Lost & Found in Death Valley

SIGN IT ALL AWAY

I peer out of the kitchen window of our El Monte RV as the walls of the buildings on either side of a narrow driveway end and we pull into a gravel parking lot with other RVs filed tightly along the entire perimeter. A circus of small tribal-like gatherings scatter the dusty space. Some teams are already huddled in coordinated outfits while sounds of music pulse from each grouping, completely out of sync. It feels closer to the second day of tailgating at an EDM concert than it does the check in for a running event.

We’re handed some waivers to sign. While this event stays as far from formal and official as possible, and letting out the raw beast within oneself seems among the primary goals of the whole thing, no human in the age of liability is careless enough to let the needle of blame balance on themselves for this one. We take turns with a few pens and tuck the signed papers acknowledging individual responsibility for all this uncertainty into a yellow envelope. For all we know we’ve all been gathered here to sign all of our life’s possessions over to some guys who rented a garage in Southern California because I can say with reasonable certainty that the crowd we’re now among is not made up of individuals who read fine print.

“So I hear you guys are here for the record?” Blue Benedum, one of masterminds behind this event, enters our huddled circle. He’s holding a plexiglass case packed full of five dollar bills as he moves from tribe to tribe collecting bets on the final winning time.  Bets are scribbled onto the five dollar bill and the closest guess to the winning time takes all at the end.

“We’re thinking about it,” says Matt Taylor, Tracksmith CEO and designated Minivan Captain for the relay. “Any other teams eying the record?”  

“You guys are definitely looking strong. I think there’s a team from France called The Sun Chasers that looks pretty serious.” Blue motions to a group standing quietly in a semi-circle outside of the abandoned garage. They’re all wearing sunglasses and their expressions concur with Blue’s interpretation; they look pretty serious.

The Speed Project is a 340 mile relay from the Santa Monica Pier to the Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas sign. A brain child of Nils Arend, the CEO of a design studio, and Blue, a Malibu-based race director, the race has few rules and no set course. To be record eligible teams must be comprised of four men and two women, though teams outside of this format are still welcomed into the adventure – the foremost criteria for admission seemingly being a group’s alignment with values of the two masters behind this production. Exchange a few words or witness Nils and Blue in their element for slivers of a moment and you will quickly understand that any product produced by their two heads knotted together is going to undoubtedly be an unhinged journey that will require a few pulse checks and possibly some bail money. The type of thing that elicits a nervous laughter out of anyone with half an thought on what’s about to happen.

“What’s the calculator say the winning time will be?” Our photographer, Emily Maye, leans in to ask me as she straightens out a five dollar bill on the corner of a wooden table preparing to jot down her bid.  

“We’re coming in just under 36 hours if things go reasonably according to plan,” I say. “If things went perfectly, maybe close to 35:30, but throw down 35:49. That’s a safe bet.” Avoiding the threat of the impending over-explanation of this race calculator (anyone involved in the planning process knew by this point my attachment to my spreadsheet had become fatherly), Emily smiles and trustingly pens in “35:49.”

The last several months at the Trackhouse we mulled over various scenarios, as laid out in this calculator spreadsheet. Every time we turned the dials, there seemed a plausible way. 35:49 stuck out as one of the more likely outcomes if any of the assumptions supported by my minimal experience were worth a damn thing.

Beginning to get restless standing in the direct sun of the afternoon with a starting gun set to fire a short 12 hours from now, our team decides to slip out of the meeting that’s yet to begin. We capture a final glance at this mysterious team from France as we make our way back across the dusty lot to the RV and set for home.

THE START...

I awake to the hurried sounds of Sam Roecker packing our bags and pat my sweat-covered shirt. It’s 3:40 in the morning. The Speed Project 4.0 is set to start from the Santa Monica Pier in twenty minutes where the first runner in our rotation, Peter Bromka, is presumably waiting and ready to go. The house of is totally empty as the rest of the Tracksmith team has headed to the start to take part in the send off ceremonies.  

“I’m going to run down to the start and cheer them off. Are you feeling okay? Your shirt is covered in sweat.”

Awareness seeps in as I grow more awake. Familiar pre-race flutters enter my stomach and I shoot up to scramble my belongings.

“I’m fine. Are we going to miss the start?”  I’m picking up and shoving away what I can, trying to be helpful in a situation that Sam already has completely under control.

