(Here's another lengthy entry where I suggest brewing some coffee, otherwise you may nod off while wading through the story. Last weekend was WTM 2014, hosted in Las Vegas, that was quite a race where the overall winner completed 95 miles. I was a fortunate participant 2 years ago meeting some great people along the way.)
PRE-RACE
More
coughing erupted from the overweight passenger in the window seat that occupied space well into the middle seat. Not once had he covered his mouth during the
flight and this episode was no different.
I felt sorry for the pretty 20-something year old female that sat
between us. She was my shield from him,
or, just maybe, she was his shield from me?
Each time another coughing fit kicked in, she and I were synchronized in
turning our backs to him. In between
coughing spasms, there was no escape from his labored mouth breathing and
fingers pounding on a laptop that balanced on his rotund belly. To make matters worse, his blister-shaped
belly caused his shirt to ride up, exposing a wedge of milky skin scribbled
with dark hair. He never tried to cover
the eyesore, which aggravated the annoyance.
He was needy with the stewardess, asking for various foods and special drinks,
and I had a flash of fury when fatso needed out to use the bathroom.
Disgusting…he’s so disgusting…what a
slob cycled through
my brain. And, the absolute icing on the
cake of his repulsiveness? He raised and
arm, scratched his armpit and proceeded to sniff his fingers. Then, as if to double-check that he really did
smell that bad, he turned his head and took a hearty snort from the same armpit. Get me away from this hideous pig.I could not wait to get off the plane in New Jersey to participate in the World’s Toughest Mudder.
The plane landed and never a word was shared between Mr. Gross, The Shield or I. I left them behind, grabbed my suitcase and proceeded to look for the rental car area where reservations were made. No signs directed me, so I needed directions from multiple airport employees. Riding the “Air Train” eventually dumped me at the rental agencies and soon I was sitting in a Ford Focus prepared to drive to Englishtown. I was handed a generic map that only detailed major roadways and headed out.
CRAP! I missed a southbound exit and kept
telling myself I would ride some cloverleaves at the next interchange and
return to go south. Surprisingly, cloverleaves
did not exist and the highway seemed only to have exits, no entrances. I kept driving, in the wrong direction, and became
more lost. I knew I needed to head
southeast and soon realized the roads were like a bag of snakes; twisting and
turning everywhere, not knowing which part connected to the other. I brought out my I-phone to assist. That was a joke…what was I thinking? I could somehow use some type of GPS Google
map app to save me? I can hardly text!
I kept zig-zagging
on roads that took me southeasterly and somehow ended up in the dormitory area
of Rutgers University. Slowly, I crept closer
to my final destination. I stopped at a motel and asked for directions. I was getting closer, but again got lost. I called the front desk of my motel to have
the clerk guide me in. He barked
directions and, getting lost again, I called back. He literally yelled over the phone in utter
disbelief that I could not simply drive directly to the motel. Finally, I got a glimpse of my motel’s street
sign, but could not get to it due to cement “Jersey” barriers dividing the
roadway. I noticed bahzillions of those
barriers linked together during my pilgrimage and now know why they are called “Jersey”
barriers—they’re everywhere in that state serving as median dividers.
I also had a
quick education that turning left from a roadway is rare. In order to do so, you need to exit to the
right PRIOR TO the targeted intersection and take a “jug handle” loop to a
traffic light. The green light finally allowed
me to make a left turn and return down the street to my motel. Two and a half hours from the airport to the
motel. I checked in and, out of
curiosity, asked how long it typically takes to get from the motel to the
airport? “Twenty five, thirty minutes
maybe,” was the response. How
ridiculous, but, at least I was finally at the motel.
I unpacked
and walked next door to IHOP and ate cool eggs with even cooler pancakes. It didn’t matter, I felt starved and the meal
was good enough. Returning to the motel,
I began to plan my strategy.
It was
Thursday night and my stomach was on the mend after the flu flattened me out
Tuesday night and all day Wednesday. I
needed to grocery shop in the morning and figure out where Raceway Park was for
registration. The neighboring room
partied all night with people coming and going.
Doors slamming, loud voices, and alcohol fueled laughter woke me
frequently during the night as I buried my head deeper under pillows since I didn’t
want to be “that guy” to confront them or call in to complain. Sleep was fitful and morning eventually
arrived.
A free
continental breakfast was included in my stay and I went to view the options. Needless to say, a simple bowl of Raisin Bran
was the safest choice. I approached the
front desk clerk and asked if my neighboring room had checked out and was
relieved they had. She added they were
out of state tree trimmers who migrated to the area for cleaning up the
aftermath of hurricane Sandy. It fit the
“work hard all day and party all night” mentality of many laborers.
I walked 2
blocks to the grocery store. Coconut
water, cup of noodles, microwaveable brown rice, bananas, agave nectar, canned
pears in heavy syrup and peanut butter were bagged and I headed back to the
motel.
On my return
trip, I encountered what appeared to be a young man with his mother. As we passed, she queried about the grocery
store and I provided directions. They
had heavy English accents and I learned Matt and “Mum” flew over from England
where Matt was also participating in the WTM.
They were in room 224, had no rental car and were relying on overpriced
taxi’s or buses. I offered to drive them
to registration and learned they met another Mudder in our motel, but he was
from Scotland. Mum hinted that Crazy
Scott was "different" and I said he could join us in the carpool.
The trio had
seen me the night before at IHOP and had spoke among themselves if I was “The
Moustache Man”—a man with entertaining training videos on the internet who
sports a large moustache and has trainings specifically for Mudder events. Matt said he was a huge fan of Moustache Man
and they weren’t sure if I was him or not at IHOP. Having their curiosity satisfied, we parted
ways with no real plan formalized.Hours later, I ventured to room 224 and met Crazy Scott who had such a thick and heavy accent that I often turned to face Matt and Mum for interpretation. Crazy Scott’s voice was deep, sounding primitive, and made me envision him thundering around in medieval castles in Scotland, going up and down large stone steps, carrying a flaming stick that had a kerosene soaked rag tied on the end for a flashlight.
Early on, he
asked me how hard it was to get Viagra?
Not having any idea, I asked why a 30 year old would need it. He said something I didn’t understand, but I
determined he “likes the wimminz.” He had
noticed “The Tilted Kilt” across the street and said he would go there after
the race for a pint of beer. There was
no doubt this former elite paratrooper probably drank with his mates, headed
butted one another instead of high fiving, and if one head butt missed the
target and flattened a nose, I was sure they raised their pints to proclaim
“I’ll drinkz tuh dat!” If blood flowed
from the smashed nose, even better since it was probably celebrated with even more
endeavor.
Both Matt
and Crazy Scott looked healthy and fit, but Crazy Scott had that raw, extreme
focus where if he was tasked with a job, he would have pure tunnel vision where
nothing else mattered until it was complete.
His accent continued to be a challenge.
Instead of listening to words, I found myself focusing on his mouth
where lip reading was proving to be better than guessing actual words being
said. He commented how no woman would
ever beat him in a race and I warned him that he would soon be eating those
words. He proclaimed he would not allow
it; that he could somehow muster up whatever it took to prevent a female
beating him in a race. I maintained he
was about to see some females who would make him rethink his machismo.
Later that
afternoon, I drove Crazy Scott and Matt to the race grounds for registration. Comments were made about different car
manufacturers in the USA versus England and I learned they were both personal
trainers.
We were talkative and Crazy Scott asked a question that I deciphered was
directed to me. The only word understood
during the question was “Dodge” so, since we had earlier spoken about cars, I
answered “Ya, but we have a lot of Fords and Chevys, too.”
Both erupted
in simultaneous laughter and I commented that I obviously misunderstood the
question which Matt then translated. Crazy
Scott had asked if I had ever told anyone the famous American quote of “Get out of Dodge” like he
had seen in American movies. We all
laughed over the misunderstanding and we arrived at the raceway.
We walked to
the registration area where hundreds of Mudders milled around in a disorganized
mass. Everyone was in half-assed lines
that led to the alphabetically organized registration tables. Finally, my file was pulled and handed to me. I waited for Crazy Scott and Matt and the three
of us headed to the pit area to set up camp and had to pass through a memorable tunnel.
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The
atmosphere was electric, humming with excitement, and the grassy pit areas were
filling fast. We walked far along the
eastern pit and finally found vacant spaces.
