ARTHUR WEBB'SBADWATER 2000 STORY "JOURNEY THROUGH HELL"    It has been severalweeks since the Badwater race and I am at home still licking my wounds. I amfinding it hard to figure out where to start this story. For a myriad ofreasons, I have found it very difficult to generate enough steam to evenwrite the thing. It could be that Badwater really pulverized me this year. Iam still having lots of trouble recovering and reentering the "realworld."But, I figure someone out there may be interested in my struggle out in thedesert, so what the hell here goes.     It is almost 6 AM and all the runners are beginningto assemble at thestarting line. There is a Sun Precautions Badwater 2000 banner whichstraddles a small piece of Highway 178 at Badwater. Since yesterday and, forthe last hour, innumerable photos have been taken. There are plenty of hugsand good lucks being passed around to old and newly established friendshipswhich will last a lifetime. As we line up and begin to stare into the teethof the toughest footrace on this planet, Adam Bookspan, who has alreadycovered 146 miles on his reverse double crossing, begins to honor ourpresence by playing the National Anthem on his trumpet. As usual it is anextremely emotional few minutes. In a very few seconds, we will be off andrunning on our own separate journeys into the jaws of the Death Valleytorture chamber in an attempt to fulfill our dreams and aspirations ofconquering this monstrous undertaking. This is one of the cherished momentswhich all the Badwater runners hold dear to their hearts. Fully trained,rested, ready to go, and it's only 90 degrees.  Perfect except for oneminorproblemY.I don'tknow if I can even run 100 feet.     One month ago after an awkward fall off my deck, myleft hamstring andsciatic nerve were severely injured. The damage was bad enough that it wouldtake a miracle to get to the starting line. Up until race day, I was treatedwith a battery of anti-inflammatory drugs, a mountain of pain pills, tons ofice packs, numerous sessions with physical therapists and some acupuncture.High doses of Prednisone were administered five days ago. At that time, Icould hardly walk and was completely depressed.  Less than two daysago, Dr.Ben Jones gave me a lumbar cortisone trigger injection that successfullyrelieved a terrible pain in my lower back.     Yet against all odds and everybody's advice, I amhere. The cry was fornext year. Do it next year when you are healthy, but at my age there may notbe many more next years. Besides does anyone remember receiving smart medalsfor any of the exotic runs we attempt?     A few days earlier, I had called Marshall Ulrich,who was injured andcrew-depleted. I offered him my crew and a mini-market stocked van if things

went sour. At the very least we would both get to the starting line andmaybe even hobble through this thing together.     The word is given and off we go. Surprisingly,everything feels okay asI run a few miles with a pack of my friends and heroes; Lisa Smith, JayBatchen, Steven Silver, Major Maples, Errol Jones, Maria De Jesus, andothers. Unfortunately, Marshall and I have to back off if we are to have anychance of finishing this race. Since we are both sputtering on only a fewcylinders, we will have to concentrate on running gingerly during the entirerace. Maria De Jesus runs with us for awhile but a case of food poisoningwill force her to drop out early. Around the 30-mile mark Kaname Sakurai andDusan Mravlje, only yards apart and from a race-start time two hours later,were  definitely on a mission. They zip on by us. It appears courserecordsare in jeopardy. We are entertained by Kari Marchant, a live wire crewperson from Bishop. If one could bottle and sell this wonderful women'spersonality and magnanimity, he or she would get rich overnight.     Running alone for a time, there is the realizationthat, for the nexttwo days, the great expanse and immense beauty of this land will mesmerizeus all. Amongst all the majesty, glory, and overwhelming beauty of thisDeath Valley, GOD is here (most likely in the shade). We are all privilegedto be running through this magical, inspirational and definitely spiritualplace. However, letting ones guard down even for a few minutes in thismystical and peaceful land, will expose you to its brutality. My lifelinecrew of John Rodgers, Pilar Dizes and her husband, James, will be at my sideto help protect me from this dark side. They will keep me hydrated, fed, andsprayed down with super-soakers for heat protection. They will essentiallycoddle me the entire race.     