We dart out the door with barely enough time to shuffle jog the 1.5 miles down to the Pier to see the relay start. In a still piece of time when the LA nightlife is down to a drip and the new day yet to begin, 40 teams and all of their crew members bring the corners of Ocean and Colorado Avenue to life with blow horns and cameras and waves of cheers that rippled out in reaction to the words of Nils, who stands at the center of this mob.

He slowly raises his left arm with a blow horn gripped in his hand and raised to the sky.

“See you in Vegas!”

The crowd ignites with cheers as 39 runners sprint into a hard left turn and, breaking free of the huddled photographers and unsuspecting fans, a lone runner in a relay kit heads straight, purposely ignoring the first turn of a 340 mile map made up of countless turns. TSP 4.0 is underway.

THE WHY...

Six and a half months earlier Rafa, Tracksmith’s Creative Lead, reached out to a small group of us, buttering us up with inquiries into our spring 2018 racing plans before mentioning this relay called The Speed Project.  With more than a handful of Tracksmith trips under my belt I was very aware of the tendency for these things to take on a mind of their own and this one was felt particularly alive as soon as the idea was presented. Put six high mileage endorphin junkies on a trek from LA to Vegas with a support crew to handle our basic needs and a creative team focused on twisting the towel until that last perfect bead of content drips out. Purpose, I’d like you to meet opportunity.

ON THE ROAD...

The first rotation of our line up snakes us out of Los Angeles, finally finding Sierra Highway where the logistical challenges back off and team finds its orderly rhythm: Bromka, Mike Carlone, Rachel Coogan, David Kilgore, Me, Sam. The sun is out, we’re putting pavement behind us and are all in high spirits. Every couple of finished legs I pester the refueling runners for exact times and distances to update our live tracker working from the carefully constructed calculator.

It’s Friday afternoon and it still feels more like a road trip than a race. Just ahead of us, The Sun Chasers are handing off in very short intervals. At some points we see them on the road two at a time; one on a bike and another running, handing off with a swift dismount for the biker while the runner grabs the ghost-riding bike and opposite roles are assumed. The method seems desperate and the lead this team from France is able to gain heading into sunset does not raise much concern amongst our team.  I continue to execute one leg at a time, still passing as manageable steady efforts, and quickly shift my focus back to the social life inside the RV. I force down some pasta and pizza and continuously sip on my Gatorade and water mix as I resume my place at the kitchen table to document each runner’s splits and get back into the business of studying the map.

Into the night…

The mood in the RV shifts as the night legs seriously test our composure. It isn’t a dip in hope, but the moonlit desert drapes a layer or two of seriousness over the whole adventure. Dehydration weighs heavily on Bromka, who is now showing concerning signs of his ability to continue. It’s the first time uncertainty enters our minds as we watch our teammates disappear into the darkness and wait anxiously for a bobbing headlamp to appear at the other side.

“Are you sure we’re facing the right direction?  I am pretty sure the highway should be to my left,” I say to Emily and Matt as we study the map by cellphone light on the hood of the El Monte RV. It’s my third and final solo desert leg and I’m becoming increasingly less successful at blocking out my hesitation to get back out onto the trail.

“Yeah, I think you just run over that highway bridge and then stay straight.”

“Are you guys really going to trust a guy who’s gotten lost during a road race on a marked course?” I make a nervous joke that’s more than half serious, as jokes usually go.

“You’ll be fine! Just keep the highway to your left,” Emily answers, attempting to be reassuring while her voice reveals gaps in confidence.

David smacks my hand and I take off into the darkness.  At some point during David’s last leg we finally passed the Sun Chasers, who have slowed significantly in the desert sand. The bobbing headlamp of their runner behind me quickly disappears from my rearview within minutes of striding down the trail. The directions call for the runner to slowly angle towards the highway until reaching a barbed wire fence where the trail will ride along the fence until a downed section of barbed wire. At this opportunity, cross through the broken section and head up the highway ramp towards the exchange point.

I am relieved as I successfully reach the barbed wire and hold stride with my light split between the fence and the trail, waiting for the break in gnarled metal marking my opportunity to head out towards the highway. Open desert offers little for points of reference, what I imagine being lost at sea must feel like. I can’t distinguish between the adrenaline of competition and the adrenaline of fear. There are packed stretches of sand that allow me to cover ground quickly. Soft sand disguises itself among the packed sand and each surprise plant into the beach sand sends my feet crashing into my tiring legs, which eventually begin to bleed. Occasional water gullies pop up in irregular intervals nearly sending me to the desert floor. I weave the vegetation, frantically scanning my headlamp between the ground at my feet to what lay out ahead. Every sound from the darkness increases my heart rate as the objective of sustainably-steady running fades and fear sends me scrambling to get back out of this desert.  