Matt set up his tent that he was going to share with Crazy Scott and we
all laughed since one person hugging a teddy bear would barely fit in their
tent. My neighbor from Florida pitched a
monster 8 man tent and generously offered to share his condo-sized tent with
Crazy Scott. Oddly, Crazy Scott secured Scotland’s
flag over Matt’s tent, but then moved into the neighbor’s condo.
The grass
was wet and my feet cooled, which concerned me since it was going to become
much, much worse the following morning.
Crazy Scott admitted his feet were also cold which made me feel slightly
better knowing I was not alone. Nineteen
year old Matt, with eyes opened wide absorbing the entire experience announced,
“I can’t believe I’m at the World’s Toughest Muddah.” He explained he had not made the initial
qualifying time, but was allowed to enter via the Wildcard application process
where a question was asked why he should be selected. His reply was he was rebuilding his mind and
body from epilepsy and wanted to challenge himself at the World’s. As much as Crazy Scott was, well, crazy, Matt
was equally as good and well spoken of a young man that a person would like to
meet. He commented how he was going to
beat Crazy Scott and disregarded me being just an “old man”…little did he know
how this “old man” can still move.
We snapped
pictures and returned to the motel hoping to get some sleep before morning. Sleep was sporadic with my mind cycling
through equipment, strategy, nourishment, and the hundreds of “what if”
questions that a worrisome mind in the middle of the night can dream up. A trash truck emptied a dumpster from under
my window around 2 o’clock in the morning which made me realize the area was so
populated that trash service was a 24/7 job.
Not my idea of an area to live. Almost
a relief, dawn broke the horizon and my stomach got jittery thinking about 24
hours of who-knows-what was soon to begin.
Bags were packed and Matt, Mum, Crazy Scott and I wedged ourselves in my
rental car and we set off to Raceway Park.
I parked
close and we humped our packs to our tents and stirred around the pit area
getting nervous and talking to fellow participants. The sky was Colorado blue and cloudless with
the forecasted high nearing 50 degrees. I
visited the porta-potty multiple times, cussing the residual flu nonsense. As 10:00 am neared, we changed
into what our individual opinions felt was a smart outfit to race in.
Under Armor
compression shorts were covered with basic running tights which were partially
covered with Lava Core scuba shorts (about 2 mil). Up top, I simply wore the long sleeved Lava
Core scuba shirt and my feet slipped into ankle length Smartwool socks. My race shoes were my best friends. I superglued the old, worn out, orange
colored Salomon XT Wings back together as pieces were badly separating. Those shoes carried me over hundreds of training
miles and became a perfect fit to my feet.
The heel cup was a custom fit while the toe-box made my toes giggle
because they were so happy inside the shoes.
I worried about my sock situation.
Other Mudders spoke of multiple socks and neoprene socks and drying off
between laps and I was simply rolling with one pair of socks in my old, worn-out
shoes. I forgot a cap, so I bought a WTM
camo colored stocking cap to cover my head since I felt the scuba neoprene hood
would be too hot for initial laps.
Finally, thick neoprene gloves covered my hands and the timing chip was
secured to my ankle with a Velcro strap. Both ankles had a band of exposed
flesh between my ankle socks and running tights that I hoped would not become a
big mistake. The bib numbers were
printed on an apron-style type of vest.
I poked my head through the neck hole and the numbered flaps fell front
and back. Single cloth straps were tied
under my armpits and I was race-ready.
The race
sounded really good in July when I registered and, as the event neared, I told
a co-worker who regularly runs 100 mile races that I may have bit off more than I can
chew. He simply replied in his smooth southern drawl, “Take little
bites.” Made sense to me. I planned on attacking the event with lots of
little bites.
Crazy Scott
hopped on top a short cement wall, raised his hands up high and slightly tilted
his head back. “Are you not
entertained?” he bellowed towards the empty grandstands.
I knew the
scene well from my favorite movie, Gladiator,
and Crazy Scott said that would be his response if anyone from the media asked
him for a comment. We went to the start
line and stayed near the inflatable arch and timing mat. We did not want to get behind the mass and
then get stuck waiting in line at obstacles, so we pressed hard to stay near
the front as more Mudders filtered into the area.
“There’s
Moustache Man!” announced Matt as he pointed through the crowd. I saw who he was pointing at and looked
around at other participants. Just like
a Dr. Seuss story, there were big ones and small ones, short ones and tall
ones, heavy ones and skinny ones, young ones and old ones… Most wore assorted combinations of wet suit
gear, but some were scantily clad and I watched a chubby dude walk up in
sneakers, cotton shorts and only his bib vest on top. What was he thinking?
LAP 1
“Three…Two…One”
was overheard and the race began.
Pace yourself…24 hours is a loooong
time as I reined in
my run to something more of a shuffling trot.
I badly wanted to open up and let my legs fly, an easy thing to do in
the early excitement of a race, but constantly reminded myself …Pace yourself, race smart, 24 hours is a
looong time! Stay in tune with your body and listen what it’s telling you.
While the
herd moved forward, I noticed Moustache Man nearby and rambled up beside
him.
“Are you The
Moustache Man?” I asked.
“It looks
like you’re one yourself,” was his response.
“But, yea, I’m The Moustache Man.”
“I’m your
imposter,” I laughed and explained how at least a dozen racers had approached
me thinking I was the Moustache Man and I told him how a friend from England
was a huge fan and wanted to get a picture taken with him.
“Not a
problem…” was his response as we got separated in the running crowd.
After
running down the Drag Strip, the course jumped over the wall and through a
large puddle where feet were immediately soaked and mud properly
introduced. Racers passed me and I
passed others. I missed my music! I love running to my playlists which were
replaced by labored breathing from others.
Many were huffing and chuffing and we weren’t a mile into the
course. Maybe I wasn’t pushing myself
enough, but 24 hours stood before us. I began my “All Systems Check” analysis
from bottom to top.
Feet? Wet
but fine. Ankles? Check. Shins/Calves? Ok. Knees? Fine.
Quads/Hamstrings? Good.
Pelvis? Uh-oh. Darn it, my pubis osteitis was already
noticeable. That upper groin/lower
abdominal/pelvic girdle condition wasn’t debilitating, but was a nonstop annoyance
and reminder that something was not right.
It was nothing new, but very nagging.
Torso? Fine. Arms? So far so
good. Hands? Scuba gloves keeping them warm. Head?
The knit WTM cap I bought was doing its job.
The first
obstacle was ”The Cliffhanger.” In
Beaver Creek at the regular Colorado Mudder, it was a climb up a steep ski
slope. New Jersey offered no such terrain,
so heavy equipment bulldozed many large mounds of dirt to run up and over. Sprinklers made the surface slick, but the
hills weren’t a big deal. I kept
trotting along and “Berlin Walls 1” arrived.
I could reach the top and easily pulled myself up and over the 2 (or was
it 3?) walls.
The course
folded back on itself and, whoa! Crazy
Scott was in the lead and looking strong!
Good for him, I thought, hope he can keep that pace. The “Kiss of
Mud 1” appeared and I simply got on my belly and began the marine type of belly
crawl under the barbed wire. Many racers
sported Camelbacks which frequently snagged in the wire. I popped out the other side and soon was at
the “Rock Out with Your Block Out” obstacle.
I picked up my cinder block and balanced it on my right shoulder and
quickly walked the down and back distance that was maybe 300 yards. I noticed others holding the block at their
bellies and wondered why they were taxing their arms? Perhaps they knew something I didn’t? Regardless, I wanted the weight to be carried
on my shoulders and not my fingers clutching the block with my arms carrying
the weight. My theory was similar to
carrying a water bottle while running. I
much prefer it being strapped to my waist or shoulders so I’m not working smaller
arm and hand muscles. I set my block
back down in the start/finish pile and noticed hundreds of racers behind
me. I felt fortunate staying ahead of the
traffic jam.
Another
glimpse and “Go Scott” was yelled as he was still in the lead. I came to another dozed hill of dirt, but
this one was like potter’s clay, very slippery.
I scratched and crawled up the short slope and the “Funky Monkey” waited
for me on the other side. I removed my
gloves and clamped onto them with my teeth.
I grabbed the first bar and noticed it wasn’t too greased up. I swung out and was able to skip many rungs
as I went across the bars like a school boy out on the playground at
recess. I finished and went to the next
obstacle, “Trench Warfare.” These
tunnels zig-zagged underground and had lots of pointy rocks mixed in with the
mud, tearing up my knees. I popped out the
end like a gopher and the course returned to the “Funky Monkey” where bars were
slippery with the mud from the tunnels.
