Tough Mudder - Aptly Named or Hyperbole? May 04 '11    Write an essay on this topic. Tweet The Bottom Line Characterized by team-work and camaraderie, the half-marathon event is challenging, requires a certain level of training and conditioning, but many of the obstacles are underwhelming. Imagine being the genius who convinced throngs of people to happily pay a relatively large sum of money for the privilege of running 12 and a half miles in 50 degree weather in November (stopping every ½ mile to get soaked in bone chilling water and mud). Imagine meeting the fool who thought that sounded like a great way to spend a Sunday. Count me in. For that’s exactly what I did on a Sunday morning last November at the Englishtown Raceway in southern New Jersey. So how tough was it? One or two obstacles were actually challenging; some were fun; others were simply barriers to get past; and some were simply underwhelming. The race course consisted of long humps inbetween mud-infused obstacles. I joined a couple hundred of my fellow Mudders for the 11:00 o’clock, Green start. Surrounding me was a motley group. On my right nine cops who had driven down from West Hartford, Connecticut were swinging their arms and jumping up and down trying to get warm; behind me a dude and his girlfriend were laughing about the race; in front of me a bunch of guys sporting red, white and blue Speedos were receiving cheers from the crowd around them. Our pre-race brief included an admonishment to NOT jump into the lake if we didn’t know how to swim, a review of the universal “I’m in distress” signal, and a reminder that we signed a death waiver. The national anthem played, we chanted the Tough Mudder pledge, and cheering loudly, took off behind the monster truck, where our cheers shortly became coughs as we struggled through the smoke cloud and tried not to trip over our fellow Mudders. In the first mile we sorted out our paces. Those in for the long, slow haul drifted towards the rear while the more competitive runners weaved their way towards the front. Most of us completed the first challenge (aptly named the “Ball Shrinker”) of crossing a rope suspended over water without getting wet. It was the second challenge where major shrinkage occurred. A short climb up the angled ascent using a thick rope brought us to a platform above the lake. On either side National Guard members were yelling at us drill-sergeant-style to help our fellow Mudders up the platform and then to jump into the lake. I did. It was cold. That’s an understatement. My shrinkage turned into an inversion, and probably a medical phenomena. A vice gripped my chest as I tried to breathe and my exposed torso and arms stung as if punctured by a hundred needles. I looked around and saw the shocked faces of my fellow Mudders treading water next to me. On shore, the Guardsman yelled at us to breathe and swim, and lifeguards stood by to throw in their floats for those whose bodies were too shocked to move. I was later told the water was about 40 degrees, just a few degrees above where it, you know, turns into a solid. We paddled 50 yards towards shore, yelling, or (as I remember it) mumbling encouragements in-between gasping breaths to the guys next to us. However, few of us had bothered to notice that the lake still had obstacles to conquer. We approached a series of barrels we had to swim under, a feat that would have been laughably easy on a summer day, but was no small feat when you could barely catch your breath. We dragged ourselves out of the water, shaking off the tingling sensation of oncoming numbness, and I wondered if everyone was as shocked as I was or had the same sense of trepidation about what was in store. In retrospect, that was probably the most physically challenging event of the whole day (other than just finishing the competition). And then we ran. My feet had become lifeless blocks of lead that slammed into the pavement with a “thwap, thwap” sound as I slogged through the next mile and a half in a rather uncoordinated run. It was shortly after this that I realized the obstacles were a welcome interruption to the monotony of the distance runs. I also congratulated myself on my attire for the day. While it had seemed like a rather poor choice at 9:00 am when temps were still in the 40s, I had chosen the minimalist, less-is-more approach and eschewed a shirt, wearing only spandex sports shorts under a nylon bathing suit. On my feet were a pair of ‘sweat-wicking’ sports socks (what I needed was Olympic pool-wicking socks) and an old pair of tennis shoes. I wore a black, knitted skull cap and had a camelback slung over my shoulders. On my hands were Stanley cotton work gloves with a rubberized grip. While everyone else was slogging around in heavy pants and shirts carrying extra water weight, I felt relatively unencumbered and dried quickly when my body was in the air. At one point I even remember feeling warm. Following, and in no particular order, were a series of obstacles that ranked as underwhelming. I ascended and climbed over two cargo nets (all of