Suddenly everything goes dark as I crash into the opposite bank of a deep gully and smash my headlamp and body against the hard sand wall. I scramble up the other side and panic sinks in as I scan the entirety of the fence and no breaks come into view.  I see my target in the distance; the glowing lights of the gas station on the opposite side of the highway separated from where I stand by a barbed wire fence, a steep sandy embankment, and a highway. I decide to squirm my way under the fencing and spider my way up the embankment, my need to get out of this desert far exceeding the desire to avoid some scraped from the barbed wire. Scrambling over the final ledge I dive over the guardrail into the shoulder of the on ramp and run in against traffic towards the exchange point. Unsuspecting travelers in a minivan witness as I roll off the guardrail and resume full stride down the shoulder of the road, with bloodied legs and desert sand powdered all over my body, wearing the face of fear that only racing or running for your life could produce.

“What the hell happened?” Sam runs up the road to join me as I come into their view.  

“I missed the break in the fence. I think I’m fine?” I over-extend my stride to show my full range of motion as we approach Rafa standing outside the van where David waits.  

 “Right,' she says sarcastically as she falls into stride and shoots away to start off our two-mile repeats down Death Valley Road.

I get into the van as Rafa pulls off towards Sam to light her way down this dark highway, Death Valley Road. David quietly fills me in on the mood back in the RV - Bromka may not be doing too well - while Emily lays curled up in the back, attempting to steal some minutes of sleep from the night.

In these two-miles we find perfect rhythm. This shift feels peaceful. For the first time in as long as I can remember right now is all that exists. I smile when I know that right now is all that has ever has existed and I feel absolutely calm. I think that maybe all pleasure-seeking is an attempt to fill this void where right now really belongs and that maybe wants and desires and all of the complicated emotions that boil around inside us are really just feelers searching blindly for what we will never find.

Our shift comes to an end and Rafa drops us back at the RV. I am able to clean up for the first time since my fall in the desert. The RV is cold. We slide into tights and sweatshirts and crawl into bed. With no map segments left to study and a clear plan under control my mind is at ease and I fall asleep.

The second day…

“Guys?  Dammit, I feel terrible waking you up, but Rachel is on her last two-mile.  We have about ten minutes until they get here,” Matt says, shaking Sam and I awake.  

The sun of the second day climbs toward the horizon as David, Sam and I frantically dress in what we’ll run in next, grabbing any water and snacks from the RV we think we’ll need while off again in the satellite minivan. I hear whispers from the crew of the French team approaching. Groggy from the 40 minutes of sleep my mind was able to gift my body, I don’t quite register the basis for their apparent concerns. We’d put enough distance on the Sun Chasers during the night to lose any sight of their headlights in our wake that stretched out along the 18 miles of straight road consumed by our last shift. But as we step out of the RV and into the pre-dawn light there is no mistaking the headlights off in the distance; the French are coming.    

A hard and discouraging two-mile starts the shift for each of us. We attempt to encourage each other, but uncertainty sits obvious in our voices. Real fatigue is becoming harder to ignore. As the shock of this new phase of difficulty wears off we are all able to find rhythm again. A fortress of optimism and momentum we all assume full responsibility in protecting.

Our shift ends and we climb back into the RV for the first full assembly of the team since we disappeared into the darkness of the desert 14 hours earlier.  We now realize Bromka is more depleted than we thought and there are now just five of us left to continue. The sun in Death Valley beams down as the desert heat again becomes a challenging element to our mission. Mike is out on the roads doing a 2-mile repeat while the rest of us huddle into the kitchen of the RV and re-calculate our game plan for the now five runners and take inventory of our respective energy levels. A vehicle comes roaring by our window. We all peer out through the windshield as a blue, white, and red flag flaps from the RV ahead. The French are here.

The Battle…

“How’s everyone feeling?”  Matt climbs into the RV from the minivan parked ahead to check on what we’ve decided.

“We’re thinking 800 repeats,” replies Sam.  

“Okay, they’re trading off every two minutes or so,” Matt explains, ducking to view the approaching race between Mike and the Sun Chasers rolling towards our pull-off point from the rear window of the RV.

