At my first race, I was given a Hurricane Heat dog tag, but the significance of it was not explained to me. I used a free volunteer race to sign up for the Nebraska Sprint, and signed for the HH up to see what it was about.

Show up at OMG early, meet the team, and find that the HH is to be lead by Tony and Andi, two very wonderful people, but both capable of challeling the devil incarnate at will. This became evident with the first command being “Do burpees until I tell you to stop.”

You can do a lot of burpees in a stretch of 10-20 minutes. We then moved to the Atlas Lift obstacle, gathered the weights and passed them around the team. We also had the Warrior Ethos drummed into us if we didn’t already know it:

“I will always place the mission first.

I will never accept defeat.

I will never quit.

I will never leave a fallen comrade.”

The group was divided into smaller teams, for which we had to come up with team names. OK, we’re in Nebraska, we need something humorously inappropriate involving corn…

A call from the sidelines: “CORN HOLERS!!!!!”

We have our team name.

We then had to buddy carry one member of the team for the first mile of the course, which involved some serious hills. We could switch off who was carrying, but the carried teammate could not touch the ground.

When we reached the end of that, we were assigned 25 burpees, which became 50 when someone complained. Suffer in silence.

We then had to bear-crawl the next section of the course. I have no idea how far we crawled, and in truth this is where memories of the event become a bit fuzzy.

I just remember doing what we would normally consider absolutely crazy, and doing it without a second thought. Low crawling through culverts. Covering ground by alternating burpees and frog hops. Crossing the traverse wall without using your feet.

Oh, and then there were the tires.

We were originally going to carry them around the course, but it was soon determined that this could not be done, they were too heavy and full of water. So we flipped them as a team, over the sort of hills built for ATV riders to jump over.

We rolled it down what we thought was the last section, and then went down and did box jumps onto and off of the tires.

We were then told to race getting the tires back where they came from, last one there does 100 burpees. Engage warp drive.

We took the gamble of trying to throw it from the last hill and let gravity help us. We lost that gamble when it went the wrong way and just wouldn’t stop rolling.

We reached the barbed wire crawl and each team was given a spear. That we had to get to the far end without getting it muddy.

Through this:

My team had the cleanest spear at the end and was not penalized, the other two were given a number of monkey-f***ers to do.

We were all cold, muscles locking up, nowhere near our usual strength, when we came to the rope climb. As a team, the bell at the top needs to be rung 6 times. The ropes are also above a pool of water, not helping with the cold. First team member went up, nailed it, came down, and it was my turn. I did my best, got to, no exaggeration, an INCH short of ringing the bell, and couldn’t get any further. My team was calling out encouragement from below, so I kept trying. As I raised a hand to try to reach the bell, my feet slipped and I fell. I found out later that one of my teammates broke my fall, and I went under the water still able to sort out where up was and to stand back up. My team walked me to the edge of the water and I waved off the course medic who was coming up to check on me.

There were a few more challenges and a LOT more burpees, but we finished, got our T shirts and dog tags, and went off to change before running the race itself.

Between the cold, the fall, and the dunking, I didn’t have my usual tear-it-up spirit starting the race, but I formed up at the starting line and gave what I had left, offering a word of encouragement where I could.

The race itself seemed uneventful after the hurricane heat, but still a good time. I walked more of it than I ran, thinking I may have inhaled while I was under water, but kept moving. As I got further into it and got warmer, things got easier. My arms were still jelly from the morning, so I will admit that I didn’t do the full number of burpees for obstacles failed.

The barbed wire crawl featured a man with a fire hose making all of us hate him, many deep pools of water and much general discomfort. I think the photo from the dunk zone pretty much sums up how I was feeling at this point:

Making it over the slick wall, I slipped and didn’t quite have the strength to pull myself over. I was able to call the racer in front of me back to help me over, then over the fire and through the gladiators.

Got my medal and banana, picked up my gear, and reported in full muddy glory to the volunteer tent, late for my shift. The volunteer coordinator said, “You can shower, but I need you desperately, so be back quickly.”

I replied “Give me a dry shirt and tell me where you need me.”

While I was changing and stowing my gear, she asked if I would hate her if she asked me to be a gladiator. I stammered, “I would love you forever…”

The HH was a great experience, almost a mini GORUCK, I will be doing more of them. The race itself was a good time, as tough as they could make it with the terrain.

I also learned that you want to change your socks between the race and your volunteer time. Mud-soaked socks dry out into little sock-shaped adobe bricks that bond to your skin, and you will have to wear them into the bath in order to remove them. Good to know for next time.

It may sound odd with all of the events that I do, but I have never considered myself a runner. I hate running and I’ve never been any good at it. The main purpose of signing up for road races was to make certain I didn’t skip my long training runs. When people asked I would say I run as needed but I’m not really a runner.

Among the first races I ran was the 10k at Fort 4 Fitness in 2012. As soon as I had completed it I signed up for the half-marathon this year.

My ankle was structurally OK but not completely healed from Virginia and Vermont the weekend before, so I decided to run in my hiking boots to stabilize it.

I live 3 blocks from the starting line, so I used walking there as a light warmup, chatted with the other racers, and found someone to take my pre-race picture.

A woman commented on my hydration pack as we entered the starting corrals, “Oh, you’re running with a backpack? Around Mile 7, that is going to be HEAVY!” I smiled and said nothing, but all I could think was if she had any idea the other events that I am training for…

Local radio hosts made the announcements, national anthem played, and we were off.

