Badwater 135 - my journey

I'm back at my desk, I'm not sure I am ready to write about the Badwater 135 experience yet, but I'm going to try.

The belt buckle that I received for crossing the finish line sits next to me - it's symbolic of the struggle to complete the race.

Detur Digniori

(Let it be given to the more worthy)

As I climbed the final ascent towards Mt. Whitney in the searing heat of Wednesday I was trying to think of words to describe the race, in a jumbled video I talked about how vast it was. Vast was the word that captured my emotions at the time. It's the lasting memory of the valleys, the mountains, the endlessly stretching roads.

I am not going to describe the race mile by mile here, instead I want to try and immerse you in the journey. I will try to share my innermost thoughts from the darkest moments to the euphoric.

I've been aiming towards Badwater 135 for years. It's been my big goal, everything else has been a step to get there - and there have been a lot of steps. It's been the backdrop to all my training, all my decisions and framed my mindset for years. My preparation had been great, everything had come together. Endless training sessions had been nailed, testing results were improving, everything had gone to plan - that seldom happens.

When I boarded the flight, the flight number was #135, my bib number was 47 - I am 47. I am not superstitious in the slightest, but I was amused by the seeming alignment of even these numbers.

This entire story was only possible because of the unwavering dedication of my crew, they committed to my goal, they were selfless in that pursuit and they were exceptional in the execution. I will scribe a crewing blog in due course, because whilst they were a rookie crew I believe they excelled. If any of that knowledge can help someone else to perform in the most unforgiving and brutal arena on earth - Death Valley - then it's our duty to help the wider Badwater family. For now, thanks to Brad, Fletch, Rich and Nick who accompanied me along every gruelling step. Special thanks to Rach, who whilst unable to crew, was a huge contributing factor to how I got to the start line. I am forever grateful to the five of you, I am at your service.

The wind howled across the dried lake bed, the salt crystals glistened in the setting sun. The arena for this gladiatorial battle was vast, some thirty of the 95 runners collected by the Badwater sign. I wasn't nervous, I was so excited - the dream was unfolding. The wind blew hot, lights flickered on every runner. Crew members lined up in the car park. Fizzing anticipation for what was ahead, for all the preparation all of these supremely talented athletes had undertaken - there was no way of telling what was to come. This race, as I have now learnt, will always humble you.

It dawned on me in that moment as another handshake and fist pump took place. Yes, this is a race. But this is not a race against any other competitor, it is you vs your inner voice, it is you vs the vast expanse of desert, it is you vs the vast power of the sun.

And we were off, the sun had set, darkness surrounded everyone. The heat does not subside in the night, you have respite from the direct sun, but the air temperature remains high. The first crew interaction came and went, bottles exchanged and onwards. All the runners had strung out along the road, cars approaching with runners for the next start wave beeped their horns - I was euphoric. Positivity filled my soul, this was really happening, I was racing in Badwater 135.

This can't be right, I'm only 15km in and I can feel my toes - must be nothing, let's ignore for now. Just note it Ben, don't focus on it.

Another bottle change, and another, progress was good and I was close to the front of the group. I was within myself and feeling strong, core temperature was under control. I'm loving this. No music, just flickering lights, runners and support crews - it's a wild experience. In a landscape so vast, where there is almost nothing, the place felt alive. A ribbon of runners and support cars cut a line through the desert, it was like a pulsing artery.

I radioed ahead to the crew, part test and partly because I needed more ice - no reply. I got to the car, the radios were in Bluetooth mode - this isn't right I thought to myself, they are already configured. Fletch said we can sort it later, but I can fix it now. It won't take me long. "No Ben, let's do it later" and we moved on.

Furnace Creek came, I changed my socks, my feet were damp but not wet - this should be ok. The section to Stovepipe Wells was the first insight into the scale, physical scale, of what was to come. A small rise and turn and you could see lights ahead - I would be watching these lights for hours, seemingly making no progress.

I was feeling a little weak, my pace slowed - I could have radioed, but they were not working. I waited to catch up to the car and took an extra Maurten gel, just topping up the target carb intake for the hour - that worked. I was flying again - this was great. Maybe the radios didn't matter - let it go Ben, let the crew manage it.

The leaders now passed me, they had started 2 hours behind me and were just starting to go past - amazing. If I was racing them I would have been crestfallen, I wasn't, it was inspiring - I was in the same race field as the best endurance runners in the world. Does that mean I am a proper runner now? Maybe I am really good enough to be here, doubt is an ugly bedfellow in every Ultra, it's always there ready to pounce on your conscious mind.

Stovepipe Wells arrived, here we picked up the rest of the crew and the first big climb would begin. I was looking forward to this, I was hours ahead of the cut off and wanted to power up this climb. The first blisters on my feet had been taped up, this was early to be taping feet and it was playing on my mind. We are only 42 miles into the race. 17 miles of ascent lie ahead, 17 miles of continual climbing - there is not a climb close to that in the UK, in fact it's more than 3 times longer than the longest. This climb was vast and the sun was rising up.

