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The 2007 Badwater Ultramarathon started Monday July 23. With the start line at Badwater, Death Valley, the course rises from the lowest elevation in North America at 280’ below sea level. After a grueling 135 miles of paved roads, the race finishes at Mt. Whitney Portal at 8360'. The Badwater course covers three mountain ranges for a total of 13,000’ of cumulative vertical ascent and 4700’ of cumulative descent. The Portal is the trailhead to the Mt. Whitney summit, the highest point in the contiguous United States. I’m Todd Baum, a Fayetteville resident, and this is the story of my foot race from Badwater to the Mt. Whitney Portal.
Each entrant can have up to two vehicles and six crew members. My wife, Laurel, Jim Costello, Margaret Hartmann, and Ben Clardy went to the start with me. Pat Riccardi stayed back in Furnace Creek with the other minivan in case of vehicle failure in the desert heat. The two vans would stay in touch via satellite phones to arrange for necessary ice and supplies as needed.
I was standing on a starting line, feeling a little like I didn’t deserve to be part of this Holy Grail of marathon running. A committee of 5 felt otherwise— this 49 year old from Fayetteville was in company of the best ultramarathoners, adventure racers, and mountaineers in the world. French, German and Spanish seemed as common place as English.
Cloudy skies allowed me to comfortably run the 42 miles through Death Valley before reaching the Panamint Range. Temperatures started rising to 114 degrees in the Badwater Basin and Furnace Creek. The crew kept me cool, every mile spraying my Sun Precautions shirt and restoring my ice hats and collars.
After Stovepipe Wells, the road began ascending the Panamint Range. I walked strong through 2,500’. As I approached 3,000’, I was out of gas. Looking back on things, it is apparent that I wasn’t taking in enough calories.
Near Towne Pass, I stopped and rested in a reclining camp chair in the dark. Pat tended to my sore feet. I ate a much needed sandwich. I was then able to do some effective running down the 3,325 feet and 10 miles into Panamint Valley.
The Panamint Springs motel room was a Godsend for me and the exhausted crew. I slept 20 minutes and ate half a sandwich. My hands were becoming swollen with fluid (edematous), but my feet were still looking pretty good.
Revived from the calories and rest, I made decent time up to Father Crowley Point. The next 10 miles was a narrow shoulder-less mountain road with a sheer drop-off on the other side of the guardrail. Looking back east, I could see the lines of support vehicles in the night stretched out across Panamint Valley and up the Panamint Range. There was some consolation those miles were behind me. Nonetheless, the next 1,300 feet of accent took a toll and I slept another 15 minutes on the side of the road in the reclining camp chair.
Mile 90 was the Panamint Pass at 5300 feet. I had a little more running in my legs and started a run 1 minute, walk 1 minute routine that made good time. As I approached Darwin or the intersection of rt. 136 and rt. 190, I no longer had the ability to run. Even walking was difficult. Not much separated me from simply lying down on the side of the road, like road kill ready to be picked up and carried to medical.
A sunny Owens Valley became more challenging than Death Valley. Perception of distance became twisted. Looking down a stretch of 6 mile desert highway is like looking down 40 miles. With each turn of the road, another stretch presented itself as if to say, “You have nothing to look forward to but a walking hell.”
Off to my right was the Inyo Mountains and to my left was Owens Lake which was not a lake at all, but a vast stretch of salt and ghost towns. I appeared staggering as I fell asleep on my feet. Two times the crew pulled me into the van and wrapped me in cold wet towels insisting that I sleep. Pat directed this to perfection.
With 10 minutes more sleep here and there, I resumed the march to Lone Pine. I began to question my ability to hike up the Sierra Nevada’s off in the distance. I knew I needed to be careful, making every step with just enough, but with no more energy than necessary, in order to not jeopardize the team’s ability to make the finish line. Both runner and crew suffered physically and psychologically as the race wore on.
Arriving into Lone Pine was a huge step. I now had to ascend nearly 5,000 feet in 13 miles and this would be over. Looking up from the base of Mt. Whitney was scary. The road switchback that started 9 miles up seemed days away. A time goal of 36 or 40 hours became secondary to finishing, and I decided to take a break at our motel room in Lone Pine. Once in the motel parking lot, I saw other runners there as well. It wasn’t just me that was suffering.
I propped my feet up in bed. It was a time to evaluate my situation. Laurel had a turkey sub ready for me and I drank a glass of ginger-ale allowing me to pretend for a moment that everything was normal. But normal was becoming blurred.
We planned the ascent up to the Whitney Portal. Laurel and Margaret would go ahead in one of the minivans since rules allowed only one support vehicle on the Portal Road. Pat, having his own foot problems, would drive. Ben would accompany Pat in the van and re-supply me and Jim as needed. Jim would hike with me to the finish. At that point I needed Jim. We had run together for several years, and the next torturous 13 miles required the most trusted company.
The second night came. Soon the only points of reference were lights from support vehicles up the mountain road. It made distances seem a lot farther than they actually were. This was very discouraging as each step was painful and the exhaustion was overwhelming. Once I sat in the van for a few minutes. It was truly getting difficult to stand.
Jim and I discussed that such rest stops weren’t getting me any closer to the finish. Jim helped me create a logical case for not resting—no more putting my hands on my knees. Such rest stops would not lessen the struggle and would only prolong it. From then on, I walked. I decided that putting one leg in front of the other, no matter how difficult, would not injure or kill me.
So on we went to the finish and there waited the crew and finish line. 40 hours and 54 minutes after starting 8 a.m. Monday, we finished at 12:54 a.m. early Wednesday morning. A very tired crew finally hugged and celebrated.
I learned that putting one foot in front of the other can’t hurt you. It will simply get you to where you want to go.
Todd Baum