Mr. Bo Peep Runs Badwater By Arthur WebbOh no, there are sheepwalking all over the highway and the cars are speeding  by atseventy-milesan hour and nobody is stopping to help save them. I just can't stand byand let them all get run over, so in the blink of an eye I went fromultrarunnerto ultrasheepherder. It seemed to take forever to chase them off thestreetand into the safety of a makeshift pen out in the middle of nowhere. Howcome no one else is helping me? I wonder if I am the only one who seesthis happening. I have had some scary hallucinations out in the desertbut this is the worst one yet, because it is so realistic.Yet this can't be ahallucination, because it is still two days before the Badwater Race andI am in my hometown of Santa Rosa, CA. This roundup has really happened.Unfortunately, we are leaving for the desert in several hours and I willhave to leave these guys all alone for a few days hopefully with enoughfood, water and lots of luck. Will they be all right or will they breakloose and run back on the road?  Will their owners find them? Willthey have enough to eat and drink or will the dogs get them? I will spendlots of time over the next five days worrying about these guys as we headfor Badwater.The van is filled withelectricity and excitement and there is the usual apprehension as my crewand I leave Lone Pine and begin our journey across the mountains and intothe magnificent beauty of Death Valley.As soon as we arriveat Stovepipe Wells I immediately stumble into two of my friends andheroes,Lisa Smith and Marshall Ulrich. He has just completed his first, doublecrossing. At the pre-race meeting I meet Ben and Denise Jones, Paul Stoneand his wife Abby, Steven Silver, the Major, Errol Jones, Rick Nawrocki,Shannon Farar-Griefer and others. I attempt to get the autograph of everyrunner for my annual journal. It is all so incredible. It is good to beback.As we mill about thestarting line just before ten in the morning, I find it hard to believethat this is already my fourth consecutive Badwater Race. Very littlehas changed. The juices are flowing and the butterflies are still thesame each year. Pictures are taken at the Badwater sign and at thestartingline, which is draped with a Sun Precautions Banner.  Perched highabove our heads, at 282 feet on the side of one of the huge granite wallsof the sprawling Amargosa Mountain Range, is the Sea Level sign. Theentirescene as usual is almost surreal.As we nervously awaitthe start and stare into the maw of this most difficult 135-mileenterprise,we are all honored and privileged to have the National Anthem sung tous by Barry Oschner, brother of Badwater runner Nathan.The word is given andoff we go. After months of running high mileage, weeks of sauna trainingand one year of waiting, this unbelievable trek is finally happening.It feels good to be running and fortunately it's only 110 degrees. Early

into the race there is no one to socialize with because everyone isalreadyin single file and there are huge gaps between runners. I eventually settleinto a comfortable pace, while my crew (Lina, John, Pilar and James) beginfeeding, hydrating and keeping me sprayed down with cool water to helpprotect me from the blistering heat. For the next two days they will keepme going by doling out Crystal Geyser Water, Power Gel, Ensure, Cheetos,Starbucks Frappuccinos, soups, watermelon, peanut butter, puddings, fruitcups, bagels, chicken sandwiches, tuna fish, and two of my new secretweapons, O'Douls non-alcoholic beer and GLACEAU fruit water. That shoulddo the trick.As I run along monitoringthe needs of my body, I realize that I am completely surrounded andengulfedby the overwhelming and immense beauty of Death Valley. It is easy tounderstand why this Great Basin, with its colorfully named landmarks,has been established as one of our treasured national parks. Althoughthe desert and surrounding mountains are arid, desolate and sparse, theviews, which are breathtaking, continue to draw me to the Badwater Raceeach year.Everything goes smoothlyand it is rather peaceful and uneventful for the forty-two miles intoStovepipe Wells. I do remember making a special effort to tell one ofthe crew's that I thought they were too far ahead of their runner. Thesepeople belonged to the eventual winner, Mike Trevino. Shows you what Iknow. Feel stupid? Yeah.My plan was to runthis race in under thirty-hours. I arrive at Stovepipe Wells on schedule.It has taken me seven-hours and I am feeling tremendously strong andconfident.I reward my effort with a cool and refreshing dip in the pool because,at five in the afternoon, it is still a scorching 126 degrees.Although my doctorsuggested that I take up swimming for my age-related arthritis, I toldhim I wasn't sure but I didn't think it was possible to swim across DeathValley. Maybe he meant doing a couple of laps when I spend a few minutesin the pool. I am sure that's what he meant, so in I go. But after tenminutes in the water, everything changes drastically.  I suddenlybecome hampered with a bad case of cramps in my calves and hamstrings,which keeps me sidelined for an hour.Lying on the groundattempting to recover, I look around at all the large black ravens sittingin the trees all fluffed up with their beaks wide open and their tongueshanging out trying to find relief from the scorching sun. They areshinningexamples of the animal kingdoms struggle to survive even in the mostextremeconditions. We are only out here for a few days but they are here allsummer. Admire their will? You bet.I consume lots of saltsand electrolytes that my friend Bobb Ankeney has given me. My crewmassagesmy legs and the cramps begin to diminish. Fortunately I had recoveredenough to start the long trek up Towne's Pass just as Major Maples, whowas in the pool, began his lengthy Technicolor Barfathon. One of my strongpoints has never been a good puke spectator.For unknown reasons

I have always felt bad along this 18-mile climb to the top at Towne'sPass. I always feel great every year when I arrive at Stovepipe Wellsand terrible when I leave only minutes later. It's puzzling andmysterious,so next year I think I will try something different and just sneak onpast the resort. My theory is to keep doing this race until I get thejob done properly.Halfway up the momentousclimb I run into Steven Silver and Shannon Farar-Griefer. Shannon (whoI would have the pleasure to run with through the Santa Monica Mountainsin Southern California a month after the race) has just had a bad caseof blisters attended to by the "Blister Queen" and crew person,Denise Jones. We run together for a few miles and have a good time jokingand kidding around.It is nighttime inthe desert and we are all treated to a spectacular display of hundredsof shooting stars amongst the billions of other glimmering stars peeringdown from the heavens. Every year I get goose bumps from this awe-inspiringspectacle.Suddenly from somewhereout of the darkness, my body is clobbered by extreme weariness, whichpractically stops me dead in my tracks and will plague me for the nextforty-miles.After my struggle tothe top of Towne's Pass (59-miles), I spend an hour seeking a fewunfulfilledminutes of desperately needed sleep. For some reason I have always hadtrouble sleeping on this course. I try the old trick of counting sheepbut it doesn't work. All I can see are my buddies that I had left pennedup back home jumping over the fence and dodging all the cars on thehighway.It will be two more days before I can get home to see what has happenedto them.Since there is to beno sleep, I drink and eat as much as possible. I am mentally andphysicallyexhausted. It takes a major effort to get up and get going again. I gathersome steam by running down the hills and power walking across the saltflats to the Panamint Springs Resort (72-miles), where I seek anotherhour of unrewarded sleep. I am in terrible shape and I know that theupcomingmountain climb will be torturous.I have a craving forscrambled eggs but the restaurant is not quite open. Kari Marchant, whois crewing for Shannon, gets the cook to make me some eggs and I amtreatedto breakfast on the side of the road about three miles up the climb outof Panamint.A few miles further,as we edge up the mountain pass, we witness a spectacular fly by froman F-15 cruising along the canyon walls. This guy really gets close andhe tips his wings just before banking off and in seconds disappears intothe horizon. Yet another special treat out here in the desert. It musthave cost the race director a bundle to put this display on.It is early in themorning when I take a much-needed rest after the eight-mile and extremelysteep and difficult climb to the top at Father Crowley's (80-miles). While