I grabbed
the 1st one and it was too slippery. I
reached out and grabbed the 2nd and 3rd and they, too,
were slippery. This mud was a high-grade
lubricant that needed to be introduced in Detroit to the automobile manufacturers
since it had an incredible slick’em quality.
I grabbed the edges of the rungs and began to cross and barely, as in
falling off the last rung, made it across.
Others fell into the water below and I felt fortunate. I kept trotting along and climbed up and over
the “Ladder to Hell” that was an oversized ladder made of telephone poles with
2”X12” rungs. After dropping to the
other side, the course ran along the edge of the woods with ups and downs over
dirt mounds, feeling like a roller coaster.
The “Devil’s Beard” arrived. With
so many people getting under the rope netting, it was pretty easy to move
forward under the barrier and exit. The
course continued near the woods where there were many hurdles of logs called
“Log Jammin.” Over, under, over, under
several of the hurdles and I pressed on.
All systems
check? But for the nuisance pubis osteitis,
I was feeling good.
The “Boa
Constrictor” arrived and I crawled into the big black tube that angled down
into water. I tilted my head at the exit
to keep my face out of the deepening water, but some water flowed down my neck
hole in the Lava Core top. Not bad, so I
crawled across the water and into the exit black tube that angled out of the
muddy pond. It was smooth inside, not
ribbed like a culvert, and I used my elbows as a wedge to slowly advance up the
incline and get out. Soon, I was
standing at “Twinkle Toes,” a balance beam about 25’ long with the width of a
2”X4”.
Big Mudder
then provided an option. Some of the beams
had about a narrow, 1 ¾” board nailed the entire length to make the crossing
more difficult, while others had a stacked pyramid of lumber in the middle with
the top of the stack being more of the 1 3/4” lumber. I elected the pyramid and concentrated. One careful step at a time and…yahoo, made
it. Those who lost balance fell in the
water below. The “Walk the Plank”
obstacle was immediate and I crawled up the wooden ramp and stood on the top
platform. About 15’ below waited another
pond of muddy water and I jumped out.
The freefall was brief as I splashed into the water and went under. I swam to the edge and got out and looked
down. I had a pregnant belly and realized my Lava Core shirt had inflated like
a balloon when entering the pond and the water was trapped. I “broke water” by pulling out the waistband
and watched gallons of water spill out.
System
check? Cool, but fine.
The course
returned to “Twinkle Toes” and I followed my initial victory and went for the
beam with the pyramid stack and was happy to cross without falling into the
water. Trudging along finally took me to
“Kiss the Mud 2” where I began my belly crawl under the barbed wire. The distance was 80’(?) and I noticed others
log-rolling. Aside from more pointy
rocks jabbing into my knees, I felt good belly crawling and told myself that
maybe log-rolling was something to try on another lap.
I kept rambling
along where the field of participants was beginning to settle. The ebb and flow of passing and getting
passed was decreasing and, “Hey Matt!”
My English friend was kneeling on a muddy hill as I caught up to him and
he said he was alright. I let him be and
continued moving forward and came to “Peg Legs.”
This
obstacle looked fun! A muddy pond of
water was before me, but logs standing vertical poked out from the water. These vertical logs were arranged in lines,
somewhat straight in nature. The size of
the logs varied a little, maybe the size of large dinner plates, and were all
at different heights. The object was to
step across the tops of the logs to get to the other side. I selected a line and went for it. While crossing, some of the logs tilted which
caused a problem if it tilted left and I needed to get my right foot on
it. I somehow managed to cross without
falling into the water and told myself to mentally run through the line next
time to ensure my left foot would land on the logs tilting left and vice versa
on the right side.
The course
doubled back several times and I could no longer see if Crazy Scott was in the
lead. I ran up to “Smoke Chute” and
climbed up to the platform. While on
top, there were many chutes divided by plywood. I looked down the chutes and
could only see the curve at the bottom.
They were like laundry chutes in old apartment buildings and I could not
muster enough trust, so I began to Spider Man down the chute with hands and
feet stabbing into sides to slowly descend the vertical shaft. At the curve, I could not Spider Man any
further, so I dropped and slowly came out the end and into water. I told myself on the next lap just plunge
down the chute since the obstacle was masterfully crafted to prevent injuries.
Continuing
on, the course went into the woods and I found it to be my favorite area. The course became more of a trail instead of
a dirt road and the woods smelled of organic matter. Fall had the trees bare of leaves and high
winds from Hurricane Sandy had uprooted selective victims in the forest. A huge rope cargo net, the “Spider’s Web,”
blocked the trail. One step at a time and I was up and over the huge net and
moving on. The trail wound through the woods and I was then standing at
“Hanging Tough,” a series of 5 or 6 rings all in a row with water waiting below
for punishment should I slip and fall.
The rings were spaced far enough apart to prevent sticking an arm
through to the elbows or armpits, thusly limiting the obstacle purely to grip
strength to get across. One ring to the
next I ventured across, and just like the Funky Monkey, I had removed my slick
neoprene gloves and held them in my mouth.
The last ring was grabbed and as I swung, my fingers slipped but I
luckily landed on the platform.
The “Dong
Dangler” was quickly faced with some people hanging under the cable while
others slithered across the top. The huge
metal cables were covered with plastic sleeves and strung across, you guessed
it, more water. The distance was maybe
60’(?) and I was able to balance on top and begin to use grip and arm strength
to pull myself across. Legs were busy balancing
and worthless to assist the crossing. It
took longer than expected, but I managed to get across and was off again on dry
land heading through the woods.
Several aid
stations were earlier passed so I began to take water at the next aid
stations. The green bananas were
under-ripe for my taste, but I crunched one down and questioned if it was hard
enough to drive a nail?
Emerging
from the woods, I noticed we were on the back side of the half pipe
obstacle. A nylon web ladder was climbed
to get on top and then I was to go down the half pipe like a kid on a giant
slide. My butt hit the slope and down I
went. My left leg was bent and after
sliding off the end, my left foot stuck to the turf as my body propelled
forward. Ouch! A sharp pain shot through my left knee as I
slid over the top of my own leg. I
stood, rubbed it and, no biggy, so I kept trotting. I made a mental note for next time to slide
with both feet in the air to allow my butt to be the brake scooting along the
ground.
Incessant
Forward Motion (IFM) was thought of frequently and reminiscent from the founder
of the Imogene Pass Run who told all of us to keep moving forward. “Run if you can, walk if have to and crawl as
a last resort, but keep moving forward and eventually you will get to the
finish line”.
The course
returned to the “Ladder to Hell” where I climbed up and over and returned to
the half pipe, “Everest.” Several
Mudders were on the top dangling their arms down to grab those in need. I approached and hit high gear running up the
half pipe and smiled when my fingers reached over the top and grabbed. I had a solid grip and hoisted myself up and
over. I looked back and a few Mudders
were approaching with plenty of help still dangling from the upper lip, so I
went down the ramp and pressed on.
All system
check? A little cool, groin thingy
really pissing me off, but still good overall. Left knee from the slide is complaining, but
not worth crying over.
The trail
dropped back into the woods and slowly turned into a mud stomp, complete with
hidden tree roots, huge hidden holes that swallowed other Mudders and finally a
pit of thick, kind of warm, chest high, sticky shit. It was a foul mixture that even had the faint
odor of, well, sewage. I waded through
the “Swamp Stomp” and “Log Bog Jog” muck and crawled out and emerged again from
the woods.
The course
was snaking behind the buildings at the start/finish line and circled over to
the east side of the drag strip. I
reluctantly approached the “Electric Eel.”
Belly crawling through standing water with electrical wires dangling
from above was not appealing. I
carefully slid into the water to avoid wires, but Big Mudder strategically
placed them where it was impossible to not to get hit. I tucked my chin and began a panic stricken,
high speed crawl. Like a jet ski, I
skimmed along the top of the water, making quite the wake, and felt several
zappings. Shooting out the end, I
realized the electricity did not make me wet my pants and suck my thumb, so I
pressed on, elated that obstacle was over.
“Hanging
Brain” was next encountered which was nothing more than a shorter version of
the Berlin Walls, but angled towards the participant. I was able to grab over the top and scale the
2 (or was it 3?) walls and rambled on.