seven or eight feet tall); I slogged through knee and waist-high mud for 200 yards; crawled under 10 yards of barbed concertina wire and stumbled around a winding moto-cross track for about half a mile. Coming around the last turn of the track, I heard the excited yells of a crowd and arrived at the first fun obstacle. It was essentially a human hill climb up a muddy incline of 40 degrees, while being sprayed down with a fire hose. The failure rate was spectacular, as were the amusing falls, tumbles and slides of those who failed to mount the summit, or got in the way of those who came speeding up the hill, creating even more chaos. There was a slight wait as people either rested or got up the nerve to attempt their ascent. At the top, Mudders who had already conquered the hill cheered for those below and stood ready to clasp the hands of those who neared the top. But in the spirit of the event, some took it a little further: they hung over the top while those behind them held their ankles, reaching further to assist us poor slobs below. I waited until an appropriate gap and took off in a sprint. Three or four feet from the top I slipped and four arms reached out to grab me and pulled me in accompanied by a chorus of compliments. I, in turn, stayed and helped a couple of other Mudders up before continuing the next part of the course. On to more underwhelming obstacles. The series of “12-foot high Berlin Walls” were more like 9 feet, and the fast-step through a series of car tires was no more challenging than walking down a flagstone path. Then over another cargo net draped over a shipping container. And just when I was thinking about how easy things were, I looked to my left and saw a guy doing the race with no shoes. He later sprinted past me. I forgive him now. Around mile seven my knees started to hurt, but I tried to ignore the pain as I carried a small truck tire for one lap around the track. The pain intensified until each step created a sharp, knife-like jab in the side of my knees. My run slowed to a jog which slowed to a rapid hobble. I was actually happy to stop walking and get onto my belly to crawl through the Boa Constrictor – a long, thin drain pipe thoughtfully lined with sharp rocks. And then, off to the swamp where we had to crawl under and over stacked logs. The only welcome part of the swamp was that the softer earth reduced the knife-like pain in my knees to a more tolerable, dull, hammer-like blow. As I hobbled through the swamp people ran past yelling encouragement and telling me not to give up. There were a few Marine “hoo-ahs” thrown in for effect. I felt like telling them, “no, this isn’t the real me.” In reality, I wasn’t winded, my heartbeat was steady and I felt like I could go another 10 miles, but my knees had betrayed me, simply freezing up like a cold engine without enough oil from constant immersion in cold water and mud (and probably not enough actual running in my training regimen either). Coming out of the swamp, where, with the help of another Mudder, I forded a muddy creek with an impossibly steep bank, I came to the second obstacle I considered challenging: an A-frame over a pond with five sets of ascending-and-descending monkey bars (some of which had been greased with butter). I was eager to shine – most people were dropping into the frigid water below after only one or two rungs. I got more than half way when my grip gave out. The penalty was getting soaked yet again, but by now, cold was more of a state of mind than a physical condition: inevitable. Following the monkey bars, we tip-toed across balance beams over the water and entered the last two miles where everything became a blur. I half walked, half shuffled, trying to find a cadence that minimized the abuse to my practically immobile lower limbs. I felt every step in my lower back with my natural shock absorbers practically immobilized. As I got closer to the finish I was disappointed with myself. If not for my knees, I would have been running to the finish just like every other young stud. Instead, I looked like the guy who had taken up the challenge to prove he wasn’t having a mid-life crisis, and everyone was giving me sympathetic cheers and “atta-boys.” A quarter mile from the finish line I encountered the mystery obstacle, the Jelly Fish. It consisted of dozens of electrified wires hanging, tentacle-like from a wide wooden frame which delivered a substantial shock as runners passed through. I even witnessed some men drop to the ground as their muscles gave out from the shock. I hobbled towards it as spectators cheered me on, a lone, mud-covered, lame Tough Mudder, just trying to make the finish. I stumbled through absorbing a couple of strong shocks and then fast-walked to the finish. People have been asked to describe Tough Mudder in a single word. For me, that word is perspective. I now appreciate what our armed forces, cops and firefighters do every day as a job – something I paid to do as entertainment. My gratitude to all those serving.

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