At the Shaw’s, I find a happy medium with half a wheat bagel
and peanut butter. By now I have my Mudder shirt on, a compression top that
highlights all of my bumps and rolls. Yuck. As everyone tapes their toes,
brushes their teeth and signs the Tough Mudder waivers, we watch old episodes
of Saved By The Bell on MTv2.
Finally, it’s time to go. We’re chatty and lively on the way
to the grounds. Parking is horrendous. People are parking directly beneath
signs that read, “NO PARKING ANYTIME”, and others are being bussed in from the
San Bernardino airport. We take the risk and park by the side of the road.
After checking in, getting our numbers and having them
written on our foreheads and arms, we congregate on the stairs, where we take a
few pictures and contemplate the hours of pain and suffering we now have ahead
of us. Meanwhile, teams in any costume imaginable are trotting by. We see a
crew of Ron Burgundys, complete with stick-on mustache and wigs. A platoon of
bumblebees, and more military than I can count. Closer to out start time, we
check in our bags and begin to stretch. Already the first few mudders have
crossed the finish line, wet and exhausted, having earned their orange
bandanna.
Standing in line to get to start, it dawns on me that I am
about to do a TOUGH FUCKING MUDDER. What the hell did I let myself get dragged
into? I’m about to jump into ice baths and mud pits and all sorts of other
tomfoolery. People are walking around me in stars-and-stripes speedos and short
shorts, sporting six-packs and arms the size of my torso. Meanwhile I’m using
my number label to hide my pauch. My compression shirt is doing me no favors.
Before we can cross the start line, we need to scale a
10-foot wall. Once on the other side, we are told to take a knee. There, the
Master of Ceremonies reminds us why we are doing what we’re about to do. We are
doing it for those who give everything they have to protect the freedoms that are
given to us by simply living in this country. For those who went overseas to
defend us and never came back, or left part of themselves there, never to
return as whole and hale as they were when they left. For a moment, I look down
at my shoes. My old, worn, first pair
of running shoes. They are the shoes that carried me through countless miles in
the sheriff’s academy. This is their last run, their last jaunt before I give
them a Viking sendoff to the shoe gods. I think of the wives, husbands, sons,
daughters, fathers and mothers, who send their loved ones off to war and prayed
that they would get to come home. Some did. Others were not so lucky. As they
play the national anthem, I am assured once again that I’m about to suffer for
a worthy cause.
We cross the start line at an easy jog, not wanting to spend
all our energy too early. This proves to be a wise choice as we quickly begin a
steep ascent up the side of the mountain. Already beads of sweat run down my
face, bringing with it the ink from the number scrawled on my forehead. After
walking up the mountain (THAT SUCKED), we had to double back and go back down.
The decline proves to be just as crappy. The hill is soft, the sand is dry and
our shoes sink to the ankle with every step. I resort to crab-crawling a few
times rather than risk flying headfirst down the mountain before I finish a mile.
Once we get to the base, we encounter our first obstacle, the arctic enema. A creative
word for what basically amounts to, “Hey guys, let’s jump into a giant ice
bath”. Without giving it a second thought, I jump in. the water comes up to my
chest, and I instantly go numb. In the middle is a giant flat board, with only
two inches of space between the wood and the surface of the water. We are
expected to dive underneath to get to the other side. I take a few quick breaths (I sound like
I’m doing Lamaze) and completely submerge myself into the freezing brown water.
I can’t see, there is water in my ear and there is ICE IN
THE WATER. As I make my way to the edge I hear, “I got you, I got you” and I’m
hauled out of the water by my teammate, Jensen. My whole body feels like its
being poked and pricked by needles, but I am now full of adrenaline. But not
for long.
Other obstacles are not as challenging. The kiss of mud
(dragging ourselves through muddy water under barbed wire) proves easy for me;
I am small enough that I can crawl without fear of touching the wires. Same
with the boa constrictor, where we are made to crawl through muddy pipes. It is
the inclines, walking up and down the freakin mountain that is getting to me.
One incline is so long; once we get to the top we can see the entire valley of
Big Bear below. One girl comes up the slope weeping, her teammates pat her back
and assure her she is done. I don’t feel near tears, but I don’t blame her. I
spent the entire climb either hunched over or on my hands and knees, refusing
to look up to see how much I had left to climb or to look down and see how far
I was from level ground. As we stand at the top and wait for our teammates,
that’s when I see him.
A team of young men, presumably military, wearing nothing
but black shorts and vibrams, come trudging up the hill. One of them stops to
adjust his right leg at the thigh, but instead of flesh and bone leg, there is
a prosthetic jutting out from beneath the fabric wrapped around his thigh. He
is in impeccable shape, and shows only the same level of exhaustion as the rest
of us.