Timing mats
were sprinkled throughout the course and beeped each time I crossed. The beeping was good for my brain since it
told me my timing chip was still attached and sent a message home that I was
still moving forward in case anyone was tracking me.
“Island
Hoppin” was a series of 5 or so floating wooden decks (maybe 4’ X4’ in size) in
a line. The object was to jump from one
to the other of these man-made lily pads to get across the water. It appeared Big Mudder slowly increased the
distance between these lily pads where the final few required huge jumps with
belly flop landings. Getting across
without getting too wet, or too bruised, was good and the trail took me around
the end of the lake.
While
running just outside the chain link fence for the raceway, I saw JY Pak, last
year’s winner, headed to the buildings at the finish line. Holy shit he’s amazing! I realized he was almost at the 10 mile mark
and I was only at the 8. Four wheelers
with cameramen drove beside him as I watched his effortless stride eating up
the ground. Suddenly, the trail dumped
into the lake.
“Pirate’s
Booty” was a swim of 130 yards (+ or – who knows how much) with life guards on
kayaks. I hopped in the cold water and
began to wade, but opted to go to a boundary rope and pull myself across since
it was faster than wading. Plus, when it
got too deep, I did not want to waste energy swimming. Hand over hand I pulled myself across the
lake and finally hit the opposing shore where a cargo rope net awaited. I began the ascent and soon was on top the
platform and dropped to the ground to press on.
“Underwater
Tunnels” used the other end of the lake for another crossing. But, this time the distance was much shorter
and three lines of floating barrels had to be swum under. I headed back out into the chilly waters and
one…two…oh shit!
While going
under the 3rd set of barrels, my $20 WTM knit stocking cap floated
off and I blindly turned underwater sweeping with my hands hoping my flailing
would get lucky and grab my hat. No such
luck. I popped up from the 3rd
set of barrels and got to the opposing shore and crawled out.
My Lava Core
gear was working well being lightweight and keeping me modestly warm after the
swims. A one piece would have been
better to prevent “ballooning” full of water from upper deck jump, but I was
happy with the gear.
Running
again was good since it built heat and soon I was standing before “Balls to the
Wall.” This obstacle had huge ropes with
periodic knots hanging from a vertical wall.
A few lumber cleats were nailed to the wall and one Mudder could not
climb the rope high enough to get his feet on the lowest cleat. I called out to him to stand on my shoulders. He did and it enabled him to get high enough
to place his feet on the lowest cleat.
He called out “I owe you” as he disappeared over the top and I began my
ascent. Fortunately, my body likes to
climb and soon I was up and over and moving on.
“Drag King”
looked like a thigh burner. Two tires
tied together needed dragged down and back on asphalt. It looked like ¼ mile to the turnaround point
(but was probably less) and I grabbed a rope and leaned into it. My hands were at the small of my back clutching
the nylon rope and a Mudder in front of me was carrying his tires on his
shoulders. Officials had barked orders
to drag and he still carried. I spoke to
a fellow Mudder beside me. We were loud
announcing to each other we were to drag and not carry the tires. Another official approached the carrier and
demanded him to follow the rules. The
carrier dropped his tires, turned to me and childishly snarled, “I hope you’re
happy!”
“Shut up you
little cheatin’ bitch!” were the only words on the tip of my tongue. But, I opted to stay quiet since nothing good
would happen if I spoke my mind. Instead, I focused
on dragging my tires. Mudders are a
great group with wonderful camaraderie, but this dipshit gave Mudders a bad
name. Mudders do not cheat!
My thighs began
to throb as I neared the turnaround point and noticed an attractive female
dragging her tires on the return trip. I
gave her a thumbs-up and she smiled and her build caught my attention. Her legs were bulging with bodybuilder
muscling. Quads were huge and cut with
hamstrings large and powerful--and this was noticed while she was in a
wetsuit! I glanced down at my chicken
legs and felt out of place. My legs have
little muscling and I wondered what they were built for? Definitely not bodybuilding…not running…not
swimming…not powerlifting…not bicycling…guess they’re attached to my body for…um…
entertainment.
“You riding
a chicken?” is not unusual for me to hear and I cannot argue. But, one advantage is I require no globs of
Vaseline, Monkey-Butt powder, Crack Spackle, Butt Butter or anything else for
chaffing—my stuff doesn’t rub! Sand
found its way to tender groin areas that I flushed in water obstacles. Those Mudders with gooey anti-chaffing products
soon had a problem. Sand mixed with goo creates
a super abrasive gel that not only removes hair, but exfoliates multiple layers
of tender skin. My little chicken legs unknowingly
did me a huge favor and they finally got the tires to the drop off point. Elated, I released the rope and moved on.
The course
turned and began to head towards the finish line. The “Mud Mile” was a series of large mud
humps with, of course, waist high water between the humps. Up and over and into the water, up and over
and into the water, up and over and into the water. The motion was repetitious and the mud humps
were slick. Up and over and into the
water…it, quite honestly, became annoying.
Finally, the last hump was conquered and off to the finish line with
only 2 more obstacles to go.
“Berlin
Walls 2” were more formidable. These
suckers were tall. I could not reach up
and grab the top, but noticed wooden cleats nailed low on the wall. So, I ran to the wall and jumped up to let my
foot land on the cleat to help me get enough height to grab the top. Slip and womp!
My foot immediately came off the cleat and I face-planted into the wall
with a splat. Counting it off as a
simple slip, I backed up and attacked again.
Splat! My foot slipped off the
cleat and I figured out what was wrong.
The toe of my shoe was hitting the wall, forcing the ball of my foot off
the cleat which caused my entire foot to slip.
A third attack had the same result.
I stood and lifted my foot to the cleat and tried to boost myself up and
slipped off. Darn it!
The penalty
for not completing the obstacle was the “Arctic Enema”. The huge container of water filled with ice
cubes with a barrier that forces complete submersion. It was not appealing. Finally, I placed a foot on the corner of the
cleat, grabbed the edge of the wall and stretched upward. My fingers barely curled over the top as I
straightened my body. Success! I scampered over the top and dropped down to
the other side. The drop was further
than anticipated and a slight stinging shot through my feet as I moved forward
for another tall wall and then onto the next obstacle.
“Electroshock
Therapy.”
The words
make me uneasy of this Mudder signature obstacle. A mass of long, orange colored electrical wires
dangle from a lattice type structure.
Mudders need to run through the electrified spaghetti strings and absorb
what shocks they encounter. The
“Electroshock Therapy” at my first Mudder was miserable. Historically, electricity never bothered me
too much, but I got struck by lightning while running through the wires. I heard the electrical arc snap at my lower
back as I blacked out. My knees buckled
as I collapsed into the mud and woke looking up at those nasty wires. Figuring we were there to run through the
wires, I stood and began to run and BAM!
Lightning struck a second time.
Sparks shot out my rear-end on that second strike as I crumpled again
into the mud. Having no desire to get
struck a third time, I belly crawled under the dangling wires to exit the
obstacle. I watched others go through and
it appeared only a select few hit the turbo-charged lightning bolts while most
giggled as they pranced through the obstacle.
Murphy’s Law…he likes me and was present at that
obstacle.
That
experience haunted me every time I approached the “Electroshock Therapy”
obstacle and at the WTM, I felt the same.
DREAD. I stood before the
obstacle as fellow Mudders ran up and through the wires. I was envious they were on the other side and
headed to the pit area while I nervously looked at the wires. More Mudders passed and I watched. Even though they giggled through the wires, I
knew there were a few wires with near lethal doses of electricity and I would
be the lone Mudder to find them.
More Mudders
passed and I glanced over at the “Arctic Enema.” It became appealing. Suffer through some 33 degree water versus
getting fried? Hmmm…. I opted to roll the dice and ran through the
dangling mass. Bam! I got zapped.
It was not bad at all, but my dread and mind set had me immediately drop
and belly crawl out the other side. Pathetic!
I ran on and
closed in on the finish line. I came around
the corner of the building and saw the time clock…just under 2 hours for the
first 10 mile lap. Not bad. Each completed lap got an appropriately colored
bandana tied to the race bib. Lap 1’s
white bandana was tied on and I headed to my tent.
One lap
down, who knows how many more to go. An
all systems check made me realize I was feeling good and was satisfied with my
pace that I felt I could maintain for awhile.
I grabbed a protein bar, swallowed a bunch of Powerade and spooned
mouthfuls of peanut butter as I stood before my tent.
