“The world’s toughest foot race”: A report from Badwater 135
Words by Paul Snyder. Photography by Ryan Sterner.
Death Valley is more an abstraction than a place. Sure, it exists – craggy mountains, forests of boulders, sun-scorched earth, and a shimmery ribbon of asphalt slicing through it all – but it’s defined mostly by its visitors’ trepidation and misery: thoughts of mortality are hard to avoid when ‘Death’ is right there in the name.
Maybe you go for the anecdotal trump card – “You think that’s hot? Try going hiking in Death Valley in July!” – or maybe morbid curiosity: just how painful can you make your vacation? Or maybe, in the words of Tim, a man from Minnesota we’ve struck up a conversation with at a bar in Lone Pine, California, on the eve of the Badwater® 135 ultramarathon, you’re there because you’re “looking for the next challenge.”
Tim had flown into Vegas earlier that day and made the drive in with some pals. In just 24-hours they would be crewing for one of their co-workers as she attempted “the world’s toughest footrace”. This requires hot footing it from Badwater Basin (282 feet below sea level, the lowest point on the continent), 135-miles up to Whitney Portal (8,374 feet above sea level; not the lowest point on the continent).
For the majority of the roughly 40-hours their athlete would spend running, walking and limping along the side of the two-lane highways that comprise the course, the temperature wouldn’t dip below 90ºF (32°C) but would climb over 20 degrees hotter. Members of her crew would creep ahead in a rented minivan, parking on the shoulder roughly every mile to top her up with fluids, spray her with tepid water, slop SPF 50 onto any exposed skin, and coax her into eating something, anything. She’d be climbing a cumulative 13,000 feet, and would experience shade approximately zero times.
As Tim describes this arrangement to us, he appears excited, perhaps even envious. Is that something he’d like to do someday?
“Oh, yeah. Absolutely.”
Life and death in the Valley
Death Valley is a recessed strip of land, wedged between treeless mountain ranges in the northern reaches of the Mojave Desert. It’s undeniably beautiful. The sparse vegetation and jagged topography allow for sweeping, panoramic views of the valley that serve as a constant reminder of the scale and severity of the place – Death Valley is desert landscape cranked up to 11. Hot wind blows in and stays put. The highest ever air temperature of 134ºF (56°C) and surface temperature of 201ºF (93°C) on the planet were both recorded here.
Water is a zero-sum game in Death Valley, and the trickle that flows through the handful of year-round creeks and ponds can only support so much life. When it does rain, it’s not uncommon for it all to evaporate before reaching the parched earth, which is hardened, packed, cracked, and in pockets looks like someone tipped over the contents of a 300-foot-tall salt shaker.
But even here, there's hope. Life in Death Valley doesn't flourish, but it adapts and persists. Members of the Timbisha Shoshone Tribe still call the region home, in spite of a centuries-long displacement effort, increased strain placed on the delicate streams that provide water and support biodiversity, and decades of industry forever altering the landscape and culture.
Even here there's hope. Life in Death Valley doesn't flourish, but it adapts and persists.
Over the last century, Death Valley has become Hollywood shorthand for hostility and lawlessness. It's here that studios film final shootouts, where the hero rides into the sunset, a bullet-hole cowboy hat and a glowing silhouette. It's here that George Lucas built the forsaken desert planet set, ruled by Jabba the Hutt in Star Wars. And it's here that my friend, photographer Ryan, and I document the place as it appears, in all its harsh beauty and brutality.
We're here to photograph the favorite to win the race, On trail athlete, Yoshihiko Ishikawa, who in July 2019, set a new record for the Badwater 135 (Yoshi’s time for the 217km: a sweltering 21:33:01).
We meet him and his crew in their motel’s parking lot in Lone Pine the day before the race. Yoshi, who proposed to his now wife at the finish line in 2019, is on record saying, "It's no fun if you don't win," and his translator confirms that he's got his eyes on the prize again. Lowering his own record is not the priority, just a humble little win would do. As we chat, we take a peek into Yoshi's hotel room. Aside from the standard beige furnishings, there’s the crate-worth of supplies his crew will use tomorrow to keep him alive and moving forward. He is very excited about it all.
It's no fun if you don't win.
Having spent most of our lives around runners of all stripes, there’s no novelty in people stating that objectively miserable things are fun. But being immersed in the world of competitive track athletes, marathoners, or contenders in the Western States 100 (another of North America’s most savage ultramarathons) is different from this.
