Hell Week in the Desert: Running the Trans-Pecos Ultra

Few people traverse the single-track trails of Big Bend Ranch State Park in West Texas, 300,000 remote acres of scrubland and blinding, quartz-littered riverbeds, much of it within view of Mexico. Earlier this month, at the inaugural Trans-Pecos Ultra, five men and four women spent a week running them, navigating 163 shadeless miles in 80-degree heat.

The race started at 8 AM on Sunday October 18 and continued over six stages. Some of the competitors ran as pairs for the entire race. Through Wednesday, the stages were marathon-length legs of about 26 miles; from Thursday into Friday night was a grueling, 54-mile stretch; the final leg, on Saturday, was a six-mile sprint.

The nine runners spent their nights together in one tent, with coyotes howling everyone to sleep (and sounding frighteningly close). "You become a family even before you become friends. You can become friends along the way," said Chris Herrera, founder and director of the Trans-Pecos. "You form a tribe."

Walking through camp after the first night of racing indeed felt like walking among a tribe of nomads. Four large tepees circled a fire. Runners, their shins torn to pieces by cacti, sat with their legs elevated, drinking from steaming cups. Silhouettes of dilapidated lean-tos etched themselves against a sky astonishingly bright with stars. I looked for Ian Shepard, a South African I had a run alongside earlier that afternoon on the final stretch of the first stage, and he'd been suffering, frequently stopping to dry heave on an empty stomach. Shepard, 47, flew from London to run Trans-Pecos; he does multistage races like this as often as he can.

"It's the only time of year I'm out of the office. This is what I do on holiday," he said, hobbling through camp with a bowl of noodles. "We'll see how much of this I can keep down." He had barely eaten anything since morning.

Keeping food down was tough on the racers, and so was carrying it. The Trans-Pecos is a self-supported race, which means that, besides water and a tent, competitors must carry everything they need: goo packs, headlamp, and warm socks, among other essentials. Each racer's kit weighed about 25 pounds, and despite the high-tech, lightweight packs, the extra burden took its toll on the runners. When Brazilian Niti Rohatgi arrived at checkpoint three of the first stage, she collapsed into a chair. "The backpack is killing me. I'm not used to it," she said. Rohatgi handed off extra food and clothes to volunteers, but it wasn't enough; she dropped out of the race by the end of the day. Athletes were allowed 12 hours to complete each 26-mile segment, and Rohatgi realized she couldn't keep pace. Injury and fatigue forced two other runners to retire before Saturday's finish.

Food was one of the few things the runners had to think about. The $3,000 entry fee (which is about average for multistage races) covered just about everything else, including the pre- and post-race banquets; transportation to the course from the Holland Hotel in Alpine, Texas; and medical support. The fee also covered the cost of that camp that was moved nightly from stage to stage.

According to Herrera, there are only 12 self-supported multistage ultramarathons in the world. They have gradually grown in popularity since the establishment in in 1986 of the first multistage ultra, the Marathon des Sables, a legendary six-day foot race across the Moroccan Sahara. The popular 4 Deserts Series, launched in 2003, includes 150-plus-mile races in Antarctica and Chile. The Grand to Grand, a grueling ultramarathon in northern Arizona and southern Utah, brought multistage ultra racing to the States in 2012. Now there's the Trans-Pecos Ultra, and a race on the East Coast is in the preliminary planning stages, Herrera said.

"If we step above and look at the whole industry, non-traditional events are growing much faster than traditional events," he said. "It speaks to changing demographics and how people are becoming more interested in experience."

Shepard, the South African racer, agreed. "It's more of an adventure than a race," he said.

Shepard and his brother Andy, who volunteered to help with the event, have raced the Marathon des Sables and the Atacama Crossing, one of the 4 Deserts races. Along the way the brothers befriended Ryan Sandes, a fellow South African and one of the most decorated ultramarathoners in the world. "I've slept next to him for three or four races. We ate the same food," said Shepard, who is extremely fit but hardly an elite athlete. His goal in races like the Trans-Pecos is mostly to finish. Trans-Pecos Founder Herrera said that one reason multi-stage ultras are growing is because both amateur and competitive runners find them rewarding.

I had pegged Thomas Mullins, with his Olympian physique and breakneck pace—he who won the Trans-Pecos decisively, in 37 hours and 58 minutes—to be a competitive runner who wanted more than just a rewarding experience. Yet after the race, five pounds lighter than when he started, he told me the opposite. "It's a lifestyle is what it is," he said. "That strength you don't normally get to, that spiritual strength. That's why I do it. I don't do it to win."

After the race, the freshly showered runners gathered in the reception hall of the Holland Hotel for the final meal and awards ceremony. No more goo protein packets, no more trailside dry-heaving. Button downs and clean shirts had replaced the neon jerseys. The race photographer displayed a slide show of the race, and athletes and organizers alike shed tears. Dan Stake, who set up and broke camp each day, talked about the future of the Trans-Pecos.

"What we have now is a piece of clay," he told the competitors and staff. "We've got the earth, the hardware, the software. I'll be back next year. We'll see what we can sculpt with it."