Perhaps no runner in history has seen more adventure than Bart Yasso. Known to many as “the Mayor of Running” and now officially known as Runner’s World’s Chief Running Officer, Yasso is a living, breathing, wisecracking testament to the sport’s power to change lives. Running has taken Yasso to races all over the planet, helped him overcome troubles with alcoholism and Lyme disease, and repeatedly thrust him into stranger-than-fiction scenarios.
For years, people have asked him to recount his experiences in a book—and now he has with his new memoir, My Life on the Run. The following four passages from the book offer a window into Yasso’s peculiarly inspiring story.
The Birth of Badwater Bart
In July 1989, colleagues at Runner’s World A Part of Hearst Digital Media races on the planet—the Badwater 146. This suffer-fest starts in Death Valley’s Badwater Basin, the lowest, hottest spot in North America, and then crosses three mountain ranges before ending atop 14,496-foot Mount Whitney, the highest point in the lower 48. This long, strange trip elevated Bart to cult-hero status in certain circles in the running community.
No one tried running from Badwater to Mount Whitney until 1974. Even then it took the first man, Al Arnold, three attempts before he finally did it in 1977. By the time I came along in 1989, Badwater had been an official race for two years, and only nine people had completed it.
I had good reason to be anxious. I’d never run more than 26.2 miles—and Badwater was more than five times that distance. There was the heat; hot enough that sweat can literally evaporate from your body before it beads. Once, the daytime temperature in Death Valley hit 134 degrees, the second highest ever recorded in the world. And there was the terrain. To summit Mount Whitney, you must climb a total of 19,000 feet and drop 4,700 feet in a toe-smashing descent.
Fortunately, I had a first-rate crew: Jane Serues, Runner’s World’s promotion director, and editor Bob “Wish” Wischnia. They would be called upon to act as chauffeurs, cheerleaders, medics, and sports psychologists. Together, we rolled out of Las Vegas one morning in a rented RV loaded up with groceries, bags of ice, and 200 bottles of water.
We reached Death Valley that afternoon. After a brief prerace meeting, we headed to Badwater, population zero, for the start. Besides yours truly, five runners stood at the line: 46-year-old female twins who carried résumés to pass out to spectators along the way; Jim Walker, who had dropped out of the race in 1988 after completing 96 miles; Adrian Crane, who carried a modified set of skis on his back, part of a plan to ski across the salt flats and shave 20 miles from the course; and Tom Possert, who’d finished first the year before but was disqualified for unlawful assistance on the course (his crew was photographed dragging him up Whitney). As to why race officials let him participate again, I can only surmise that they needed bodies.
The race began at 9 p.m., as the temperature dipped to 117 degrees. (For reasons that still escape me, we all carried thermometers, the big plastic kind that float in swimming pools.) In lieu of a starter’s gun, race director David Pompel shouted “Go!” and we crossed the white line spray painted on the road.
Possert surged into the darkness like it was a 5K, blazing a 6:30 pace. Crane followed, disappearing into the desert. I was in third place, with the twins and Jim Walker trailing. I resisted the urge to chase Possert. I was used to challenging the leader, but I knew this distance required common sense.
Jane and Wish met me every mile with a bottle of water and snacks. These pit stops sustained me, and I tried to think of something funny to say at each reunion. I was feeling good, but they were having troubles on their end. They resisted turning on the RV’s air-conditioning because they were afraid of running out of gas. Plus, the radio was broken, so they were reduced to singing aloud to fill the time. Jane preferred show tunes, and Wish was a Grateful Dead groupie. I was glad to be outside.
At midnight we passed Furnace Creek, the last vestige of civilization and the first checkpoint. There, in the middle of an empty street, we celebrated and exchanged high-fives. “Eighteen miles down, 128 to go!” I said.
“One hundred and twenty-eight?” Wish said. “It’s stinking hot in this RV. I’m going to die.”
“You’re going to die? You’ve got a fridge full of Dos Equis. Give me a break.”
Exhaustion set in at mile 30. My crew made me pee in a cup to see if I was dehydrated. We tried to check my urine’s clarity in front of the RV’s headlights, but they weren’t bright enough. We took the sample inside and examined it like some sort of science experiment. “Looks like you’re okay,” said Jane.
Then, at mile 45, I saw piles of freshly baked banana bread on the road. Banana bread? Maybe I was hallucinating. This is common at Badwater. The exhaustion, unrelenting heat, and altitude can wreak psychological mayhem on runners. Turns out I was still lucid. Possert was throwing up bananas, which were baking into neat mounds on the 160 degree blacktop. I chuckled—Chiquita was Possert’s sponsor.
