Badwater- Installment 1

The adventure began at 6am with a text, “We are outside.” I grabbed the bags I had meticulously packed over the previous three nights full of running cloths, long sleeves and pants, running lights, running shoes, head gear, cooling gear, nutrition supplements as well as food to consume while in the crew van. It was all packed and separated, labelled and organized to the great chagrin of my girlfriend. The airport outfit was also chosen based on packability and usefulness during the ultra marathon. 

I exited my house, locked the door and said a loud and gregarious “Good Morning!” to Dale Cougot. 

Dale Cougot.

I met the man in a Starbucks in Richardson, Texas after a friend sent me his Facebook page where he advertised a wish to build a trail running group in the DFW area. I had been a road runner all my life and active in the triathlon community for many years, but always tenuous about trails. We messaged back and forth for a couple weeks before our schedules finally aligned enough to meet up and discuss what his training would entail.

I had not dug too far into the contents of his page so I did not quite know what to expect upon meeting this ultra marathon guru other than he ran a lot. I did have an expectation in my head of how the man might look or act based on my previous experience with coaches, but what I encountered was anything but that. 

I wore a running cap to make myself identifiable and upon entering the semi busy coffee shop, he called over to me from the corner. He did not look like a runner. 

Dale is short with a single length shaved head and incredibly casual demeanor. He wore standard khaki slacks, a slightly over large polo and a goofy grin. His mannerisms reminded me of my Dad in the way he formally introduced himself, clumsily fumbled for his wallet, then inquired what coffee I wanted in the same breath as asking if I found the place alright. 

We got our drinks and sat outside to talk. He carried a notebook covered in stickers from races and excitedly fidgeted in his seat when he referred to specific trails or distances that obviously excited him. I told him I was wary of coaching due to negative past experiences and he began his introduction to the Texas Yeti Runner philosophy. We spoke for quite a while on the Yeti mindset.

“Running is fun and creates the means for adventure wherever and however you wish to define that road. The Yeti is the thing inside us all that will either motivate or let us down. Think you would be interested in being a Yeti Runner?” Was his summation.

I was.

Over the course of the next several weeks I ran with Dale a few times, took his training advice and tips to heart and began to prepare my mind and body for the adventures Yeti running would bring. In those weeks, I conquered trails and times, learned my body and my limits in a new way, and met a whole new community of amazing runners and people. I embraced the Yeti Runner philosophy and the Yeti gave me all the adventurous returns I was promised. 

When Dale asked me to accompany him to Death Valley, California and crew him through the Badwater135 Ultra marathon, I was ecstatic. This kind tempered, fatherly and goofy man was inviting me to an amazing new journey.

Saturday 

As we hopped out of the car outside Dallas Love-Field Airport and grabbed our luggage from the back of the car, Dale’s wife Pauline gave me a big hug. “Take care of each other.” These words stuck with me through our entire journey. 

Once in the airport we met up with Carl Hineline and his crew. Carl had crewed Dale through his first Badwater run two years ago and was now a second year veteran himself. We sat together and traded stories and strategies while waiting for our boarding call. It was a neat feeling to be sitting in the small Dallas airport between two phenomenal runners and listen to them talk and laugh about taking shots from tiny liquor bottles last time they were headed to Vegas. 

We boarded the plane and I tried my best to get a nap in but found myself way too excited. 

On landing in the Las Vegas Airport, we got our rental car and the preparations began. There was a shopping trip to Target for edible and necessary dry goods, plates, napkins and all necessities as we planned on living out of a van for about three days straight. We then gathered and met Patrick Fleming when his flight arrived and headed to the Las Vegas strip to our Hotel for the day, Treasure Island. We met up with Jen Van Vlack and Brent Jackson here and immediately began doing what you do when in Vegas. Carl and his crew came to our hotel to hang as well and there was a trashcan used as a beer cooler, shots taken poolside, swimming in crowded waters, and a nap on a lounge chair. This was all before a late dinner and early pass out from all tired and intoxicated travelers. 

Sunday

The next morning we rose early and got the team downstairs for our first run together. Running through the Vegas strip with these new friends was a great joy. The strip was quiet so early in the day, the city waking up as a few true Vegas goers still milled about from the night before. We ran up the sidewalks talking technique, trading tales, and making jokes. We ran up staircases and jumped on benches. It was a wonderful start to our second day of Badwater prep.

We finished our run, repacked, showered and enjoyed a team breakfast in the hotel diner. Then Jen, Patrick and Dale got in the rental van to discuss race and crew details, and Brent and I got in his car and our crew headed to a Whole Foods for perishable provisions and then out to our second hotel in Furnace creek, close to Badwater Basin, where the Ultramarathon was set to begin the following evening. 

