2000 Chris Moon

SUN PRECAUTIONSBADWATER AND BACKChrisMoon's Journey August 2000April 1997 MarathonDes Sables, Sahara Desert Morocco.Where it all startedI am standing in thesand dunes with two runners looking at the star laden sky.  Nick theGreekis a six foot four accountant from London and the other a small wiryAmerican who'srun most of the world'sultras.  Bill Menard was designed by God to run long distances. His slightframe is supported by powerful legs and when he runs they swing likependulums pursuing perpetual motion.  I am honoured a great runner likeBillis talking to me, after all I'mone of the fat wheezy boys at the back and it can'thave escaped his notice that I'mdefinitely deficient in the limb department.There'sbeen a lot of discussion among the runners about which race really is thetoughest footrace on earth.  I decide to ask Bill. He replies,"Theorganisers and media are saying this one," but no chance!  There'sa race in Death Valley, California, which is about the same distance. Thedifference is that in the Sahara you do it over a week, in Death Valley youdo it continuously and there'sa sixty-hour cut off.  Most of it'suphill, the downs are so steep and long they kill your quads and it'sall on hot, hard roads.  People say the sand'stough here, but it'sgentle on your joints and you can tape your feet to avoid blisters. Abouthalf those who start Badwater don'tfinish and it'sthirty or forty degrees hotter than here.  In a few years time whenyou'rea bit faster you should try it. I recall the Saharadaytime temperatures of ninety plus and wonder if he'syanking my chain about it being thirty or forty degrees hotter.Death Valley July 2000           Viva Las Vegas.  Afterthe long flight, I carefully stow my running kit and cool boxes in the smallhire car.  I check it off in my mind.  Trail shoes and mountain

kit, fourpairs of trainers (all at least one size too big to allow for heatexpansion), spare leg, sun screen, lycra shorts and coolmax shirts, sunprotection top and trousers, sun hat, shades, shemag, sand goggles, torches,batteries, reflective night vest, false leg tool kit, shed loads of High 5isotonic and energy powder plus boxes of High 5 wild berry and banana barsand the chocolate caramel protein bars that are so good I want to startscoffing them now.Driving into DeathValley from the tiny town of Beatty, Nevada, is a gentle downhill, whichwould be an easy run to Badwater, the lowest point of the USA, but we'renot here for that, we'rehere for Badwater.  Any other run through Death Valley on any otherroute atany other time of the year is a soft option.  The temperature in DeathValley peaks in July.  The rocks act like huge heaters absorbing thesun'senergy and rising to temperatures of 93 degrees centigrade.  The airtemperature is 130 degrees Fahrenheit, not far off the temperature DeliaSmith recommends you slow cook chicken; in fact I think it would probably becooler in a slow cooker.The outline of thesand dunes on my right tells me I'llsoon be at Stovepipe Wells Village hotel, a small sprawling pre-fabricatedcomplex reminiscent of a tiny mining town.  I drive to the reception attheVisitor'sCenter at Furnace Creek.  As I open the car door the heat hits me likeahammer.  A steady wind blows and the dry hot air begins to suck all themoisture from my body.  If you want to know what it'slike to be here, put your hairdryer on maximum heat, full blast and stick itin your face. At the pre-racemeeting I meet old friends.  It'sgreat to see three lads from the RAF I met in the Sahara.  There aresomeawesome runners here.  Most of the people who'vewon this race have also not completed it on several occasions.  Theheat,hills, distance and hard road show no mercy. Lisa Smith, anexcellent ultra runner, and her partner Jay Batchen kindly give me a fewtips on kit and technique.  Their medical kits are impressive. They havetwo huge containers full of every imaginable drug and dressing.  I havesomezinc oxide, a bit of sheep'swool, four stopping up tablets and an Elastoplast. The elite runnersstart at six am on Thursday 27 July 2000.  I'mon the eight am start.  On the way we pass the Russians running likefury. They're

way out front.  Surely they can'tmaintain that speed?  They'vemade the classic Badwater mistake of starting too fast.  The rule issimple:start too fast, fall over later. Many experienced runners say the racestarts at the forty-two mile point (Stovepipe Wells Village).I watch AnatoliKruglikov (Russian male), Dusan Mravlje (Slovenian male) and Irina Reutovich(Russian female).  They run with the grace of gazelles.  The lookofdetermination on their faces and their running style tells me the normalrules do not apply to them; everyone suspects that they'llbreak the records.Badwater is a teamevent, because every runner has to have a crew handing out drinks, food,blister treatment and water. The race rules stipulate the crew vehicle mustleap frog ahead and monitor their runners at all times.  This isprobablywhy nobody has ever died doing Badwater, but there are deaths in thearea. On the last day of the race a woman'sbody had been found one hundred yards from her car on a remote road seventymiles away.  She'dbroken down and didn'thave an emergency water supply she died from dehydration.  The ParkWardensfrequently treat air-conditioned tourists used to airport, hotel and hirecar for heat exhaustion when they leave their cars for a few minutes andfall over in the heat.I start slowly.  It'stempting to rush off and race while you'refresh, but your writing cheques that later on your body can'tpay.  My drinking plan is simple: 500mls of High 5 isotonic everyhalf-hour.  It varies between individuals, but the stomach can onlycontinually absorb between 600 and 1200 ml an hour.  Over a long periodthedanger is that if you put too much fluid in the stomach it will closedown. When my stomach feels dodgy I take half strength High 5. After two hours thesun scorches and the heat cuts into you like a razor. I stumble on in adream.  I'venever been anywhere this hot.  Forget the hairdryer, stick your head inanelectric-fan pizza-oven on max and you'llbegin to understand. For a while I trundlealong with my friend Jack Denness.  Jack'sthe sort of bloke who makes you proud to be British.  Every year he andhiswife, Mags, take their holiday at Badwater.  He'ssixty-seven, runs for charity and always finishes.  Jack'screwed by his wife, his local postman and ex-commando, Frank McDonagh, and a