Having lost
my knit cap, I snatched my heavy duty scuba neoprene zippered hood from my tent
as I wanted to preserve any head heat that would otherwise be lost. I zipped it on and began to trot out for lap
2.
Keeping a
steady shuffle, I moved through obstacles without any problems. After crawling through the mud tunnels and
returning to re-cross the “Funky Monkey,” I slipped and splash. I went for a swim. What happened to my grip? I thought my forearms and hands were still
strong, and blamed the high-grade lubricant mud for my plunge. I crawled out and ventured onward.
Obstacles
came and went and a systems check showed I was still feeling good and moving
decent. My pelvic condition plagued me and
was painful, but I could tune it out and make it more of an annoyance instead
of a hindrance.
What do I
hear? It was “The Hand That Feeds” by
Nine-Inch Nails. The course had many sound systems playing different music and
this one was playing a song from my playlist that has a beat and rhythm that
makes my feet want to dance. What are
the odds of so many songs to choose from that one of my favorites was blasting
from the speakers? I loved it, smiled and
quickened my pace to match the music.
I gulped
water at aid stations and had another very under-ripe banana. Having to pee was easy in the Lava Core gear
since I could hop in a porta-potty and simply pull down my shorts to take care
of business. My top again ballooned full
of water after plunging off the “Walk the Plank” obstacle, but I emptied my
balloon and kept shuffling on. After
nearly crossing the vertical logs in the “Peg Legs”, I lost my balance and fell
in the water. Darn it! I crawled out and was mad at myself for
taking an unnecessary plunge. “Smoke
Chute” arrived and, again, I spider-manned down the chute as far as possible
before gently sliding out the end. I simply
could not trust the obstacle and was happy to be on the trail in the
woods. “Hanging Tough” was before me and
I began to swing from ring to ring. Ker-plunk! I came off and went for a swim.
In addition
to getting wet, failing at the rings also had a 1/8 mile added loop to run as a
penalty. I trotted off on my penalty
loop and was curious about my grip. What
is going on? I blamed blowing up my
forearms and grip while grasping the rope and dragging the tires. I had noticed other Mudders had tires with
much longer ropes that they wrapped around their waists and told myself I would
do the same in order to preserve my grip.
“Dong
Dangler” again had me inch-worming across the top of the cable while others looked
like sloths hanging underneath. This
obstacle also taxed my grip as I pulled myself across the cable and made it to
the bank and trotted on.
I completed
other obstacles without any problems and hit the after-burners to run up the
half-pipe “Everest” obstacle. I swung up
on top and layed on my belly and hung my arms down to help other Mudders
running up the slick ramp. A big boy
Mudder hit the half-pipe and was headed up towards my dangling arms. He reached out and we grabbed hold of each
other as my toes hooked under the back side of the deck since he nearly ripped
me off the platform. Both of us called
out for help and soon a mass of hands were reaching down and grabbing him. The big Mudder was soon rolled onto the
platform and gave a hearty “thanks.” I smiled how Mudders worked so well
together; pure strangers joining forces to help others achieve their goals. I was humbled being with such a group.
The
remaining obstacles went well and I was back at the finish line happily getting
my lap 2 brown bandana tied to my vest.
A systems
check made me realize I was getting cold and I knew the sun would go down during
lap 3. So, I plundered my tent and
peeled off my Lava Core shorts and tights and wrestled into my wetsuit.
My daily personal
wardrobe consists of baggy clothing, so this wetsuit imposing its will by
tightly constricting my body was annoying.
To make matters worse, I have a long torso and short legs so the
neoprene was constantly giving me a “wedgy” that I had to address. I found my
blinker strobe and headlamp and glanced at my phone. Friends and family had sent inspiring texts. I replied to a few, but left others unanswered
as I wanted to get back out on the course.
“Matt? What are you doing?” He was at his tent with Mum, obeying the
rules, standing just outside the pit area.
He was dry, clean and warm and I was slightly jealous. He explained cramping up on Lap 1 and
questioned continuing. I told him he did
not fly across the ocean for one lap at the WTM and told him to get his ass in
his wetsuit and join me.
My 7 mil wetsuit
was thick and I felt as nimble as an overweight butcher hog on ice. I had tried it on at a Colorado scuba shop
for maybe 4 minutes where I was told it was a good fit and I had to trust their
expertise.
My favorite
word in the English language is FREEDOM. I love how the word looks, how it makes me
feel when it is heard and anything that restricts, removes, limits, reduces,
and/or takes away from that word typically annoys the thunder out of me. Personal freedoms living in the glorious USA
are cherished, but I also like freedom of movement by wearing baggy clothing. The wetsuit became a straight jacket and was
instantly my enemy. I told Matt I was not
going to burn out my legs running in my cumbersome cloak of thick neoprene and we set
off together at a quick walking pace.
Steadily we
crossed timing mats and obstacles and boom, my grip was gone. The “Funky Monkey” dropped me into the water
on both crossings. Likewise, I lost
balance on one trip across the balance beam of “Twinkle Toes” and realized my
body was slowly breaking down.
The sky
turned to dusk, then blackness where headlamps and blinkers were turned
on. Matt referred to his handlamp as a
“torch.” I also found his mother
referring earlier to aluminum foil as “silva paypa” equally as
entertaining. We kept jabbering and I
chuckled when he explained being startled at the grocery store when the
pressurized misters jetted on while he was looking at the vegetables. It was new to him and suddenly, JY Pak lapped
us.
We cheered
everyone who passed and discovered several people passing us were females. Good for them! They thanked us for the encouragement and the
eventual female winner, and 2nd overall finisher, Amelia Boone,
turned to make a point of thanking us for cheering her on. Unlike Crazy Scott, Matt and I did not mind
“getting chicked” as I have a tremendous amount of respect for anyone who goes
out and pushes themselves. Plus, it’s
good to humble others, but it is even better to be humbled.
During lap 3,
we were in the “Swamp Stomp” and “Log Bog Jog” with Moustache Man and his
team. Matt was star struck. He was Moustache Man’s #1 fan and scrambled
out of the sewage pit of warm mud to turn and eagerly offer Moustache Man a
hand. But, Matt stepped in watery mud
that squirted directly into Moustache Man’s left eye. I laughed out loud. Moustache Man wiped his face and Matt cringed
in embarrassment. I could not help
commenting on how Matt gave Moustache Man “a money-shot.” Both were unsure of
my humor. Oh well.
We continued
on and the two lake crossings made me realize my rental wetsuit leaked like a sieve. After crawling out of the lake, flooded
waters rushed down my torso and into my legs.
The cascading water pooled in the wet suit’s ankle cuffs, requiring me
to squeegee out the water that also carried away valuable core
temperature. But, I enjoyed the buoyancy
the wetsuit provided during the lake crossings.
We got back
to the finish line and Lap 3’s yellow bandana was tied to my vest and…
whoa! My stomach churned and I shook my
head. I felt it earlier, and it was not
going away. I had to go to the bathroom. Unzipping the back zipper and peeling out of
the torso portion of the wet suit was depressing as steam released from my
body. I wanted to physically grab the
heat that was dissipating into the atmosphere and reuse it after I zipped back
up. But, it floated away, taking a
little of my spirit with it—I worked hard for that heat. After going to the bathroom, I struggled
punching my hands through the wrist cuffs of the wetsuit, and, with way too
much effort, I finally got back into the miserable outfit. I was chilled and went to my tent.
Cup of
Noodles! Yeah, that will help. I grabbed one and headed to the microwave
provided in the tent area. Five people were
already in line as a couple grubby dudes cooked their meal. The microwave looked circa 1985 and the
Grubby Gonzo Brothers kept zapping their meal.
After 10 minutes, I was getting irritated as they kept cooking. I asked the Mudder ahead of me if they were
cooking up a pot roast and he laughed and was equally as irritated. A few Mudders huddled in the heat from the
oily exhaust fumes spewing out of the generator that was providing electricity
to the microwave and the Gonzo Brothers finally walked off with steam puffing
out of their well cooked cuisine. Others
in front of me heated up their soups and finally, after 25 wasted minutes, I
stood before the glorious microwave.
I set my Cup
of Noodles inside and spun the dial for 2 minutes and started the radiation
treatment. The line had grown behind me
and…”ding”. I removed my cherished meal
and stepped off line and eagerly rolled back the top to dig into the gloriously
hot meal to warm my innards!