At the Whole Foods while shopping for food, we grabbed lots of produce. With running, I have learned that the longer the distance, the more the small details matter. A piece of sand in your sock won't make a huge difference for a 5k or 10k. That same speck of dust could be the beginnings of a blister and the reason you have a raw and bloody spot on your toe after 30 or more miles. 

After a marathon or shorter distance race, a banana or melon can be a delightful and replenishing snack. While in the throws of the World’s Toughest Footrace, cold produce could be a boost for the spirit and source of much needed nutrition. In the case of the days to come, some cantaloupe that could have been a runner’s rescue ended up being a small detail that had a huge impact.

We made our way out to Stovepipe Wells for runner check in and the famous shooting of the Badwater mugshots. Driving there was an amazing experience in itself. As we moved further and further into Death Valley, Brent and I listened to music, chatted and watched with excited wonder as the temperature continued to climb out of the humid upper 90’s and into the dry 100’s. Once we slipped over 110, we would not see a break from that level of heat until we climbed Mt Whitney, three days later. 

Also, taking in the desert landscape was wonderful. The flat scope of shifting sands and low almost iridescent looking shrubbery everywhere created a far reaching mix of vast desolation and strange beauty. Waves of heat danced off the roadways ahead of us and mountains taunted us from miles in the distance. Reaching Furnace Creek, then moving another 20 miles up to Stovepipe Wells over the undulating hills Dale would be running the following day was daunting and marvelous. 

At check in, the Badwater spirit was alive and well. Runners and crews moved about as units and the air was full of the greetings between veteran runners and staff, reunions taking place all around us. The warmth and excitement was electric and despite the oppressive heat surrounding the building and the unspeakably difficult task each person in that room was about to undergo, there was nothing but smiles on every participants face. Badwater is a community, and our team had just been warmly initiated as new members. 

After check in, we drove out to Panamont Springs to see more of the race course. Leaving Stovepipe Wells, the road rises up in a gentle but constant climb of about 4000 ft to an apex in the road before a long 6ish mile decent into a straight stripe of salt and sand where Dale described the worst part of run. In that brightly covered stripe we were approaching was where the most intense heat of the course lived. The waves of extremity were visible but seemed themselves almost paralyzed by their own unforgivable temperatures. 

Past that, in the next rather randomly situated town, we stopped for some hot food and cold beer. The town contained some campsites, a small restaurant, a gas station and lots of elaborate looking cactus. We shared French fries and pizzas, drank cold beer chosen from two beverage coolers packed with a wide variety of craft brews, and made our waiter very cranky by doing anything other than sitting quietly and listening to his tales of life in the desert. 

Once the food was eaten and tabs paid, we headed back to Furnace Creek. While Dale and Jen attended the pre race meeting, Brent, Patrick and I drove to the hotel area to get our rooms set up. We unloaded food from the vehicles, repacked coolers with ice and then left for the ranger station where the meeting was being held. 

At the ranger station is a digital thermometer that is a great photo spot because in one snap on a smart phone camera you can capture how crazy hot it is while in the background you can see rolling desolate landscape full of nothing but more unrelenting heat. 

At the station I met and chatted with Jean Hofschulte, an experienced crew person, exceptional runner, and really nice person. She was crew chief for Nick Kaminski, another friend of Dales, who had also crewed him on his first Badwater run. She told me about her recent crewing experience in Italy, their plans to climb Mt. Whitney to turn the 135 mile journey into a 146 mile journey, and offered genuine and honest support to my journey as a new ultra runner. 

The meeting wrapped up shortly after our talks and everyone headed outside for the runner’s photo around the thermometer. This is another almost sacred Badwater ritual and was again a meeting of a community filled with nothing but excitement and enthusiasm. 

That night our yeti crew went to the saloon on the ground of the hotel. Furnace Creek is set up like a small town from the wild west with small buildings full of congested lodging, a general store, restaurant, and dive feeling bar. The whole area was connected with small roadways weaving about a parked C&R locomotive car surrounded by old wagons, cannons and haybales. 

The whole area was full of runners moving about their own adventures, making the strange community in the middle of the desert alive and vibrant. 

Monday

We woke early and drove to Badwater Basin, the starting point of the race. We took team pictures by the below sea level elevation sign, walked on a trail made of salt, and ran a 5k together while Dale drove ahead taking pictures, making yeti yells and all of us having so much fun. This time with our team together laughing and jumping was a true highlight of the trip for me, and I am so fortunate to have gotten so many amazing pictures from my team mates to always be able to look back at the snap shots and remember each of them fondly. 

We returned to the hotel and began the long wait for Dale’s wave start time. 

Badwater waves begin at 8 pm so the first 20-30 miles are in the dark of desert night. This way the race is piggybacked over two nights, reducing the amount of time the runners spend in the sun’s additional heat. Dale would be starting with the second wave of runners at 9:30 pm, with the final wave setting off at 11 pm. 