He desperately wanted to win the race, and his crew was pushing him. I knew I was closing in on him when I began to see piles of mushy, uncooked bananas.
It was now 2:30 p.m. Thursday, and I had been running for more than 17 hours straight. I was at mile 75, and my crew decided I needed a rest before the next big push. “You’re weaving across the road,” said Jane. “Why don’t you come in, and we’ll put some ice on your legs.”
I felt disoriented and my legs were burned, not from the sun but from the rising heat of the road. I had brought along seven pairs of running shoes and exchanged them for a fresh pair every 10 miles because the midsoles got soft from the heat. I could wear the shoes again once they’d been out of the sun for a few hours. I climbed into the RV and Jane covered me in bags of ice.
“This feels great,” I said. After so many hours on the road, Jane and Wish were pretty wiped out, too. We were all tired and cranky, so we decided to check in to a motel in Lone Pine, about 53 miles away, and rest for a few hours. The race rules allowed for such detours as long as you resumed running at the exact point you had stopped.
At 12:30 a.m. Friday, we drove back to where I’d stopped running. I didn’t want to rest too long for fear I would get stiff and lose momentum. During the trip, we passed Possert, and a few miles behind him was Crane, who had taken his first and only break at mile 119. I was a good ways behind them.
Thirty miles from Mount Whitney, we spotted the twins on the horizon. They had kept going through the night and were now camping on the side of the road. They were a mess. When they saw me coming, they tried to move, but one sister had such terrible blisters on her feet that she was using cross-country ski poles. The other was crying hysterically. I could see how much it meant to them to stay ahead of me, so I hung back a bit. I wound up passing them about 10 miles later, and they slapped me high-fives in a sincere display of encouragement.
I began the ascent of Mount Whitney the next morning at sunrise. Jane accompanied me on the climb. It was slow going over rock-strewn switchbacks and narrow trails. It took us 4 1/2 hours to get to the snow-dusted apex, and we arrived around 10 a.m., exhausted but elated. (This was the last year the event, now known as the Badwater 135, included a climb up Mount Whitney.) We mugged for a few shots, and then race director David Pompel, who had spent the night on the mountain, congratulated me for being the second to reach the summit. He also told me that the first, Crane, had cut the course and was going to be disqualified. Then he admitted he didn’t have a U.S. Forest Service permit to hold the race on Mount Whitney, so he had appointed a fake finish line at the trailhead to Whitney (at mile 135). Possert had been the first to reach the phony finish but for some reason stopped there, never venturing up the mountain. I had been the third one to reach the trailhead.
So how did I do? I don’t know. I never checked the official results. If you have, don’t tell me. I like thinking I placed first, second, and third in the same race.
The Birth of Badwater Bart
In 1991, Bart traveled to India and Nepal to run an ultramarathon in the Himalaya as well as two other new races in the region. In the passage below, Bart, photographer Jack Gescheidt, and event promoter Jim Crosswhite scope out a potential half-marathon magazine and one of the most beloved figures in running, and is the author of.
We arrived in New Delhi a few days before the Taj Mahal 5K would start, so Crosswhite invited Jack and me to meet him at Royal Chitwan National Park in Nepal, a popular tourist spot that was a reserve for endangered Bengal tigers and Asian rhinos. Crosswhite thought the park would be the ultimate place to hold an adventure run.
We took a plane to Kathmandu and then traveled by bus to the animal reserve. It was a dinged and dusty tour bus crammed with about 75 people, along with their goats and chickens. The tight, noisy quarters made me claustrophobic from the moment I stepped aboard. There was no way I was going to last five hours. After getting permission from the driver, Jack and I reached through a window, grabbed the luggage rack, and hoisted ourselves onto the roof. The bus lurched and wobbled over steep serpentine roads, but the view was spectacular.
We were still on top of the bus when we arrived at the reserve. Crosswhite was there to meet us, and he laughed at our disheveled appearance. Our hair was plastered against our heads and our faces were caked with dirt. “I’ve seen monkeys that look better than you two,” he said.
The next day we set out to scout Crosswhite’s course. He had hired a guide who would lead us through parts of the reserve on elephants. We mounted the saggy-skinned pachyderms as if we were rajas about to survey our kingdom. In truth, the ride was a bumpy experience, not much better than the bus, but once again the scenery was worth a sore butt.
As we strode through the park, we saw rhinos in the tall grass. Later, we canoed in a hollowed-out log along the Narayani River, where crocodiles lounged in the caramel-colored water. After about four miles, we docked the canoe on the riverbank so we could test run a 6 1/2-mile dirt path that Crosswhite thought would work for an out-and-back half-marathon course.
