I survived. I don’t really want to write out the play-by-play of the entire 90 minutes of mud hell, especially after sitting next to some 40 somethings at the continental breakfast on Sunday morning doing exactly that. So I will give you a brief rehash, list style.
- 5K = 3.1 miles; 5.2 miles = 10K | Somehow, we got these confused. This was a 10K mud run.
- My training consisted of going “running” two Saturdays in a row, about a month before the race.
- My breakfast the morning of the race consisted of 4 cheese danishes and a cup of coffee. (I can’t resist those things when staying in hotels.)
- I decide to tell the members of our teams that this little “fun run” was per the prescription of our marriage counselor, an attempt to re-introduce the “fun” in our marriage. Many, with concerned looks, believe me.
- We get sunburned waiting in the line to start.
- My mental preparation consists of looking around at the rest of the participants and trying to decide who looks wimpier than me. I sorely underestimate my own teammate: Beth-from-Burlington.
- 20 minutes into the course it starts raining. But this sort of helps clean my hands and eyes so I can see a little better.
- At exactly the halfway point (as I am on my belly in a puddle of mud-water crawling under some logs) the marine in charge yells, “Hold your ground!” (We civilians naturally assume this means grab the ground harder and crawl faster?) He then yells, “Get the f- out of the water, NOW!” *Final log, diverted. Bonus.
- Lightening strikes about 100ft away from me. The ground shakes. The marine in charge says, “Seek cover.” I find a really tall red-head and grab his ankles.
- Lightening strikes again about 100ft away from us in the other direction. I say a quick (and this time real) prayer that we don’t die. (Though, truth be told, I’ve always sort of wanted to get struck by lightening and live. Just thought it would make a good story.)
- It gets cold. My muscles get really sore. 10 minutes later we’re instructed it’s “safe.”
- We go through the rest of the course.
- I mostly want to die the entire time.
- There are lots of hills. Lots. And Beth-from-Burlington wants to run the entire thing.
- We climb some walls, lift each other over some logs, swim in several meters of manure (I’m pretty sure), walk through a deceptively peaceful river (my shins and knees prove this was actually the most dangerous part of the entire course), run up and down dirt hills about a million times, I face-plant in some mud about 6 inches short of the “get a running start here” drop-off, do push-ups and other tricep killing exercises, I see my pregnant friend at the rope swings and remind myself that if she’s still alive I’ll probably be okay, and then we cross the finish line about 20 minutes behind the men’s team.
Today is 48 hours post race. Both shins, one knee, and one elbow are a bit scraped and bruised. I cannot lift my arms to brush my teeth or lower my body to pee without taking a few deep breaths, which in turn, hurts my ribs. I’m still blowing black boogers out of my nose. But, I’m wearing a sweet $35 t-shirt and thank God, my marriage has been saved.