The endurance excerpts.

We have been at this for hours and it feels as if, even with so much focus and concentration, we have gotten nowhere. The heat is still, heavy and altogether daunting. Two of the crew are on the edge of falling asleep, and Nikki is already looking tired and weak. All this, and there is, as far as any of us can tell, no end in sight. When, dear God, will this meeting end?

These were my thoughts as I sat through the orientation meeting before the start of the Kiehl’s Badwater Ultramarathon this year. I was there as crew for my great friend, Nikki Seger. The meeting was over three hours long in an un-air-conditioned room—most of which seemed meaningless and tedious. It’s not enough that the 84 competitors and their crews will spend the next 60 hours working to carry one another safely to the finish through triple-digit temps, blazing sun and an over 8,000-foot ascent—best we first exhaust them mentally and physically with a useless braindrain, evoking a level of boredom the likes of which you normally expect only from national sales conventions or symphonies by Phillip Glass. But hey, that’s endurance, I guess.

You’d expect someone to do something like this with a professional crew of runners. Nikki doesn’t always do what’s expected. She must have filled out her crew choice form like a Mad Lib. We were myself (a writer), Jim Pfitzer (professional storyteller), Nancy Seger (mom) and Mary Gorski (okay, better have one Ultra runner). So, a lot of people ask how that worked out. Well, here’s an excerpt from the road:

Jim: So, you guys just tell me what to do and where to go and I’ll do it.
Me: Same here.
Mary: Well, don’t everybody look at me. I’ve only crewed this once before.
Mom: Aw, hell.
Jim: I’ll fill out the log. What are we at? Mile…
Mary: One.
Jim: Time?
Mary: 8:13 a.m.
Jim: Ah. And what was the temp at the start?
Me: 109 degrees.
—Silence.—
Mom: Aw, hell.

We were, you might say, the epitome of rare form. If by “rare form,” you mean a rag-tag band of novices putting every ounce of blood, sweat, tears, various other bodily fluids and such (often on the side of the road. Seriously, “behind a bush” didn’t even apply) toward a single common goal: reaching the finish (and trout fishing; is it crazy to have come to the desert for the fish?).

Okay. Naturally, everyone’s biggest question at some point is why? Why would 80-some people from all over the globe flock to the bowels of North America only to traverse a desert, with an over 3,000-foot-high ridge in the middle, and then ascend to Mt. Whitney Portal, 8,312 feet up America’s tallest peak? Why, even I was itching to know. But the thing is…none of them can tell you in any way that makes sense.

My answer? Well, I am a fly fisherman. And Nikki is my favorite guide. So, the Golden Trout of the High Sierras were reason enough. — Steve, Copywriter