But before we started running, our guide warned us about fearsome rhinos that would attack if startled. The best defense was to make yourself as tall, thin, and still as possible and hope the rhino missed you during a charge. Rhinos are plant eaters, but they dislike people, especially those on their turf, and they will gore them with their horns.
“Okay, let’s practice,” the guide said. “I’ll be the rhino and you be runners.” This didn’t sound good, but I agreed to play along on the chance it could save my life.
“Go!” the guide shouted, and Crosswhite, Jack, and I scattered into the tall grass. I heard the guide before I saw him. I stopped in my tracks and stiffened, barely breathing as I sucked in my gut.
“Excellent,” he said, assessing my performance on the rhino test, as it became known. “You did very good.”
“That’s because I knew you weren’t a real rhino!” I said. “I might not have been that relaxed if you were a two-ton beast with a horn.”
And I was right. A little while later, as Crosswhite and I began running, we came face-to-face with a real rhino as we rounded a corner on the trail. It was standing as still as a museum exhibit. It squared its shoulders in a display of hostility and dropped its ears. We forgot all about the rhino test.
“Run!” yelled Crosswhite.
I did. I knew how fast rhinos can go in a short distance, so I sprinted for the jeep, outpacing Crosswhite by several yards. I knew I didn’t have to outrun the rhino, just Crosswhite.
As soon as he got in the jeep, he voiced what I had been thinking: “This is no place for a race.”
“No kidding,” I said. “Adventure running is cool, but no one wants to die.”
A Taco Bell Nightmare
Always game for adventure, Yasso was persuaded by a friend in 1989 to participate in a 10K burro race in Westcliffe, Colorado. His four-legged teammate was Taco Bell, a burro with a serious attitude problem.
The first burro race, held in 1949, was 22 miles from Leadville, a one-stoplight town high in the Rockies, to Fairplay, an old mining outpost. The Rocky Mountain News offered the winner $500. A Fairplay bartender upped the ante, promising a case of beer to every finisher. Twenty-one men showed up with animals, but two were disqualified because they’d brought mules.
What’s the difference? A mule is the offspring of a horse and a donkey, and a burro is a small donkey. A jackass is a male donkey—or someone who runs a race with a burro.
I had been duly warned not to underestimate the athleticism needed for the sport. “A burro is fast,” said Hal Walter, an ultrarunner and two-time burro-racing world champion. “It can easily run a three-minute mile. People think burros are these slow, putzy animals, and they have no clue.”
Still, I was in good shape. No donkey was going to make an ass of me.
Or so I thought. Taco Bell despised me as soon as we crossed paths. He snorted when I tried to scratch him behind the ears and bared his teeth at the sounds of my sweet talk.
“This one’s a little temperamental,” said Bill Lee, a rancher and burro trainer with a long white beard, better known as Red Tail Mountain Man.
“I don’t think he likes me,” I said, slowly backing away as Taco Bell pawed the ground.
“Nonsense,” said Red Tail. “He just has to get to know you.”
There wasn’t much time. The race would begin in an hour, and Taco Bell was in no mood to bond.
“Now remember,” said Red Tail, “you’re in charge. If he gives you any trouble, just jab him in the neck with your elbow.”
I hoped I wouldn’t have to do that. I love animals, but this one was pushing my patience, and I knew getting him to the finish line was going to be a battle of wills.
There are few rules in burro racing, and they’re goofy. First, the burro must carry 33 pounds of gear, including a pick, a shovel, and a gold pan. Second, runner and burro must stay connected at all times by a 15-foot rope. Third, the runner may push, pull, drag, or carry the burro, but the burro can’t carry the runner. Last, the athlete must keep his burro under control at all times. Other than that, anything goes.
A bearded guy who looked like Yosemite Sam fired the starting gun. The noise startled Taco Bell, and he took off like a bullet train. I could barely hang on to the rope.
Taco Bell set a blistering pace, running sub-six-minute miles. Ordinarily, I can run that fast, but the thin air made it tough to breathe, so I yanked the rope to slow him down. I wanted to give him a neck butt as Red Tail had advised, but I was too far behind to even reach his tail. Taco Bell must have sensed my distress because he ran faster, ripping the rope from my hands.
“You bastard,” I cursed, burro-less and embarrassed. “Get back here!” There were no water stops along the course, just catch points where volunteers retrieved errant burros. That’s where Taco Bell had been snagged.
“Thank you,” I said, retrieving his rope from a panicked-looking guy.
“Man, he’s ornery,” he said.
A few folks in the crowd chuckled. “Is this your first time?” one asked.
“Can you tell? I’m not any better with burros than I am with women.”
Taco Bell brayed in agreement and took off running until the halfway point. And then he stopped.
