The Death Valley ultramarathon

“I do have a tendency to have somewhat of an obsessive personality,” she says. “In my 20s, maybe it was partying and drinking. Running got me out of that. Otherwise, I could probably be an alcoholic. Running is just this place that feels safe. When all hell is breaking loose, it’s that safe spot where I can go and just be in my head.”

She became so gripped with long-distance running that earlier this year, she created a race management company, hoping to stage ultra races in the Hampton Roads area.

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Elite marathoner Michael Wardian explains his philosophy on running as he trains for the Badwater Ultramarathon in California.

Carawan worked on Badwater crews for other runners in 2009 and ’10, her eyes filling with tears when she first set foot in Death Valley and felt the sun burrow under her skin.

“Some people buy fancy cars or boats. Some people have children, and that’s an expense they’ll have for 20 years,” she says. “For me, this is my child.”

On the race course, the caravan of crew cars ahead of her looked like flashing Christmas lights, illuminating the descent into the no-stoplight town of Panamint Springs. There, her crew would have a shift change to catch a little sleep and her husband, Russ Carawan, would join her. He was too anxious, though, and sat in a chair on the side of the road to watch the runners and wait for his wife. She finally arrived about 12:40 a.m., slightly distressed.

“You’re doing great, babe,” Russ told her.

“I’m going too slow,” she said.

* * *

Wardian has competed in races in nearly a dozen countries, including about 50 ultramarathons, but he had never run more than 100 straight miles. When he hit that mark at Badwater, he showed no signs of slowing. Three runners were ahead of him, and he was determined to catch each. As dawn broke on Day 2, Wardian’s crew members could only shake their heads. He had been running for 20 straight hours but was suddenly turning in his fastest times, running a mile in less than seven minutes.

It proved to be too much and too soon. As the morning sun peeked over the mountains in the distance, Wardian hit a wall at mile 113 and was reduced to a walking pace.

“You can walk faster than that,” one crew member said.

“I know,” Wardian told him. “It’s like I’m shopping at Macy’s.”

The sleep deprivation didn’t bother him. His wife, Jennifer, says he sleeps only three or four hours a night, anyway. But his stomach was struggling, and he felt as though his body was shutting down.

In the distance, Wardian could see the final stretch that awaited him: Mount Whitney, cast against a bright blue sky, its jagged gray top too high for vegetation.

“It’s like a Disney backdrop,” the runner said.

“Nobody would like this Disney ride,” said his brother, Matt Wardian.

* * *

In the middle of the night, Ploskonka already felt cramping in both legs and feet, and he had developed a violent case of hiccups that had every nerve in his body vibrating with pain. He would doze off, then startle awake moments later and find that his feet were still moving.

Ploskonka resolved that once he reached Panamint Springs, 72 miles into the race, he’d meet a medic before deciding whether to continue. Walking the final miles there, he tried to distract himself by talking with crew member Jason Wara about UFOs, the supernatural, Einstein.

“I don’t know what it means that he’s hurting so much and talking about aliens,” MacKimmie said.

“It means you’re dating a nerd,” said Andrew Marsh, another crew member.

About 2 a.m., Ploskonka saw something streak across the black sky — a shooting star. Just let me finish the race, he wished, and if possible, with a better time than last year.

Ploskonka finally reached Panamint Springs about 5 a.m. and met with a medic, who instructed him to lie down to rest — at least temporarily. Ploskonka found a bed and eased onto a mattress, unsure when he’d get up.

* * *

By midafternoon of Day 2, Carawan had reached the 120-mile mark. But she had ruined her left hip, hobbling like an old woman carrying a lifetime of pain into each step.

“By this point, it’d probably feel better if a car just hit you,” said her husband, Russ.

After years of hearing about Badwater, Russ knew he had to make the trip. The race had rooted itself in his wife’s dreams before they got married, and there were plenty of times in the ensuing years when the two — relationship and race — struggled to coexist.

Money was part of it. In addition to hiring a coach, Carawan flew her crew to Death Valley, paid for hotel rooms, two rental cars, food and water for her and her crew, plus all the gear and supplies. Then, there was the time commitment to train, to run 100-plus miles each week. Russ is a cyclist, but that didn’t mean the Badwater race was an easy concept to grasp.

“I’ve tried to explain it to him over and over again. There’s certain things there are no words for,” Carawan says. “He doesn’t fully understand it, but I think he accepts that this is who I am, this is important to me.”