Marshall and I slug it out together for some fortymiles by running abit and doing some power walking.  As usual, at the Stovepipe dunes andtheDevils Cornfield, it gets extremely hot. Some say it got up to 127. Thethermal winds seem to always blow down the Valley and across this area. Isurge ahead a bit and follow Dean Karnazes. He was on a very good pace (andstarted later). He eventually turned in a terrific 32-hour race. I veeredoff the course at Stovepipe Wells Village (41 miles). This would allow mesome pool time before Marshall scoots on by. Marshall runs by only minuteslater, which means it's time to leave the pool and get going. Feelingsomewhat refreshed I am able to run three or four miles up the hill lookingfor him. I pass Joe Decker who had just scattered the ashes of his belovedfriend, Greg Jenkins, around Stovepipe Wells. A sad and honorable tribute tohis former crew member, who died caribou hunting in Alaska several monthsafter having been here last year. The heat is again stifling as I finallycatch Marshall. He is having his own problems and soon falls into a heapalongside the road. With a bad knee and an Eco-Challenge in Borneo due inthree weeks, he will wisely but sadly drop out.     Every year I have a tough bout early going up toTownes Pass (59 miles)and don'tknow why. I down some chocolate puddings and a couple of Starbuck'sfrapuccinos (my secret weapon). After my kidneys start to finally kick in, I

begin to feel better. During the next ten miles, I hunker down and trudge upwhat seems to be this never-ending grade. As it gets dark, this trek upTownes Pass appears to be the stairway to heaven. It'sas if I am literally walking into and amongst the billions of stars whichare splashed across the sky. It is extremely exhilarating. I would have comehere just for these few sacred miles. Near the top, we hear from other crewsthat the Russian runners have had dinner and a beer at Panamint SpringsResort. I get going and am able to run the entire 13 miles to PanamintSprings with the thoughts of scrambled eggs and a couple of beers dancingaround in my head. Upon arriving it is no surprise to learn that the lodgeis now closed. Darn. Oh well ,the hospitality room should offer a nicerespite. After slicing open two large blisters covering both my heels, thediarrhea, which will bother me for the next twenty miles, begins. That'sit. I have had trouble in this hospitality room every year and next timewill not be stopping here again.     The monumental struggle and crawl up the eight-milepass to the top atFarther Crowley'sPoint (80 miles), is next. Usually, I don'tfeel this fatigued until the Mt. Whitney climb some 42 miles from here. Nota good sign.  I generate some energy by looking back across thePanamintValley and toward Townes Pass at what appears to be a meandering string ofwhite Christmas tree lights. These belong to all the other runners and theircrews who are also grinding it out across this course. Spectacular. Yetanother reason for coming here.     I am startled and frightened by the appearance of agigantic and evillooking alien spaceship now hovering over the valley. Great! Now we are alldoomed and no one is going to finish this race. My crew attempts to assureme that it is only a sliver of the moon just now cresting the mountains. Itis night in the desert when all the demons start crawling out from the darkcrevices of the mind and begins to rattle around in our head. Last year,almost in this same location, a large white menacing figure was hunchedalong the road getting ready for the kill but I was able to get by just intime. My crew said it was only a large white rock, but what do they know.     While lying on the ground making a fruitlessattempt at a bit of sleepat Father Crowley=s,Clive Saffery, who is looking fairly strong, jogs by. Good. Someone to runwith. What'sthat old expression, "miseryloves company?"The extreme beauty in the desert this morning is enhanced by the arrival ofDana Prieto and Chris Kostman. Out on body count patrol, they will have tolisten to me whine for a few minutes. Next time they will probably driveright on by.     Near the Death Valley boundary sign (95 miles), CHPSergeant RandyBierly, the unofficial Badwater grapevine specialist, stops for a few words.Kudos to this fine man for his updated race reports, giving aid, and supportto those runners in need, and for citing those attempting to set new landspeed records.