@#$%!!!! The noodles were still crunchy, the broth was
luke warm and the dehydrated peas and carrots rolled around my mouth like
gravel. I managed to choke down the
contents and returned to my tent. A few
more spoonfuls of peanut butter, some agave nectar and another protein bar
topped off the noodles. Powerade washed
down the meal and Crazy Scott showed up and grunted at Matt and I.
A tuft of
hair stuck out a barbed-wire tear in his latex swim cap as he ripped open a
protein bar wrapper with his teeth. He
chewed, with crumbs falling from his open mouth, and threw the wrapper to the
ground. He was a muddy mess and stirred around in the neighbor’s tent and
pulled out a bottle of water and guzzled it.
He tossed the empty bottle to the ground and took off. His tunnel vision and target lock on his
mission were focused. I picked up after him and soon Matt and I were off as Lap
4 began for me.
Systems check? @#$%!!!!!
Not only was my pelvis condition aggravated, but my left knee had a
stabbing pain, which was very noticeable while going downhill on the dirt
mounds. I realized it was from my
initial slide down the half-pipe obstacle and was irritated that the easiest
obstacle had caused some kind of injury.
The colder the night got, the more my left knee pained me, but Matt and
I continued on in the middle of the night.
As I
scratched and clawed my way up the hill of slippery potter’s clay, a ghostly
outline whispered past me. I anchored
into the greasy mud and watched Pak gracefully move, like a cat, up and over
the hill and to the monkey bars. Without
hesitation, he grabbed the bars and swung across with ease and
disappeared. Soon, I grabbed the bars
and, very unlike Pak, made a big splash, crawled out and continued on with Matt.
What is
that? It’s more music from my playlist
playing on the loudspeakers! Instead of
Nine Inch Nails, this time it was Led Zepplin’s “When the Levee Breaks.” The song has a rocking chair rhythm to it and
we matched pace to the beat, generating body heat.
The longer
“Kiss of Mud 2” obstacle arrived and rather than belly crawling, I thought
log-rolling all the way under the barbed wire obstacle would save energy and
save my knees. Tore up knees are another
signature of Mudder events since crawling in gritty mud takes its toll on skin.
Even through thick neoprene, I could
feel my knees had been brutally tenderized on the first two laps. So, I rolled…and rolled …and rolled…and
rolled. Mud, wires, starry skies… mud,
wires, starry skies. The pattern
repeated itself until I finally rolled out and stood.
Whoaaaaa…right
after standing, I toppled over to my knees and reached down to the ground to
brace myself from complete collapse. I
had a woozy brain and a nauseous stomach.
I felt like crap. I focused on a
distant light that spun and I tipped over.
While flattened out on my back, I had the famous “bed spins” from
college days of drinking too much. The
night was cloudless and the stars were like millions of luminescent spiders
dancing in the sky. They slowly stopped
their spinning boogie and came into focus.
I managed to stand and that sickening feeling thankfully went away. Mental note, don’t ever do that again!
Matt and I
continued and steamy vapor from each exhale was lit up by my headlamp and
became a source of entertainment. Having
never been a smoker, I was curious if I could create smoke rings with my mist. Lips were pursed in a circle and, nope. Not even close--just a vaporous cloud
floating up in the atmosphere.
The slick
and gooey mud had a frozen crust on top from the freezing temperatures, and…
NNOOOOOOO!!! My gut rumbled again. @#$%!!!!
@#$%!! @#$%!!! Unzipping the wetsuit when the temperature
was in the mid-20’s plagued my mind.
But, I didn’t have a choice. I
found myself in a porta-potty, pissed off at whoever had infected me with the virus
a few days before the race. I dejectedly
watched more precious body heat leave my body and rise into the chilly night sky,
with a little more of my spirit wafting along with the vapor. After finishing, I had the usual fight
getting my big hands through the wetsuit’s wrist cuffs. You know what they say about a guy with big
hands? Me either…but I wondered who was the
original fool of that stupid saying.
Matt and I
continued on and were eventually facing “Everest,” the obstacle forcing Mudders
to run up the half-pipe. Matt ran up and
was successful getting on top. I backed
up to get a good run at it. Zip zip
zip zip zip
zip zip zip
zip zip zipzipzipzipzip and jump.
My hands
went over the top and fingertips felt the edge of where I needed to grab, but I
was an inch short as I lip skidded down the half-pipe. Darn it…oh so close.
I returned
to my starting point and repeated my effort.
Again, my fingertips were an inch short of success. I reset and sprinted again and as my
fingertips touched the same exact spot.
“@#$% YOU EVEREST!” I yelled out loud as I belly slid down the slippery
ramp for the 3rd time.
My mind was chapped
at my fatiguing body and both my mind and body were pissed at “Everest.” I returned to my starting point and shook my
head. What’s the point being so angry at
an inanimate object? How juvenile! Grow up! Think of something that inspires you because
anger will not get you up and over this thing!
Changing my
mindset, I started my sprint. Upon
reaching the edge of the ramp, I roared out loud, pressed on and jumped. My fingers grabbed tight and I swung up and
was elated to be on top since the “Arctic Enema” waited as a penalty for
failing. We climbed down and a race official
grabbed my shoulder.
“Hey, how
old are you?” he asked.
I wanted to
tell him my thoughts about age…”you are as old as you feel when you don’t know
how old you are.” I still can be an
overgrown kid and my body feels in its early 30’s, but my skin has a 45 year
old label attached to it. I told him my
labeled age and his eyes opened wide and he said, “You’re inspiring!”
“I don’t
know about that,” I replied and took off with Matt.
Matt and I
moved forward and…wham! My left foot
occasionally has a mind of its own and stabs a toe in the ground, forcing a
quick slam to earth. I picked myself up
and later reflected on the incident.
“Even falling down is moving forward,” was later told to me by a cherished friend which made me
smile at the true statement.
We pressed
on and returned to the first lake swim and climbing out on the vertical rope
cargo net was difficult. My grip was
gone so I bent my wrist to make hooks to climb.
The cold night air had transformed the wet rope cargo net into frozen ladders. Happily, Matt and I got over the platform and
continued on. “Balls to the Wall” where
a huge knotted rope dangled from a vertical wall with cleats spaced far apart
was difficult, and dangerous. Since the
obstacle was immediately after the lake swims, water poured onto the obstacle
from Mudders and immediately froze. The
entire structure was ice encased and I was slow and methodical completing it.
My body was
fatigued and very cold and Matt and I formed a plan. We would hop in the warming/medical tent at
the start/finish line to warm up before pressing on.
My
understanding (or misunderstanding) of the rules to be labeled a “WTM
Finisher,” you had to cross the finish line AFTER the 24 hour mark. If not, you were labeled a quitter (a word I
detest as much as the word “can’t”).
Furthermore, I understood after the 24 hour mark, the course was open
for an additional 4 hours to allow people to finish the lap they were on. My brain said if I cross the finish line at
23 hours, 59 minutes and 59 seconds, I had to do another lap, otherwise I was a
quitter. And, if that final lap is not
completed at the 28 hour mandatory “the course is closed” cutoff time, I’d be
labeled a “did not finish.” So, I
calculated I would cross the finish line right after the 24 hour mark and be
done with the event.
As we
approached the super tall “Berlin Walls 2”, I clambered up and over and hung on
the opposite side. I willed myself to be
taller, longer and lighter as I dropped.
I landed with stinging pain shooting through my feet. It felt like I jumped off a 3rd
story balcony. All the little bones in
my feet, brittle from the cold, must have shattered and I gimped to the next
wall with a repeated, painful performance.
Gingerly I hobbled onward with Matt.
We approached the last obstacle of the lap and “Electroshock Therapy”
smirked at me as I approached.
I noticed
paths well worn under those dangling wires of death and was not ashamed as I
belly crawled under ALL of
them. Yup, the ultimate pussy move…I own
it. But, it sure beat getting struck by
lightning and, as freezing cold as I was, the penalty “Arctic Enema” may have
been enough to knock me out of the race altogether. We pressed on and I crossed the finish line
and was pleased as Lap 4’s green bandana was tied to my vest with 40 miles completed.
FINAL LAP
We went to
the medical tent to thaw and I was accosted by an employee. “What are you doing in here!” he demanded.
Where did this dude come from?? Is he really that naive?? I answered the obvious with “Uh, getting
warmed up.”
