Tough Mudding

On the 20th of October, 2018, I checked another goal of mine off the list: a half-Mudder, or a five mile jaunt through excessively muddy hills, valleys, and wooded trails. This wasn't your typical Tough Mudder event where pools are dug to create obstacles, or walls are built in an effort to facilitate teamwork and camaraderie; on the contrary, God helped muddy the land further by having it rain the night before and the day of the event.


Here's a breakdown of the day's events and how I perceived them as I ran and trudged through mud and muck:


At the start line:


We stood as a singular group staring straight up a hill, which was the exact course we were to take. Maybe I should have down more up-hill/down-hill road work, I think to myself. The hill looked daunting and I immediately began questioning my cardiovascular conditioning. After topping the hill, I was correct in doing so. My lungs were promptly afire!


The one mile mark:


This wasn't too bad, at least after that first uphill jaunt we took at the start line. There's a chubby girl outpacing me, and I can't have chubby girls getting to the finish line before I do. Time to pick it up a bit!


Once I passed the one mile mark, I was feeling pretty good. My knees were in decent shape, I wasn't sweating profusely, but the rain was falling again like it did the night before. I passed the chubby girl up and smiled to myself. The guy running to my right gave me a I ain't getting passed by a chubby guy look. Damn him!


The two mile mark:


After the first mile, the trail took us into the woods, up and down small hills. The scenery was nice, but the trail was beaten to a mushy pit of mud and gunk, mixed with a large portion of sweat and despair. I slipped two or three times, almost falling, but managed to keep my footing through a very difficult part of the course.


This sucks!


I ran from the woods onto firmer ground and saw the two mile marker. Another smile crept across my face.


No Man's Land:


Just past the two mile marker, a large, muddy hill loomed in front of us. Behind me I heard screaming and calls for a medic. Someone fell and broke a leg. I hope it wasn't the chubby girl I passed earlier, elsewise I would feel horrible.


I begin the slow trek up the muddy hill. The footing is treacherous and slow. I watch as two or three people fall and tumble down the side of the steep clay terrain, while making a mental note to be careful.


At long last, I reached the precipice (if you can call it that) and began the arduous decent back to lower ground and firmer footing. The trail zig-zagged down the hill. I felt my right foot slip and widened my legs to create a stronger base. In an instant, both feet flew from under me and my left hand shot out in a senseless attempt to break my fall. I slammed to the ground, simultaneously driving my left hand and butt into the merciless ground. The pain was instantaneous. At different times in my life, I've had each shoulder operated on--the pain shooting through my rebuilt left shoulder is amazingly sickening. My stomach lurches, but worse yet, is the feeling that I ripped two inches of my anus into the next century.


Even though my shoulder was sending waves of agony to my brain, all I could think about was getting hauled out on a stretcher and having a couple honeymoon stitches literally placed in No Man's Land. Never mind dealing with the gloriously hilarious "friends" I have who follow me on social media; the thought of work-place retribution on Monday when my peers learned of my dilemma was enough to get me back on my feet and jogging again, despite my injuries.


Where is Mile Three?:


Either I passed it and didn't see it, or it was MIA. Either way, my aching shoulder and delicate starfish had me running like a cast member from The Walking Dead. I noticed other participants getting out of my way; it was probably the look of agony on my face, or quite possibly a fear of me biting them and turning them into an injured Tough Mudder zombie.


Mile Four:


After wading through some more sloppy mud, and belly crawling under another obstacle, I see the four mile marker. My aching anus wants nothing more than a cushioned donut to sit on, and my teeth get closer to my shoulder to begin the self-starter surgery process. I wanted to chew my own arm off, but the mile marker assured me I was close to the end.


My knees were now screaming at me, and I questioned what I was thinking by even showing up to this event. Dozens of young adults ran past me, some shooting sideways glances in wonder that the old injured guy was still in the game. If any of them had bumped into my shoulder or buttocks, I would have stomped them into one of the mud pits lining the running trail.


The End of the Line:


The last obstacle was called Electric Shock Therapy, or some such nonsense. A guy with a microphone was shaming people to run through it, and I figured what the hell, I'm already injured, so a little electric shock won't hurt. Right?


I enter the make shift structure with wires hanging from the overhead beams. The first one I encounter touches my head. I feel the rip in my anus seize up and my right knee buckled. Down into the mud-slop I fell. Shaking the cobwebs from my brain, I stand up and catch another ten volts in my (thankfully) right shoulder. I stumble once more into the pit of despair wanting nothing more than to punch every living soul in my sight.


At last I emerge from the house of pain and cross the finish line. I'm hurt, I'm aching, my heart is pounding, but by God I finished.


I can't wait until next year!


P.S. My shoulder still hurts, but my anus was just in shock and, you'll be happy to know, uninjured.