We spent the day organizing the van, labelling everything and making as many mid race essentials for Dale as accessible at possible. What we wouldn’t need mid race was loaded into suitcases that were then hoisted and tied down on the top of the van. Coolers, one for food, one for drinks, and one for straight drinking water, were again packed with fresh ice and planted in permanent spots in the van. Food was organized into an open hard suitcase by salty vs sweet, and carb vs protein. Water jugs were stacked in boxes, tissues and towels were hung with duct tape by the back door. A garden bag was packed with electrolytes, an inhaler, sodium tabs, and a headlamp. This would be used to transport water bottles and essentials across the road from where ever we found to park the van to Dale as we crewed him during the run. Our mobile aide station was prepped, labelled and ready to go.

We decided Brent and Patrick would stay behind at the hotel to get some more rest during the race start, so we could have two fresh crew members join Jen and I around 1 am, when Dale’s run would be taking us back by Furnance Creek after running the 20ish miles out of the basin. We would at that time, pull into the lodging area, pick up the boys, meet Dale at the ranger station where there was a timing check point, and then the crew would all be together for the next 30ish hours of running. 

Around 8:30 we bid farewell to the Brent and Patrick and set off for the start line. Dale was jumpy and nervous. He continued to talk over details and I watched his eyes darting over the course maps, mentally preparing himself for every step. The run he began in just over an hours time would be the first run he had gone on in about six weeks. 

Dale is an international commodities trader. His job takes him to destinations in China and India and all over the United States. On his last trip to Shanghai, he slipped on some wet side walk, fell backwards and got a concussion. As runners, our bodies break. We are trained to deal with broken skin, blisters, sore muscles, swollen tendons. We account for which pains need to be ignored and which ones need treatment or work arounds. Mentally, pain becomes part of the sport and enduring and overcoming it the biggest challenge we face. But the brain doesn’t feel pain. A concussion is not a swelling that some ice and heat can help dissipate. Dale had been fighting headaches, dizziness, and memory issues since his fall and was nearly unable to participate due to the injury. But at 9:30 pm on Monday July10th, 2017, Dale Cougot moved down the pathway to the Badwater135 start line and at the sound of the start gun, began his run.

Race start

It was really dark in the desert, but every racer wore a red and reflective vest on the front and back while every crew member donned the bright yellow and reflective OSHA 3 certified safety shirts required by the National Park Service as well as blinking safely lights on the front and rear. The effect of this light cacophony was the feeling that you were at a rave with a bunch of really fit people and no music. 

After the start gun blasted, the runners moved with tenuous and measured paces up the boardwalk and past the cheering crews. Cowbells rang, people clapped and then they were gone in one long and winding line of light up the lonely highway. The moon was covered by clouds and the work had just begun. 

For the next five hours, Jen would drive up about three miles. We would watch for Dale as we passed him and he would issue a thumbs up to say “I feel good, stick with the plan,” or thumbs down, “stop sooner, somethings wrong.” We would park the van, get out and cross the street with our ready made bag of supplies and wait for Dale to pass. We would cheer other runners with high pitched calls, crows and anything else we could think of. 

I had torn open our brown paper Whole Foods bags and used the blank insides to create signs that said some silly phrases like “Badwater Shenanigans” and “Fireball here!” Also a serious one that ready “Snowdrop” as a reminder that Dale was doing this run to raise money for the Snowdrop Foundation that helps families in need fighting pediatric cancer. 

We played music and danced, but as we figured out our crewing and cheering, Dale was struggling. 

Around mile eight his breathing wouldn’t level out. A rather vicious wind at the start had kicked dust and sand up and into his ailing lungs. 

At mile eleven, his stomach turned and nausea set in. 

Mile fourteen brought a request for a 4:1 ratio counter from Jen’s watch to help him find a rhythm. 

We stopped aiding every three miles and began stopping every two. When we reached the boys for pickup at Furnace Creek, we somehow missed Dale at the Ranger station. We raced ahead knowing he would need water or sodium quickly when we caught back up to him. 

When we found him about a half mile up, he was mentally fragile. His voice was hoarse from the dust and breathing heavy from his rhythmless gait. We were not yet at the marathon distance and knew his mentality was the thing that needed us most. 

We continued our crawl and constant support through mile 28, where his spirits received a lift. The sun started to rise and with it brought some much needed hope for the coming miles. 

Tuesday

The sunrise was phenomenal. Each of the sun's rays seemed to peak over the distant mountains and stretch forever over the sand and shrubs. We played music and danced every time we stopped. The blinking lights were taken off and new optimism was donned. 

Dale had found a pace and was moving, still slowly but steadily and that is all that mattered. But just as the day seemed to be looking hopeful and new, a lightening bolt streaked through the sky above. 

