbles into Lone Pine and gets another limb-affirming massage.

And still, there are 13 more miles - very steep, from 4,000 feet to 8,500 feet, to the trailhead for Mount Whitney.

Up to Mount Whitney

Eric Pence breaks the tape at 1:37 a.m., more than 13 hours faster than his 2004 time, ecstatic, hugged by his crew in the 60-degree cold.

Astonishingly, winner Jurek has been finished for almost 16 hours - his time is 25 hours, 41 minutes, 18 seconds - has showered, slept, eaten and is looking fresh.

"It's the sheer challenge of running these distances," Jurek said of the sport's attraction. "We all have genetic memories or codes to explore that side of whatever is possible."

He likes the variety of interesting people he meets in the sport.

"It's not masochism," he insists. "It's exploring the limits, finding that tipping point on the edge of what's possible.

"How fast can you run without losing too many fluids? You have to continue to tap into what your body is doing. That's the challenge - and the satisfaction."

The first two female runners, Monica Scholz and Monique -Muhlen, finish eighth and ninth overall, in 32 hours. At this distance, there's not much of a time gap between women and men.

Pam Reed came in first overall twice in the past few years but this year became ill and didn't finish.

Another runner finishes, disoriented, not quite understanding the hugs. He shakes his head well enough to the questions but still can't speak. He goes off by himself and starts crying, the enormity of the adventure sinking in.

Each finisher grabs hands with crew members, managing a huge smile even if they were in agony moments before.

They get hugs and blankets, pose for pictures with their medals, stumble for food.

Three hours after Pence finishes, Menard limps across the finish line, happy but spent, his feet a mess, his soul just fine.

"It's the last time!" he said. "To paraphrase Arnold Schwarzenegger, 'I will not be back.' "

A little later, though, after some sleep and some reflection, he said, "Well, maybe I'll come back every four years."

Natraj keeps trudging, still wearing his goofy socks with the cutout toes and the gel between each toe. He has had virtually no feet problems.

With a Red Bull in one hand and a Mountain Dew in another, he rides a sugar high to the top.

"He wanted a bean burrito, so we went back to Lone Pine and got him one," Zanon said. "He was amazing."

Natraj breaks the tape at 4:22 a.m., with a huge smile on his face, euphoric, then turns to hug his crew. Like Pence and Menard, he had finished in less than 48 hours and was rewarded with a gold medal.

As always, he deflects attention from himself, thanking everyone else. He knew what he had accomplished would change him in a profound way, but in the early- morning hours, he still didn't know how.

For now, the satisfaction was running "almost a perfect race. I was focused for the most part," except for the spell when he didn't eat enough.

He's the first person born in India to finish Badwater.

Finishing it, "gives me a lot more confidence in my running ability. Plus, it gives the confidence that I can do basically anything that I put my mind to."

Was it worth it?

And then, the biggest surprise: Snyder comes in about 15 minutes later, making up time on the rest of the midpackers through the second half of the race.

He hugged his crew, sat down and realized five minutes later that he was freezing.

They got him blankets.

"It was a nasty climb," leaving him mentally exhausted, he said. "It's really satisfying and all, but the pain is really overwhelming everything else.

"The only thing I can think of is, 'Why do I do this?' My feet are killing me."

Some finishes are hard to watch. After 50 hours, the limbs stiffen, the body sways. An older runner hobbled up the mountain, his torso leaning eerily to his left, a crew member by his side. But he finished.

In a field of 85 starters and 67 finishers, 53 finished in less than 48 hours, earning a commemorative belt buckle in addition to a gold medal, which is given to everyone who finishes in less than 60 hours.

Coloradans earned four of them: Pence came in 26th, Menard 38th, Snyder 40th and Natraj 50th.

Snyder lost seven toenails. The bottoms of his feet are red, open wounds.

He'll go back to work Tuesday . . . if he can walk.

Next year? Not Badwater.

"I've done it. What's the point of collecting more T-shirts?"

But, yes, another ultramarathon - the Hardrock 100 in Silverton, assuming he earns a spot via a lottery, just to make sure he's not slacking through life.

His memories of this race?

Snyder thought for a moment. "Hopefully, as little as possible."

scanlonb@RockyMountainNews.com or 303-892-2897

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