“Come on, Taco Bell,” I said. “Let’s go.” But he wouldn’t move an inch.
I recalled one thing Hal had said about burros: The best racers are practically married to their animals. I was still single, but at one time I had lived with a girlfriend. I could be smooth. “Come on, Taco Bell,” I said. “You can do it. You’re the fastest, cutest burro in the race.”
I looked around and noticed three or four other runners couldn’t get their burros to move, either. “Don’t these burros know this is a 10K?” I joked. “Someone should teach them how to do negative splits.”
Positive affirmation was clearly not working on Taco Bell, so I dug deeper into my courtship bag of verbiage. “That saddle is slimming,” I told him. “What? No, your ass isn’t big!”
But he wouldn’t budge. “All right,” I said. “If I can’t flatter your butt into gear, then I’ll have to drag it.”
So that’s what I did, hoof by hoof, bellow by bray, all the way to the finish. When we got there, Taco Bell was too worn out to try to bite me anymore. For the first time, we stood side by side. I’d tamed the beast—at a price. I was exhausted, having been whipsawed by a burro. The divorce proceedings could begin.
Bouncing Back
Early in 1998, only months after falling prey to Lyme disease, Bart attempted his first comeback race: the Smoky Mountain Marathon. He went in with unusually low expectations—and came out with one of the more inspiring performances in his running life.
In some ways, getting sick was a blessing. I had taken running for granted, or at least put too much emphasis on the wrong things. I’d never won a marathon, and at the age of 43, I probably never would. It was time to appreciate the sweaty exertion for what it was—an exercise in transcendence. Running was magic, and I never wanted to lose my ability to conjure that alternate state again. In my teens and early 20s, I had turned to alcohol and marijuana for sanctuary, but running had replaced those vices. I had traded addiction for a healthy lifestyle, and it held me tight in my dependence.
So I slowed things down. I trained hard but not as often, and some days I left my watch at home. I started noticing the foliage along local running trails. It was the end of October, and the piles of leaves on the trees glowed amber and red.
I decided to drive the 10 hours to Knoxville, Tennessee, instead of taking an airplane. Flying reminded me of work, and I was on vacation. That night, I met some guys from Michigan who had driven the course to get a feel for the terrain. “It’s going to be tough,” one said. “There’s a monster hill at mile 21.”
The old Bart would have been out the next day measuring the incline and monitoring the Weather Channel for wind speeds. The remainder of the day would have been spent resting my dogs, but this was the new me. I went hiking instead.
It was misty and cool the next morning, about 56 degrees. The first part of the course was an out-and-back loop on country roads, with the majestic Smokies looming in the clouds. I crossed the starting line near the front of the pack and settled into a 6:20-per-mile pace. There were about 10 runners in front of me, but I didn’t try to pass them. I held pat, conserving my energies for the hill. Without conscious effort, I began passing runners one by one. At mile 20, the only person in front of me was a Tennessee state trooper, and he was driving a police car.
Then came the hill. I didn’t slow my stride, and by the time I crested it, the closest runner was several minutes behind. I felt triumphant. Not only because I was leading, but also because I was running fast on a tough course. The last three miles were a blur, a cinematic screening of the past year’s struggles. Scenes of writhing in pain after attempting to run, struggling to stand from my office chair, and enduring acupuncture for facial paralysis (triggered by Lyme disease) flashed through my head.
All that was behind me, and now, at the age of 43, I was poised to win my first marathon. A few months ago, this day seemed impossible, but running is the ultimate faith healer, restoring faith not only in oneself but also in life’s possibilities.
The first thing I did when I crossed the line was call Bob Wischnia. “I won the Smoky Mountain Marathon!” I said.
“What do you mean you won the race?” Wish asked.
“A Renewed Relationship With Running.”
“No kidding,” he said.
No kidding indeed. I had been deluding myself for years that the purpose of running was to win races, that if I trained hard enough and smart enough and pushed my body beyond all limits, I’d somehow come out on top. It took finally winning a race to expose how wrong I had been.
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Adapted from My Life on the Run, by Bart Yasso with Kathleen Parrish (published by Rodale). Click here to buy My Life on the Run.
at races in the United States and abroad. Yasso has been with Runner’s World Influencer Apologizes for E-Bikes on NYC Course Runner's World Race Everything. Unofficially called the “Mayor of Running,” Yasso is the public face of Runner’s World at races in the United States and abroad. Yasso has been with Runner’s World since 1987 and has been instrumental in growing what was once a very small race sponsorship program to one that has linked the brand with thousands of races and millions of runners. One of the icons of the sport, Yasso has been inducted into the Running USA Hall of Champions. He resides in Emmaus, Pennsylvania.
