3rd at Badlands: A Race of Dreams and Nightmares

Words and Photography by Chris Mehlman

I’m wrecked. It’s 6:45 AM, and I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I finished Badlands. The last four days have been a physical and emotional rollercoaster. If you had told me I’d be done by Tuesday morning, I’d have laughed at you. If you told me I’d also have a third-place result to my name, I’d have told you that you’re talking to Chris Mehlman, not Ulrich Bartholmoes. If you don’t believe me, I scheduled my first work meetings post-race today (Thursday) because I thought I might need all that time to complete the race.

I just wanted to finish this event. I truly mean that. This race is hard enough as a challenge, and finishing is something to be proud of, no matter who you are. I’ve always maintained that this is one aspect of ultra racing that is special.

Frankly, I don’t care about finisher medals from short races anymore.

For Badlands, though, I’ve stored mine in the same place I keep my passport when traveling. I’ve seen enough top ultra riders scratch from this race for physical or mental reasons. If you don’t want it badly enough, or your mindset is in the wrong place at the start, you’ll be hard-pressed to find a way through the entire 815 kilometers. Badlands doesn’t take prisoners.

I wanted it badly, but I, too, fell victim to my mind telling me to give in. I wanted to quit so many times. Trying to comprehend how, even 300 miles into a race, I still had over 200 left to go was mind-bending. The task felt impossible. No amount of breaking down the course into smaller chunks saves you from the overwhelming feeling of despair when you know how many miles you have left, especially when those miles are slow, punishing, and hot.

It was hell. I can’t put into words how dark a place I was in, deep in the Tabernas Desert, in 100-degree heat on day one. With no shelter in sight as I pedaled along a dry riverbed, I was reminded how vulnerable humans are. My life came down to the simplest of necessities: water, food, and light. Without those, I realized that a person in those conditions could easily die. It was genuinely scary to think of that.

The nights brought cool air, but no solace. The world closed in around me, and like many a freshman college student might feel right around this time of year as they go away from home for the first time, I was homesick. The world felt alien to me. I was so far deep into this hole, yet had so far to climb back out, and I was alone with my own thoughts for all of it.

Another rider at the finish yesterday talked to me as if the experience must have been easy up front. I looked at him and told him I felt exactly the same way he felt throughout the whole race. It felt just as impossible a task to complete. I was never comfortable. Honestly, I rarely had fun during it. That’s the reality of events like this.

I only got it done because of one thought in my head: “forward movement.” Any forward progress is better than nothing. If I kept moving forward, I knew I would eventually make it home. The barriers to quitting also kept me in it. There were no Ubers 400 kilometers from the finish, no family or friends to pick me up, and a constant reminder that any ride home for a reason other than pure necessity would be one of regret. I came here to finish, and I damn well was going to do that.

I had an inkling I was doing okay on the leaderboard, but I tried not to get ahead of myself. Even with 150 miles to go, so much could happen. When I did catch third place with about 90 miles left, I got a second wind. I was reminded how much of the race is mental. I found a way to push harder as I saw his forlorn figure disappear on the climb below me. While I had spent far too much time looking behind me in the race, seeing mirages of bobbing lights at night, this moment was the first time the racer in me truly kicked in. I had a taste of a top result, and once I had that within grasp, I knew no one was going to take it from me. I was cracked. I was crawling. However, so was everyone else. The race was a game of who was crawling the fastest at the end.

Even with the end of the event turning into a race for me, the finish line was a moment of relief more than happiness about the result. I crossed onto the tarmac in Granada, where the official time stopped, and yelled out in joy (apologies to the neighbors for doing this at 1:30 AM). When I reached the small park where the official finish was, it was a ghost town. David and two other staff members from Badlands were there, handed me the finisher medal, took a photo of me, and that was that. It was simple, yet I now know how hard every rider worked to cross that finish line, so it means a lot.

Based on my results, I’m still in shock. I’ve definitely found my space in the sport. I’ve discovered what I enjoy the most and am suited to. I say “enjoy” somewhat sarcastically. I didn’t enjoy much of the race during it. I was too far in a pit of mental and physical suffering. What can’t be beat are the memories after the race, and the feeling of crossing that finish line. I’m hoping my result is something I can build upon. Honestly, I also hope it opens some doors in terms of support for my racing.

For now, however, it’s time to catch up on some work and then dive into the next adventure. I’ll be sharing more about this one and my next leg in the UK soon.

Thank you for all the support and messages before and after this race, and apologies for any typos in this. I’m still a bit tired…