The miles passed slower than the hours. Drained, Carawan said little. The final stretch is perhaps the most difficult. If runners manage to survive the heat, the distance, the lack of sleep, they’re rewarded with a climb that would buckle the freshest of legs. To reach the finish line, Badwater runners must climb 4,750 feet over the final 12 miles — essentially a half-marathon pointed toward the sky.

* * *

Wardian was silent, his eyes unfocused. He had to be helped into an SUV. He wasn’t sure he could continue.

After 15 minutes, his first steps looked as though he was learning to walk again. His brother walked behind him. As they maneuvered the switchbacks up Mount Whitney, the air became thinner, the scent of pine more distinct. Wardian had given up on food and told his brother he might need another ice bath.

“You got one thing to do first,” said his brother.

“What’s that?”

“Finish.”

He wouldn’t win, though; a runner named Oswaldo Lopez had already finished in 23 hours 41 minutes, less than an hour off the record pace.

About 125 yards from the finish line, Wardian was met by all six of his crew members. Together, they sprinted the remainder of the race. His official time: 26 hours 22 minutes — 2 1/2 hours behind the winner but good enough for third place.

Wardian found a seat, took off his shoes and peeled off his socks, revealing a middle toe that had been replaced by a blister the size of a Tootsie Pop. “Someone’s going to have to carry you back now,” said one of his crew members.

“Pssh,” responded Wardian. “You guys carried me all the way here.”

* * *

Ploskonka slept for less than an hour. By the time he worked his way out of bed, the lone restaurant in Panamint Springs, which was along the race route, had opened for breakfast. He ate eggs, potatoes and half a pancake, then decided to continue.

He started by walking those first few miles outside of town, as other runners had because of the steep incline. But before long he moved into a jog. Then a run. As the temperatures heated up — again, topping 100 — his feet sped up. By 2:30 p.m., Ploskonka had more than 109 miles of roadway at his back, not to mention an increasing number of competitors.

“Pass some more people,” his girlfriend pleaded.

He maintained his torrid pace when he made the turn toward Mount Whitney near dusk. The final four miles took him all of 55 minutes, better than all but one other runner. When he found his crew near the final turn, he was sprinting.

Ploskonka crossed the finish line in 22nd place. His time of 34 hours 18 minutes was a 10-minute improvement over the previous year. “I got to be honest,” he told his crew, “I thought we were doing 40 hours or worse — if we finished at all.”

He had hoped to break 30 hours, to finish in the top 10. But he said battling through the most pain he had ever experienced on a race course felt like an even bigger victory.

* * *

Many competitors report hallucinations during Badwater. The tar lines on the asphalt become snakes. Dinosaurs roam the desert. Old friends and family appear on the side of the road. As she neared the finish line, Carawan saw a cat, a plane, a tent and people — none of which existed. On the final stretch she was gripping her left hip and limping along. On Mount Whitney’s switchbacks, her crew sang, “She’ll Be Coming Around the Mountain,” but Carawan was not quite as jovial. She pleaded to stop and rest, moaning that she was about to die.

As the stars came out on the second night, Russ took over as Carawan’s pacer. Just two miles to go. He reached for her hand and the two moved in sync. Maybe he hadn’t understood why Carawan needed to run Badwater, but he certainly knew why she had to finish. He talked about food, friends back home, and their dog, a 6-year-old yellow lab named Lance — anything to take her mind off the pain.

Finally, she spotted her crew. The grimace disappeared from her face and the limp from her step.

“We’re here,” said Amanda McIntosh, her coach. “This is it.”

“Amen,” Carawan said.

More than 36 1/2 hours had passed, and 30 others had already crossed the finish line. In all, 81 of the race’s 94 entrants would finish within the 48-hour time limit. But to Carawan, this was years in the making, and it felt like the stage was set specifically for her.

“Was this your dream?” McIntosh asked.

“This is better than my dream,” Carawan told her.

They then crossed the finish line together and hugged. Carawan hadn’t died. She didn’t collapse or even crumple into a chair. The horrors of the race had been replaced by elation, and she was soon holding a glass of champagne in the cool night air, toasting with her crew.

“I’ve got to do it again,” she said.

Rick Maese is a Washington Post staff writer. He can be reached at maeser@washpost.com.