When you run a race like the Boston or New York City Marathon, it hurts like hell, but when you finish, limping around in your little space blanket for a few hours, you're greeted by the creature comforts of the big city – a swift cab ride and you've got a hot shower, a burger and a beer via room service. You fly home the next day, maybe wearing your medal on the plane, and the other passengers sort of get it. “Oh wow, congrats! I could never do that!”
With more conventional ultramarathons, you’re in pain for a lot longer, but it’s dulled by a scenic, bucolic beauty. The hours of solitude are buffered by friendly, experienced volunteers who know at-a-glance just what brand of flattened soda you need as a pick-me-up. At Badwater, there’s no obvious reward or comfort at the end, and no possibility of nestling up in nature’s bosom for solace when the going gets tough. At least here you won't get lonely – your crew is a near-constant presence.
Yoshi's 2019 finish line marriage proposal makes sense as a tactical masterstroke. Not just a pure declaration of devotion, but a survival strategy. Keep your faith in love long enough and at the finish line lies hope; not just acute dehydration, wild flashbacks and a lifetime of foam rolling.
This caliber of challenge doesn’t come cheap. Finishers at Badwater pay a $1,595 entry fee – plus thousands more for airfare, lodging, and food for themselves and their crew – if you want in, best get saving.
Money to burn? Residents of Lone Pine (population: approximately 2,000) are here to assist. Every business scrambles to accommodate the bumrush that accompanies the race, but the awful reality of what runners subject themselves to over those mountains, willingly, and at great financial expense, is too much for the locals to grasp. Lone Piners are mostly concerned with how these visitors are tipping. There will be no Boston-style scream tunnel when the runners start to trickle through town.
The world’s toughest footrace
While Badwater may not garner the wider local recognition of one of the Marathon Majors, to the people who run it, crew it, organize and cover it, it’s everything. And Chris Kostman, the race director, is the kingpin at the center of it all. Chris is one of the most effortlessly, albeit strangely, charismatic people I’ve ever encountered. And he’s a one-man mythologizing force – calling Badwater “the world’s toughest foot race” is a genius act of marketing that resonates with ex-military folks, motivational speaker-types, your standard ultrarunning self-flagellators and landscape photographers.
That thing about having to run on the white paint so your shoes don't melt? Total myth. But I imagine Chris doesn’t work particularly hard to dispel it. And there’s no harm in that.
Twenty-three hours, eight minutes and 135-miles from the start line, Yoshi's headlamp sways through the darkness. Surrounded by his crew, he hobbles across to the finish, elated but more spent than anyone I've ever seen. Despite the language barrier and intense fatigue, he politely answers a handful of questions from the press scrum, and poses for photos. Within minutes, we watch Yoshi's crew help lift him into the rear passenger seat of a minivan, where he promptly falls asleep before the automatic door can fully shut.
And he can sleep tight – the last finisher doesn't accomplish this agonizing feat until over 24-hours later.
Back to earth
With Yoshi’s victory in the books, we make our way back down the mountain and into town, trying to process the strangeness and exhaustion of the last two days. We’ve barely slept, only eaten what we’ve procured at gas stations, and despite taking in what seems like gallons of water, we feel as dry as exhumed mummies.
The whole thing’s like a fever dream. It’s tough to separate the hype from the reality that is Badwater 135.
It’s tough to separate the hype from the reality that is Badwater® 135.
As an observer, there are moments where the whole thing feels like evil Disney World. You half expect to walk behind a Truman Show-style facade to discover a 200-foot high hair dryer blowing hot air across a prop desert landscape.
But in the moments of calm oppressive heat, when the next runner and crew are miles away and you realize you haven’t seen a cloud or plant with a leaf on it all day, you’re reminded this is all too real. It’s a dangerous place, where a couple of tourists die every year. Death Valley is actively trying to kill you, and you’re dancing with it every step you take along the 135-mile route.
In that regard, Badwater is not a race as much as it’s something to be conquered. It’s lifetime achievements greatest hits: side one, track one.
But during the race itself, the prevailing feeling isn’t a joyful one. It’s downright funereal. I think back to Tim at the bar. Once you start measuring your life by sought-out obstacles you’ve overcome, it’s hard to imagine ever being content so long as there’s something else out there to wage battle against.
And winning’s the only option. Just ask Yoshi.