As the day wears on, I am becoming more and more aware of
the sun baking my shoulders, face and legs. The water and mud has long since
washed away any sunblock. My lips are dry and burning. But as we pass each
marker telling us we have passed mile 2, then 3, 4, etc. we force ourselves to
ignore out burning skin, our aching limbs and the mud caked around out shoes. I
have to skip the diving portion because I am a lousy swimmer, and I would
rather not be a burden to be dragged through the water by my teammates. No
matter. They end up doing that later anyway.
At around mile 6 or so, we come upon a huge, manmade pool
surrounded by black tarp. We are to stand at the top and slide down into the
water, about 30 feet below. Looking down, I see that several other participants
only have their heads bobbing above the water. Oh, SHIT. I insist on at least
three teammates going ahead, and beg them to stay at the bottom to catch me as
I come down. I take a hold of Lisa’s hand, and together we slide to the bottom.
Right before we hit the water my anxiety gets the better of me and I let out a
shriek, taking in dirty water in my mouth, up my nose and in my ears. I’ve let
go of Lisa. For half a second I have no support, but right away several hands
reach out and pull my head above water. Omar and Matt support me between the
two of them, assuring me that they’ve got me. Underwater, my legs kick
uselessly, unable to find the bottom. It must be obvious that I’m freaking out,
because other mudders sitting on the edges of the pool assure me that I’m okay.
Once I reach the edge and can stand, I make my way out of the pool and we wait
to move on.
By this point, the only time I run is on downhill slopes.
Every time we turn a corner and find another incline, I die on the inside a
little. Finally, on the second-to-last descent, we can hear the MC and the
music from the starting line. We’re almost there.
Twice on the course (not counting the one before the start line)
we encounter the Berlin Walls, a set of two 12-foot high wooden walls. While a
6-foot wall is easily manageable, a 12-foot wall is, for many of us,
impossible. This obstacle, more than any other, encourages participants to help
each other out in order to get up and over to the other side, regardless of
what team we are on, what uniform or costume we wear. The camaraderie is
heartening.
Unfortunately, the Funky Monkey and Hanging Tough (basically
monkey bars in one obstacle, hanging rings on the other, both suspended over
muddy water) both show my limits when it comes to my height. Even with a shove
from Christy, the second ring is still a foot away from my reach. Someone on
the sidelines shouts, “JUST JUMP IN!” and I am more than happy to oblige. Same
with the funky monkey. While my teammates hang in the air above me, I wade my
way to the other side, already feeling the end of the race.
At Everest, we run full-tilt towards a quarter pipe (muddy
and wet, natch) and basically throw our arms up in hopes that a good Samaritan
will catch us and haul us up to the top. Three of the guys go first, and then
it’s my turn. It’s easier than I thought, but I still only manage to give one
hand before I sink like a dead weight. Matt has my right hand, and for a second
he’s the only one holding onto me until Jensen grabs my left. I contemplate
letting go and falling when I see the strain on Matt’s face as he struggles to
lift me up. After what seems like an eternity, I finally make it to the top.
One by one, the rest of the team runs up the pipe and is hauled to the
platform, except for John.
That morning, John had told us that he would be wearing his
Vibrams for the mudder, shoes that he had only worn once before. By the time we
got to Everest, he was feeling every step he had put in. Still, he soldiered
on, forcing himself to finish though every muscle in his legs were screaming in
protest. At the quarter pipe, he tries repeatedly to get to the top, to no
avail. We find him on the sidelines, catching his breath. Cory, Matt, Ernie,
and Omar are still at the top, waiting for him to give it one last shot.
Finally, John makes his way to the starting point, and runs towards the pipe.
He makes it just enough that they grab him, and they struggle for a bit while
we cheer him on wholeheartedly from the sides. Finally, he makes it to the top.
Just before the finish, there is one last obstacle:
Electroshock Therapy. I dread this. I don’t like electric shocks, and my mind
immediately goes back to the taser and how awful it was. But we are just feet
from the finish line. I have no choice. Without stopping to think, we run
headlong into the obstacle, a setup with ropes holding electric shocks. There is
water below in order to carry the current, and a bale of hay in between. I can
feel every shock. Each one feels like a hard fist being driven into my tired,
doughy, sad little body. I have a metal bridge in my mouth, and every shock
carries into my teeth. For one wild moment, my brain screams that all of my
teeth are going to fall out. All I can concentrate on is getting the hell out.
The ropes give my teeth one last shock before I throw myself out of the
obstacle, screaming obscenities at everyone and no one. I turn, and see the
last of my teammates push themselves through the ropes. The shock (pun intended)
and dislike of the obstacle is evident on their faces. Once all nine of us come
through, we take each other’s hands and cross the finish line as one.
It is over. We are done.