Everyone begins preparing to be race-ready at all moments as the decision is finalized.  I’m already spinning the numbers in my head. This is over 30 half-mile segments a piece. Looking across the RV at my slouched teammates, feeling exactly how they looked, I refrain from announcing this less-than-encouraging stat.

The Toughness Interval is what a guy that I often find myself training with calls the interval or intervals when the workout is approaching maximum difficulty, but there’s still too much that remains to consider it “finishing up.” The Toughness Interval typically covers from about the start of the second half of the workout or race until the final repeat, lap, or mile. For such a cheap mental trick the Toughness Interval has successfully carried me through more than a handful of races and workouts, tricking myself to only get to some chosen point where “the rest is free.” We have 80 miles of racing left, at least 30 half-miles a piece!  I try to think of the last four being “free”. The math does nothing to comfort me; this is going to be one hell of a Toughness Interval.

And so the routine goes: Pull your tired legs up into the RV and go straight for a sip of Gatorade. Force a few chips and sprinkle them with extra salt for good measure. Close your eyes, relax your mind, and wipe your face. Now scan the ensuing battle with the Sun Chasers, it’s time to get back out there again.

For 50 miles worth of half mile and quarter mile repeats we took swings at the Sun Chasers and they swung back. For a distance and time longer than any event I had ever previously competed in we were in what felt like a final straightaway sprint with these French runners, each team forcing countless breath-holding moments – appearing to be broken and then appearing to be doing the breaking. A cat and mouse game that ripped our focus from the goliath of an event we’d still yet to complete, like focusing on a game of chess aboard the Titanic. While we relentlessly tried to defeat each other the distance still demanded our best and the margin between winning and simply not surviving seemed paper thin.

Finishing a 400 meter shift dizziness waterfalls over me. I pull myself into the RV and forfeit my ritual of grabbing a Gatorade. Sinking into the corner of the couch I let my head fall back and my body flop lifelessly. I feel a hand grab my arm as Sam tries to force a chip sprinkled heavily with salt onto my tongue. Cracking my eyes again I notice I have been pulled from the rotation. Four Tracksmith runners are now out there to fight for the finish. I drop my head back into the couch, close my eyes, and doze off.

I am periodically shaken awake by Sam in-between her efforts out on the roads to force a chip and a sip of Gatorade into my mouth. I begin to realize my failure as awareness re-enters and I watch the faces of my four remaining teammates - Mike, David, Sam and Rachel - as they continuously head in and out of the endlessly swinging RV door while I’m plopped motionless in the corner of the couch.  

I feel like crying. It’s so petty, in hindsight, but when I lose grip physically my emotions fall too. I force some cheers to my teammates still moving us forward, sincerely in awe of their efforts, but the disappointment I have in myself is obvious in my voice. I hate myself for this moment. These are the ugliest parts of me feeding on the weak carcass this relay has left me with.

After some desperate pleas to the more sensible minds in the RV I am allowed to put in a couple more miles worth of half-mile legs. We’re inside ten miles from the finish now.  Race updates indicate that the French team is over a mile up on us. The news brings no reaction to our team as the mission of finishing doesn’t feel like a compromise, but as good a victory as there ever was. We are no longer watching the clock.

Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas…

“We’re going to drop you off about half a mile from the sign!” Lee yells back to Sam, David, Rachel and I as Mike carries us inside one mile to go. We all scurry through the ravaged RV searching for some complete relay kit to wear into our destination.

As we gather on the sidewalk and start running alongside Mike there is complete silence among the five of us. I’m hanging off the back, fighting my irrational emotions that I still hate myself for. I take a glance at my watch as we cross to the median of Las Vegas Blvd and see we are minutes from 36 hours. The sounds of the crowd celebrating under the sign grows louder. I look at my watch again and see we are close, but don’t dare say anything. Right now this relay belongs to my four amazing teammates who rose to every challenge this race had to offer. I feel like such a cheat joining in on their finish. We cross in 35:59.

Seated on the astroturf beneath this sign we’d been chasing for the last 36 hours I feel completely indifferent. I am now all out of emotions; good or bad. I sip slowly on a Busch Light from the TSP organizer’s cooler and watch the celebration erupting around me. We hug and congratulate the Sun Chasers who classily waited for us at the finish, arguably cheering the loudest of all. We both defeated this 340 mile monster - the mutual respect is immediate and needs no words.