He
interrogated me like I was there to rob the tent of all heat, and supplies, and
kicked me out. Hmm. I already had a conversation with myself that
there was no way I was going to strip down and crawl in my sleeping bag to nap
within my tent. If I did, I knew I would
never get out of the bag to slip back into a frozen wetsuit. So, I had to keeping moving forward.
Matt was
also treated like a criminal in the tent and we started another lap. It was bone chilling in my leaky wetsuit and
I told Matt I was on my final lap. My
groin condition, my newly injured left knee, my right foot pained from dropping
off the wall and being cold were starting to beat me. I told Matt how I was simply going to hop
from medical tent to medical tent along the course to cross the finish line at
the 24 hour mark. Matt understood and
said he felt like he had another lap in him and I reminded him to not allow me
to slow him down.
“Hey,”
grumbled from behind us and I turned to see Crazy Scott approaching with a
shiny mylar heat blanket wrapped around him.
“Me
feetz…..thayr fooked!” Crazy Scott announced. I was walking peg-legged like
Captain Hook, but poor Crazy Scott hobbled like a man with two ill-fitting prosthetic
legs.
We three plodded
along and my jaw began to involuntarily quiver.
Teeth soon were chattering. Uh-oh,
early stages of hypothermia? or is it hyperthermia? Doesn’t matter…I was @#$%ing cold! My torso had the core temperature of a side
of beef hanging in a meat locker. My
body would have drastically shrunk the mercury of an inserted rectal
thermometer and obstacles became a chore.
Wet again, move forward, wet again and penalty loop, wet again and
………gurgle-gurgle.
Unbelievable! My gut was rumbling and I hit a very low spot
knowing I had to again expose my frigid body to the night air. Why doesn’t someone make wetsuits with a zippered
trapdoor in the rear? (I see a fortune
for someone who takes this seriously, especially when obstacle racing becomes
more mainstream.) Thankfully, the
porta-potties were beside a medical tent and Matt and Crazy Scott continued on
while I made a pit stop.
The tent was
wonderfully warm and I wrestled off my gloves and ….holy shit! My hands were so swollen they looked like
boxing gloves and my middle finger on my right hand had tiny bloody cracks. The swelling was so great that my skin was
starting to split. I’m a mess!
Gurgle
gurgle. Could this get any worse?! I needed help unzipping the wetsuit and getting
my hands through the cuffs. As I
hightailed it out of the tent, I could hear the EMT say that the swelling in my
hands was due to the cold. I flung open
the door and entered the ice-box.
Inside the
gross porta-potty was a balmy 25 degrees.
I watched precious body heat vaporize and fog up the potty like a steamroom. I
was sure that cherished heat vapor exited the roof vents making my porta-potty
look like a frosty Colorado cabin in a snowy forest with smoke lazily wafting
out the chimney. Or, in New Jersey
terms, my porta-potty must have looked like an industrialized smokestack
belching out plumes of toxic vapor. All that
work dissipating into the night sky was depressing and more of my spirit went
with the vapor.
I got back
in the tent and began the cumbersome job of climbing back into the wetsuit with
dysfunctional hands and fingers. I was
shivering and too cold to care about anything but getting that darn neoprene
layer zipped back up. I watched a fellow
Mudder quit and a 4-wheeler whisked him away.
Getting back in my wetsuit was a major accomplishment and I took a chair
in front of the vent blowing hot air. My
hands were hideous as I rubbed them in the heat. I took a drink from the hot chicken broth
container and found the scalding hot fluid to be the nectar of life. I sipped multiple cups as my body craved the
salty brine. I opened 2 salt packets and
poured them in and kept sipping.
Sharkies were also on the table and I grabbed a couple packets of the
gummy-bear type of fruit chews.
My head was
down in my seated position as I massaged my hands. A peculiar odor filled the tent and I looked
up to see Pak. He moved to the
containers of scalding chicken broth and filled a cup. Systematically, he poured the fluid down his
arms and legs, all over his shoes and lastly filled up his gloves. The drenching took several cups and he was
out the door. Smart man, I thought.
The EMT was
friendly and polite and, surprise… she kept track of time. She told me and another Mudder, “You have
been in here for 1 hour and 10 minutes…what are your plans.”
“I’m not
quitting,” was my response as I stood to put on my gloves. My hands looked like catcher mitts as I
fought with the neoprene gloves. The
other Mudder said the same and we departed together.
His strategy
was very similar to mine and we ventured off into the freezing cold and heard
over an employee’s handheld radio that the “Balls to the Wall” obstacle was
closed since it was too dangerous. No
shit! That giant wall of glazed ice
spooked me and I was happy it was closed since my hands were so trashed I
didn’t think they would allow me to climb the knotted rope, providing I even
got that far.
Rich was my
newfound traveling partner and was career military. We crossed timing mats and I smiled when they
chirped to me. I commented how each time
we crossed a mat, people at home were getting an update that I was still moving forward, albeit vincredibly
slow on this lap. The philosophy of
taking the race in “little bites” became racing from tent to timing mat to tent
to timing mat.
Rich was a
family man and shocked me when he said he could not wait to see Bob. I was confused since he spoke of his wife and
3 young boys and I raised an eyebrow. I
wondered if Bob was part of Rich’s secret life and was waiting for him at the
finish line while his family had stayed home?
He looked at me and laughed.
“B.O.B.,
it’s army talk. Big Orange Blob…the sun! Get it?” he said.
I laughed
and was looking forward to seeing Bob as well.
It would provide a huge mental uplift that I drastically needed. Rich and I kept moving forward and…..unbelievable!!!! gurgle
gurgle
We were only
2 miles from the tent we got kicked out of and here my stomach was forcing me
out of my wetsuit, again. How
depressing. We jumped into the next tent
and I began the process. Why didn’t I do
shots of pepto-bismol with Immodium AD chasers before the race and eat a block
of cheese for good measure? The super miserable
stripping, freezing, porta-potty experience was repeated and I was back in the
tent rubbing my humungous hands in front of the heater.
Rich had a
watch, thankfully since the course had ate mine, and formulated a schedule to
get us to the finish line exactly at the 24 hour mark. We left the tent at the prescribed time and
got wet and cold, wetter and colder, while we pressed on. My wetsuit “wedgy” did not matter anymore
since my fingers could do nothing about it.
Mudders behind me were entertained as it appeared my butt "was munchin’ on
neoprene.” I was far beyond caring. I was in a battle that was slowly gaining
ground on me.
A system’s
check revealed one trashed body. I could
feel creaky bones, thrashed connective tissues, a GI tract that was upside
down, a bum left knee, a damaged right foot, hands so disfigured that I was
worried about permanent damage, a chilled torso, aggravated pubis osteitis, and
the list went on.
And, that pesky little
voice that periodically shows up visited again.
“Good
enough. Call for a 4 –wheeler to
haul you in so you can get to the motel room for a long hot shower and crawl into
a comfy bed for some well earned sleep.
It’s alright…go ahead…” My suffering
body pleaded with my brain to listen to the voice of reason, please!
Thankfully,
my brain had not succumbed to the cold, yet, and gave the middle finger to my
body that was begging for mercy. I wasn’t
quite swayed by the persuasive voice, but, with each visit the little voice became
more convincing.
It took four
tries on “Everest” during the previous lap to get over the obstacle and I had
serious doubts while gimping up to the slippery ramp. Here on lap 5, just like all other obstacles,
I had to make an attempt. My right foot had
the most noticeable injury as each step felt like I was stomping on a spiny
cactus in bare feet. I tried to sprint to the half
pipe, but had the speed of a crippled turtle.
I failed at my attempt and went straight to the penalty, the “Arctic
Enema.” Jumping in, wading across,
plunging under and getting out of the ice water wasn’t a big deal, since it
couldn’t make me much colder and another medic tent was within eyesight. Rich and I staged in the next tent as Bob
burned through clouds and lifted everyone’s spirits. I was getting antsy sitting in the tent and
wanted to get going. If it wasn’t for
the 24 hour mark, I think we would have pushed on and finished hours earlier,
but Rich kept us on schedule.
At Rich’s
designated time, we set out again and plunged through the goopy swamp, crawled
through the water with wires dangling down and kept moving forward. We crossed the lake, and started to re-cross
it. Apparently, the little lake gremlin
hiding under the 3rd set of barrels who took my stocking cap on lap
1 wanted another souvenir from me and took my headlamp on my final lap. Screw it.
The sun was up and it wasn’t needed anymore. Rich and crawled out of the lake like salamanders slowly morphing into humans and hopped
into the final tent.