I don't easily give up control, I make my own decisions, it's how I live and operate - maybe it's a weakness, maybe it's not. I knew I could fix the radios, it didn't matter and I let it go. That's a strange feeling, but the crew were there whenever I needed them.

Hours of climbing passed. Spirits were high, the sun shone and the mercury rose. I was torn between the worry of my feet and the strength I felt - the voices were unbalanced and the feet were winning. Harvey Lewis told me before the race, don't keep looking forward, remember to turn around on the climbs and see where you have been - you won't believe it until you do. On the climb I looked back, not something I do, as far as I could see the road snaked off into the heat haze and desert - look how far I had come, physically and metaphorically.

Rich asked me something, I can't remember what, I couldn't respond - emotion had overcome me and I was having the first of many choked up moments.

The descent will come soon, I used to be wary of big hill descents, now I love them. The asphalt levelled off and then the descent began. Another session to bandage my toes and we went down. My toes were smashing into my shoes, what was going on, this wasn't normal. I think I started to try and protect them with changes to my stride, subtle but it would later haunt me. This wasn't good, I was planning on cruising this descent and across the valley floor whilst the sun was low in the sky. The gap between where I wanted to be and where I was was widening.

Ahead of the descent were the salt flats and a very hot section before hitting Panamint Springs. Down we went, I could feel a blister pop, my little toe - I can ignore that - I told my crew. The meandering road opened and the last few kilometres of descent opened out to show the valley floor. Here was the vastness of Death Valley in action, such is the scale of everything that it looks like it's a few kms to cross the valley floor. It's not, it's many miles, many hot miles. Still I powered across the valley floor, I was determined to keep my progress and time.

I was in the heat of the valley floor, Brad told me the plan - we would stop at Panamint Springs and completely re-do my feet - ok. I was listening to their collective decision-making. I was providing them information, but I wasn't making decisions - I had surrendered to their judgement.

In Panamint Springs we took the time to service my feet - this took ages. Sincere apologies to the table of people eating their lunch next to us - not the backdrop you wanted!

I felt calm, we were not moving forward, but they knew what they were doing and I was at peace with that - it was complete trust.

The climb began, up over Father Crowley - another relentless climb, this was the big middle mountain. We summited, it was a false summit, same again... and again. Each false summit a reminder, whenever your mind hopes for a milestone, this race delays the delivery. From here we would be on a long gradual descent into Lone Pine and I mean long - 40 miles long.

I'd tried repeatedly to run, just short sections, it was becoming more and more futile. It was now that the game shifted, I couldn't run any more. My feet were shredding when I ran and if they continued like this they could finish my race - I can't DNF because of blisters. My legs were shot too, had I gone too fast, had I not fuelled enough - I think I was just at my limit, plain and simple.

The perception of time was extending, I had 50 miles left and my pace was pedestrian. A nighttime finish was out of sight now, the timespan ahead was stretching - as my addled brain tried to compute the distances and times involved I had a very real fear - what if I can't do this? What if this race was too tough for me? I was alone for a few miles, my thoughts were unhelpful, my narrative needed to shift. I had been running for hours, more than 24 at this stage. It just seemed an inconceivable amount still to do.

I listened to some videos of support I had been sent, I sent videos in response - it was cathartic, I was recording video messages. In fact, I was telling myself that I had to find a way through. Tears streamed down my face, I would find a way, I have to find a way to finish this race.

The crew were exhausted, I approached the car... "I need someone with me". Before the race I had been fairly relaxed about the crew pacing, I'm not used to having pacers and haven't relied on them in the past. This was different, I didn't need them to say anything, I just needed to be in the company of another human being. A human being in this vast and inhospitable desert - silence was ok, isolation wasn't.

We had to find a way to finish the race. My knee had flared up, first started on the descent from Towne Pass, I think from not running "normally". It was going to be a long and painful march to the finish.

We moved on and on.

Lights could be seen tracing off into the distance as far as you could see. The flashing lights of the crew cars marked the course in the dark night, hours of forward progress passed and the lights hardly moved. All this effort and such little visible progress, it was breaking me down. You could see lights as far away as the finish on Mt. Whitney - it was miles away.

I was walking along, I fell asleep. I woke as I stumbled along the road and at the next car stop told the crew I needed 10 mins sleep. They gave me 30 mins and then we were on our way. Dawn must not be far away surely? It was hours yet.

I am smashing paracetamol and ibuprofen. (I wouldn't normally take ibuprofen in a race, but at this pace it was fine). The pain in my knee comes in waves, long waves. 20-30 mins and then some respite - this would repeat until the end. It wasn't getting worse, it certainly wasn't getting any better. Would this be my race-ending injury - don't get worse knee. I was thinking about how to make a crutch, but there's not a tree to be seen. Just make progress.

Nick was flashing a light saber, who knew the green flash of a light saber could provide such levity to a really quite dark and morose situation.