Death Valley averages 2 inches of rain per year. A storm north of us had put a flash flood warning through the desert the day before and now, as we sat parked, Rihanna blaring from the speakers, miles from towns on either side, raindrops began to fall. 

We DANCED. We LAUGHED. This was unbelievable. The lightening was sparking sideways across a sky that reached from forever to the end of an impossible horizon and with each bolt we would cheer. The bolts were filled with yellows and orange and purple hues that were gorgeous and in a sky that wide the streaks lasted long enough to really take each color in.

While the storm was short and though it was beautiful, it created chaos for our runner. The air was hot and heavy before, but now there was humidity. The hard fought rhythm that had just settled in was gone and his breathing became even heavier. The hoarseness in his voice was painful to hear, and his skin began to look thin and pale. 

Mile 36, Dale came across the street to sit on the tail gate of the van a moment and eat something cold and nutritious to try and get his lungs back. He reached into the cooler for a handful of cantaloupe. He sat and ate for a moment, then went back across to continue his forward progress. 

We began calculations because we needed to hit the mile 50 time station by 10 am to make the first cutoff. We were moving forward, but the cutoff was slightly daunting. We needed to get our runner moving.

As Dale's pace slowed to a march, we encountered a piece of good fortune, wrapped in heartache. Nick was unable to hold any calories and had begun vomiting early in his race. He was moving even slower than Dale’s arduous stepping. We began moving concurrently with Jean and her crew, consulting and sharing the hard journey with one another. 

Dale is a teacher at heart and having his friend near him and sharing the road gave him new strength. If we could move them together to Strovepipe Wells, we could start pacing Dale and that would be yet another necessary mental pick up. 

Together they marched on. Nick moved like a ghost. His eyes saw nothing, he limped and his skin looked slick and pale. Dale gasped for breath and sweat goosebumbed along his sallow complexion. But together they marched on. 

Just before we reached Stovepipe Wells at mile 42, the run took an even more dire turn. Dale complained of dagger like cramps setting into his stomach. He stopped carrying water. His voice was gone. 

“I think the cantaloupe turned.” He croaked out in an airy whisp of words. His hands were shaking and he asked to lie down. We timed five minutes time for him horizontal to try and get the cramps to subside. They did not. He began to vomit about every 20 minutes. 

We moved into Stovepipe Wells and restocked on ice and Gatorade and moved out. Carl’s crew was there at the same time and said they all had been sick since Furnace Creek. Carl was still moving, but looking rough as well.

We had a little over two hours at this point to make it 8 miles. If we could get Dale through that time station, we could lay him down in the AC of the van for a while, rest and let his body come back on its own.
But we had to reach that check point first.
And that would be tough.
His current pace was about 3.7 miles an hour, including the stop time when he was wrenching on the side of the road. 

We were allowed to run with him now as safety runners. Jen set out first and hit two legs with him. The mood went from dancing and celebrating on the side of the road to tense and worried. The concussion was in our thoughts and we knew with his dehydration, his brain would be swelling. We had safety questions to ask him to make sure he was okay. We put these into play. 

He was moving forward, but swerving and losing balance. He drank water and ginger ale, but continued to vomit. He started apologizing. We tried to keep him moving but he now needed rest and AC. The fluids in his body were so low his muscles were visibly seizing in his calves. The man looked as if he had aged forty years over four hours. 

Mile 46.8- Brent went out as the safety runner, but we had misread the odometer. We told Dale he only needed to make two more miles to reach the aide station, thinking we were at mile 48. That 1.2 mile difference was a devastating error. We only had about 15 minutes to the cut off.

Jean pulled Nick’s crew van in front of us. She gave me a hug and through tear filled eyes told me Nick dropped. He couldn’t make the cut off, was too dehydrated and they pulled him. I got in the van to tell the others. We agreed not to tell Dale quite yet. 

Mile 47.4- We waited. We waited. His pace had slowed even more. We weren’t going to make the cutoff, but they might let him keep going. 

Maybe.

We crossed out fingers. 

I saw tears in Patrick’ eyes. Jen kept her head down, writing calculations on our guide maps. I reminded myself to breath. Drink water. The fight may not be over quite yet. 

They reached the van at a death march pace. Dale weaved. He crossed the street and again threw up. We put a tarp on the ground so he could lay down and then we saw the vehicle.

It was Chris Kostman driving past. He pulled over and turned around, seeing Dale laid out.

Jen and Brent crossed the street to let him know what was going on. I stood beside Dale, crumpled and wheezing on the tarp. I struggled to listen to what was being said across the street. 

“Weird year.” Kostman's baritone rang across the street. There were some head shakes. He drove away. 

Jen came back across the street, silently mouthing, “We’re done.”