The tent
filled with excitement as fellow Mudders were anxious to be done with the
race. A cute EMT from Texas casually
spoke to all and I was pleased everyone behaved themselves in her
presence. Rich kept a close eye on his watch
and we set out on our final stretch.
When we got
to the “Berlin Walls 2”, there was no way I was going to drop on the back side
and further injure my feet from the fall.
Rich told the official to watch his attempt and I laughed out loud as he
went to the wall, raised his hands and demonstrated maybe a 2 inch vertical. Satisfied of his required attempt, he headed
to the “Arctic Enema” for the penalty. Rich’s
vertical was easily double my required attempt and to the “Arctic Enema” I
limped. After everything I had put my
mind and body through, a little vat of icy water became nothing to endure. I climbed out with ice cubes, caught within
folds of my outfit, periodically falling.
Rich and I
stood before the “Electroshock Therapy” and my aversion to the possibility of
being electrocuted to death on my final lap had me head straight, as in without
hesitation and skipping the required attempt, to the “Arctic Enema” penalty. As I climbed the ladder, the lady officiating
at the obstacle questioned, “You’re going to do that?” while pointing to the
container that staff had just filled with more ice.
“Yup,” I
replied as an ice cube that hitched a ride from the last “Enema” fell right
between my legs. The official was still
looking at me, as if she needed a better answer of why I elected not to run
through the wires.
“Look!” I
said while pointing at the falling ice cube, “I’m so cold that I'm crapping ice cubes. It doesn’t matter
anymore...” I hopped in, went under and
climbed out the other side.
Rich and I hobbled
along and were finally at the building and I peeked around the corner to the
finish line. The large digital clock
showed we were a few minutes early as more Mudders with the same strategy lined
up behind us. Rich kept us on a strict
schedule that was perfect. Finally, the
clock showed 24 hours and we headed to the finish line.
Twenty four
hours and twenty three seconds was my official time with 5 laps (50 miles), and
165 obstacles, completed. I was not
overcome with emotion and did not celebrate and lost Rich in the crowd after a
handshake and, regrettably, didn’t even get his email address. I was too cold and miserable and my body was
trashed. The ever-smiling, ever-cheery, wonderful
volunteers and employees graciously approached finishers and removed my timing
chip. Throughout the miserable night,
they manned obstacles and tents and patrolled the course cheering everyone on. God bless each and every one of them.
Mum was
there with Matt nearby. He was dry,
clean and had his pit area packed up and told me he finished the lap with Crazy
Scott and called it quits. Crazy Scott had
continued and he was soon crossing the finish line. We all headed to the pit area to change and
pack up our gear.
Mum was a
savior. As I fought to get out of the
wetsuit, she grabbed on and yanked, pulled and tugged. My hands looked like I was suffering from
elephantitis and she kept helping me fight the wetsuit. As she pulled on the sleeve, the wrist cuff
ever-so-slowly slid over my inflamed hands, much like a baby with a huge head
slowly exiting the birth canal.
SNAP! Mum nearly fell over backwards when the
wetsuit released its grip on me. I
learned the wrist cuffs on the wetsuit acted like a mild tourniquet
throughout the race, interfering with proper circulation causing fluid to build
and make a grotesquely disfigured set of hands and fingers. I leaned against the short cement wall and
Mum was immediately at my feet ripping off my shoes so we could finish removing
the wet suit. Together we attacked and I
stood in victory, so happy the neoprene outfit was crumpled on the ground
beside me. But for being exhausted, I
would have enjoyed an old fashioned Mexican hat dance on top of the miserable
thing. Mum did not mess around as she
grabbed my feet and was prepared to take off my socks.
“Oh no you
don’t,” I told her. She was such a
selfless person willing to help that removing my socks did not phase her. I’m blessed with good feet and skin, but the
thought of having some type of “funky foot” after the last 24 hours was for me
to address, not her. Mum wanted to argue
and Crazy Scott commented how Mum wouldn’t stop until she ripped off my
compression shorts and had me standing naked in the sun which my bare torso was greedily absorbing the warm sun rays.
Everyone
laughed and I took care of my own socks and was pleasantly surprised that other
than being wrinkled from being wet for so long, my feet looked good. Mum approached with a towel and was reaching
to grab my feet to clean them off and get them good and dry. I almost lost the argument and found her to
be an amazingly caring, selfless, kind hearted lady. I dried off and changed and glanced back at my
tent. Mum had already dismantled it and
had it rolled up and bagged. God bless
her! She took the wet and muddy gear from
all three of us and stuffed it into a tent she had trash picked (trash cans
were overflowing with tents, towels, wet suits and other assorted gear) and said she
would clean it all up back at the motel.
Again, God bless her!
I examined
my faithful friends, my shoes. They were
beyond worn out at the beginning of the race and my superglue job had held them
together. The mesh uppers were nearly disintegrated
and, almost ceremoniously, I laid them to rest in a box of trash with my Smartwool
socks. Together, they were my most
faithful, best functioning, pieces of equipment for the race.
We finally had
everything gathered and began our crippled journey to the rental car. The only
thing I forgot to pack in the tent was underwear. I went commando under my baggy jeans and soon
realized how much weight I lost during the race. Despite being buttoned and zipped, my pants dropped
to my knees. It was a "whoops" moment where exhaustion trumped any feelings of embarrassment. Once again, Mum saved the day by handing me a bungee cord that I threaded through belt loops which kept my pants up.
Mum then ran
off to a vendor type of tent as I went to another tent to claim my WTM t-shirt
and headband.
Mum returned
and later informed us that Matt took 4th in his age division (233rd
overall), I took 3rd in my age group (71st overall) and
Crazy Scott, in the most competitive age group, also took 3rd (and
10th overall).
I found the
results rather compelling. What were the
odds that the three of us from different parts of the world would
coincidentally meet, become friends and finish with such similar age group placings?
Kind of weird and far-fetched, but also
very true.
Crazy Scott
was a good sport eating a large slice of “humble pie” when told how two girls
beat him. He smiled and said he learned
a lot of lessons and would be back next year “and I’m gunna bring it!” If Vegas will be taking bets, I’m not sure to
put money on Crazy Scott or Pak battling for the win next year.
It took
hours at the motel to thaw and injuries after the race weren’t too bad. My left knee and right foot caused problems
for over a month and my left thumbnail turned black and eventually came
off. Other fingernails darkened, but did
not fall off. Fingertips were tingly and
I lost most of my sense of touch. Exactly
2 weeks after the race, skin on all fingers peeled much like Elmer’s glue on
grade school fingers. Layer after layer
kept sloughing off my fingers and also in the palm area. This reptilian shedding continued for several
weeks, but with each peel, the newer delicate skin had a better sense of
touch. I blamed the cold, poor circulation
and the pressure from my hands swelling so much inside the gloves for the
damage. The tip of my left thumb that
lost the nail is partially numb with a concern that it is permanently damaged…I
guess time will tell. My hands and
fingers with new skin are also more sensitive to the cold, forcing me to wear
gloves during runs on even mild days. The
pubis osteitis is a somewhat of a constant condition that I try to ignore. The road rash on my knees healed quickly and
I happily shared with other Mudders, who scoffed at my legs, my favorite non-injury. I had none, zero, nada, chaffing to
recover from while they hobbled around very bow-legged. I was all good down there!
I don’t want
to focus on what the event cost, in health and in dollars. I’m sure the financial total would floor
me. But, the t-shirt I earned (and have
yet to wear), and the headband (that is still in its unopened package), are my
trophies for an event that proved to be…well, priceless.
The event
was a battleground. Not against fellow
Mudders, but against myself, the course, obstacles, weather, the little
convincing voice telling you to quit, the injuries, and all other challenges
that were faced.
I was asked if I was going to do it again. The
question was initially asked while I was still in a state of misery and my
answer a few days later had changed.
I want to do
it again. In fact, I NEED to do it again with lessons learned from New Jersey.(Crazy Scott returned to Englishtown in 2013 and was sitting in the top 5 well into the 40 mile mark and fell from an obstacle and was medically terminated from the race. This year, in Vegas where the overnight low was in the 40's, he returned and was in the top 10 going into the night and he dropped in the standings. I'm waiting to hear from him and I'm guessing injury forced him out. But, on WTM's website, he is interviewed pre-race and his thick accent still makes me laugh as I can not understand much of what he was saying. Perhaps next year we'll meet again. )
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