The next few hours were spent with Brad by my side, I am sure these were the darkest hours of the race, interspersed with hysterical laughter. Sleep deprivation and exhaustion is a strange combination.

Brad knew the hole I was in, he didn't need to say anything, he didn't need to try and lift me out. The role was simple but vital. I had to find my way out of the hole, that's the point, nobody can talk you out of it. You have to take your own action, you have to find something within to latch on to. I don't know what it was exactly, just the possibility of getting to Lone Pine perhaps.

We walked towards the milestone of Keeler for what seemed like the entire night, the lights were there for hours... Keeler came and went.

Our next milestone was Lone Pine, if we got there we would complete it, but we weren't there. It was dawn, it was cold, I wasn't working hard enough to stay warm and had extra layers on. We could see the junction ahead, Rich told us it was 4.5km away - it can't be, it's just there. Sure enough, it was 4.5km - the vastness of every vista was still tricking me.

I lay on the floor in Lone Pine, Fletch worked on my legs, trying to rejuvenate them somehow. We only had one climb to go, it might have been 21km long, but it was just one climb.

That last climb was like a re-run of the emotions of the whole race again - compacted. Euphoric excitement as we left Lone Pine and hit the first km of the climb. A brief feeling of "this is ok" before the sun really started baking us, we passed another runner - I felt strong. On we went, this was getting harder - I could see the road stretching out, up and away towards the switchbacks. The first few kms passed and then the grind continued. Time seemed to slow, we were still hours away - I was going to make it, I think, but it was still not a certainty. Doubt crept in, but I now knew that this could be silenced - if I could endure the previous night, I could endure this. Just keep moving.

This climb never relented, not for 100m did the gradient ease, it was never-ending. I kept turning around, it sounded like someone was behind me - it wasn't - it was my own breathing, the dust had dried my lungs so much that I was wheezing, the delirium made me think someone was behind me. Perhaps being chased by an imaginary runner was motivation.

Race finishers were coming down the hill in their cars, we were close, this was motivating. Probably a couple of hours to go now.

I was on the last switchback now, I was going to make it. I was going to complete Badwater 135, tears streamed down my face.

A sign came into view, it was not the finish, another sign and another - is there actually a finish to this race? And there they were, my crew all there. There is a tradition at Badwater that you cross the line with your crew, there's a very good reason for that - they are the reason you make it to the finish line, and every runner gets to break the ribbon. Another reminder that this race is against yourself.

We crossed the line, a weight lifted from my shoulders. I embraced my crew - we had done it, we had completed Badwater 135.

Photos and a belt buckle awarded by Chris - what a remarkable privilege to be a part of this Badwater family.

We went to the car, I sat in the chair and the crew enjoyed an ice-cold beer. We exchanged some thank yous and comments on the accomplishment - there is much more to follow there. I didn't have the words to do justice to what they have selflessly allowed me to achieve. I tried to explain that the biggest compliment was probably that I hadn't interfered with what they had done for the preceding 39 hours at all - I had given them full control. Those that know me well will acknowledge that's quite the crew accolade.

I was physically depleted but my soul was satiated - within 25 mins I had told them I wanted to do it again. I've never been in a race like it. It won't be next year, I think I need to improve more, I know I can improve significantly.

The entire race was spent communicating in a strange mix of bottles and drink contents - 320 and water, two waters, 160 and water - this all made sense to us. 320 and 160 were Maurten drink mixes, water didn't mean water - it meant water and 1.5 teaspoons of Maldon sea salt. All this info was tracked, at every hour the crew knew exactly what I had consumed - we'd planned this and it worked perfectly. I will share the data, the nutrition plan and what was consumed in detail in due course for those that are interested. I drank 122 pints of water, the equivalent of 120 bananas of carbohydrate and enough salt to flavour 529 packets of crisps!

The crew were relieved, their duty was complete. The crew worked like a perfectly choreographed dance. Everyone excelled in their role, they worked hard and they enjoyed themselves - not a cross word was exchanged in the car - remarkable given the intensity. A testament to the character of the four of them.

For the entire race I surrendered to them, I was vulnerable where I had to be and sometimes when I wasn't expecting to be. I proved myself to have more strength than I knew where it was needed. Badwater does change you, you can't go into that arena and come out the same person. I owe it to the race and the Badwater family to give something back. I owe my crew, they sacrificed so much. I owe it to myself to take everything I have learnt and elevate what I can do.

Did I win the race with myself? I'm not sure, I finished where I did - could I have gone faster - maybe, could I have been slower - quite possibly. I think in Badwater you get the result you get for the person you are at the time, so, I guess we can call it a draw? I know where I can improve, one day I'd like to know I am ready to re-enter that vast arena of Death Valley - it's time to build myself to be better, because I know I can be.

Death Valley: the full name really should be Death & Reborn Valley - that is what happened out there. In due course I will probably be able to articulate it more completely, for now, that's it.

So no matter how vast the challenge, there is always a way through. It is our responsibility to find a way through.

Me and my crew. Brad, Fletch Rich and Nick. Photo by Graham.