We crossed the line in 35 hours and 59 minutes, minutes from our projected time, less than one second per mile off of the calculator, but for a totally different set of reasons.  Mistakes in an unmarked footrace from LA to Vegas don’t happen in bundles of seconds at a time; real mistakes cost hours. My mind is too weak to start the analysis.

“So what was the winning time?”  Sam squints up at Emily standing over while we lazily lay flopped in the plastic grass.

“35:49,” she says with a sly grin.  

I chuckle to myself as I reflect back to Emily writing down her bet on that five dollar bill.  This feels like a substantial contribution at the moment and my fragile mind eats it up.

We lifelessly saunter back to the RV now parked 200 yards from the Vegas Sign.  I’ve lost the edge. I envisioned a party; a night out in this city of sin that would solidify the relay as nothing more than the intro to the real story to come. Look at where the ignorant fool with this grand delusion is now; lifeless and on the verge of tears after hardly stepping foot in Vegas, praying for a shower and a quiet bedroom to disappear to.

Sleep…

“This thing destroys people!  Everyone is completely at the end of their rope. It’s amazing,” Matt says to me as we’re seated on the back patio failing to adequately put words to the whole thing. He accurately sees the beauty in it before I have the energy to. Too tired to crawl my way through anymore conversation, I sneak into bed.

The After Party…

We perch in the corner of a cabana at the TSP pool party.  I quickly force a few IPAs into my emaciated body in an attempt to wake-up the social being within myself.  I still haven’t processed the emotions of this relay and as of yet can’t tell if there will be reason for celebration at all. If there’s one good thing about this terrible sauce it is its unfailing ability to dumb anyone down just enough to think they’re happy.   

Time passes progressively faster, the way things do while aggressively day-drinking.  The artificial lighting of the casino contributes to a complete loss of awareness of time.  What felt like suddenly we are jammed into a suite where Nils stands in front of a large window facing an eager crowd. People hanging on his every word as he hypes up the packed room. I’m certain everyone must be drunk, but I don’t give it much thought.  Some bags of casino tokens on chains are tossed to various winners of sorts, us for the second place overall. I cheer with each roar of the crowd, carefully staying in line with the celebration.

I see police swiftly rushing the suite. I will later learn these are hotel security, but in this moment I make a concerted effort to melt into the crowd. I flow into the hallway with the river of escapees, in times like this it’s wise to not be noticed. His confidence indicates Nils has this under control, but the growing line of security funneling into the room indicates otherwise.

Coming down…

Seated around the back patio of the house we all shovel down some delivery pizza to soak up the alcohol. We hash out what could have been done to beat the Sun Chasers.  There is a tendency to dwell on what went wrong. I’m sure there are countless psychological studies out there that lay out the reasons for why we humans do this, I suppose some of it may be a survival mechanism; the building blocks of learning through experience with each disappoint being a nugget of knowledge for the future.  We’re finding everywhere a minute was abandoned and what we would have done differently. I start to feel overwhelmed by the exercise and disappear to bed.

What happened?

This trip stripped me down to nothing. It revealed all of my human qualities, the good and the bad. It made me fear. It led me to complete calm. It made me angry. It made me excited, exhausted, hopeful, and hopeless. At times it made perfect sense and at times it all felt so pointless. It took my armor and it annihilated it until I was fully exposed. It made me realize that what we really need is a purpose and it made me question mine. It made me hate my ego and it confirmed I have one that is as strong and blinding as it ever was. It humbled me with the harshest of lessons. It was a Goliath of a machine running on emotional fuel of every type and the hungry machine found it all. And it didn't kill us, in the physical sense, but it showed us what was there.  And as the dust sent spinning by these crazy 40 tribes settles on this quiet wasteland I am proud of what our scorecard reads and there’s not a single piece I would replace.

Touch down

Sitting in the emptying living room as my teammates and Tracksmith crew members exit for their staggering departures from Las Vegas my mind continues to work on digesting this trip.  I’m dreading my return to the world with commitments and agendas and no solo runs through the desert in fear and no multi-hour battles across Death Valley. I’m already too tired to try and explain this sacred experience to those who weren’t here. I try to pinpoint what was so moving about this, but the uploading of memories is not ready to be sorted. I stare blankly at a loss until Rafa taps me on the shoulder.

“Interested in a run?”

I dart into my room and tie back on my damp, dusty and bloodied shoes and we head out the door.