I actually enjoy the bottleneck that often happens just after the start of a race. It may be one of the best places in the world for wry humor about what you are all about to do.

I modified my normal run a bit/ walk a bit style into pick someone in front of me, pass them, take a walking break, pick someone new, pass them, and keep going. This worked reasonably well, although I will admit that the group of 70-year-old Hispanic women absolutely left me in the dust.

Every so often I would bump into someone I knew or slow to a walk at the same time as another racer, and would usually share bits of encouragement and often some snarky humor.

Two National Guard soldiers had signed up to complete the course in 50-pound rucksacks. When I caught up to them I worked my way through the running crowd to tell them that they were badass.

When I had run the 10k last year, every photographer happened to catch me in a walking break. It may be a bit of ego, but I was determined to not let that happen this time.

All that is on my mind during long runs is to keep the spirit up and keep moving. Fellow runners were great for that, often chatty and always encouraging. Although at intersections of different courses we did make comments of, “Hey, if we turn here do you think we can win the 10k?”

The race bibs allow you to enter a nickname rather than your legal name, and many spectators will read your name to be able to call out encouragement to you. I had chosen the nickname “Spartan” hoping I would get jokes of “What is your profession?” That didn’t happen, but I did get several cries of “This. Is. SPARTAAAAAAA!!!!!”

Every mile or two there was an aid station with water and Gatorade, but the surprise came just after Mile 12. Getting my game face on, pushing for a strong finish, and-

“Hey, guys, beer shots!!”

I do not know who was the mad genius responsible for putting shots of beer just before the end of an endurance race, but this needs to catch on. This needs to be an actual thing.

The last leg of the race takes you to the local baseball stadium, you run around the bases and the finish line is at home plate. As I went down the ramp to the field, I yelled a last encouragement to the runners next to me and poured it on.

My fear has always been flagging and having to slow at the end of the race, where everyone can see you (on the jumbotron screens no less). For whatever reason, that was not an issue this time, and the harder I pushed the stronger I felt. For the only time in the race, I was passing everyone in sight.

They had a timing chip reader just before the finish line, so they can announce your name as you finish. It was a really nice touch.

I charged across the finish line, surprised that I had gotten here in under 3 hours, grabbed my bottle of water from the finish line volunteer, and stopped to congratulate the racer behind me (she and I had been continually passing each other and trading jokes for the last few miles).

I took a few minutes to pick up my post-race goodies and found the line for official results. I heard loud cheers and realized that the two soldiers had just finished about 10 minutes behind me. Perhaps a challenge to duplicate next year.

As I was walking back from picking up my results, I did something that I have never done before. I picked up one of the 13.1 stickers for my car. Something had shifted in my mind with this finish, and I no longer felt I had to justify or qualify what I do as not really a runner, slow but hard to stop, etc. For once I felt worthy of the mark.

I made reference to this race in a previous blog, which several friends posted on Facebook. One of them drew this comment from a fellow Cornfed that I had met at the starting line:

“I met him at this race and he kicked its ass. I watched him hard charge across the finish line and encourage others while doing so.”

I guess there is no further denying it. I am a runner.

It is a wonderful thing that the sport of obstacle racing is taking off and new events are coming online. Less wonderful trying to decide what races to do when they fall on the same weekend.

No fewer than three races that I wanted to try were scheduled on the weekend of the Spartan World Championships in Vermont. After looking at the drive times and expected race finish times, I decided to try to double up two races (in two states) in the same weekend. I was soon to find the logistics much more complicated than I had foreseen.

Friday night’s work went a little later than expected, the drive was a little slower than calculated, and I ended up getting what little sleep I had time for in a service area along the Ohio toll road, but nonetheless hit GORUCK Nasty in high spirits.

This was the first ever event of its kind, terrain was great, obstacles were insanely cool and the atmosphere among competitors was great. There were also the usual Rucktard shenanigans, people carrying logs through the course for no reason, me doing continuous front rolls down the mountain because I was tired of running.

The downside (understandable as the first event is always a bit of a test run) was that most of the cool obstacles had an absolutely horrendous backup. My best guess is that they tested how long they would take to complete among operators and hardcore GRTs, not thinking of all the n00bs that would show up.

But when the wait was through, they were worth it.

Oddly enough, the part of the course that will stay in my mind the longest was one of the simplest, the Memorial Walk and Mogadishu Mile.

We came out of the barbed wire crawl and were met by one of the Cadre. He told us about the most recent SOF to be killed in Afghanistan, and explained that we were each to take a small American flag up the hill (which was a brutally steep ski slope). When we hit the point of thighs and lungs burning in agony, we were told to remember those who came before us, those who could not be here today, and push on.

There has always been a running joke that the Cadre control the weather, and I am starting to believe it, because as we started up the hill a thick fog and misting rain moved in.

It messes with your head going blindly up a steep hill, able to see neither how far you have come nor how far you have to go. The group that I was sent up with were great, checking in on each other, encouraging everyone on. We reached the top and each placed our flag on the Memorial Wall.

The Cadre at this point of the course happened to be one that I knew from Navigator, so we spent a few minutes chatting while a group formed. The next stage of the course was the Mogadishu Mile, a 1-mile team movement to the next obstacle. I made sure everyone was able to keep pace with the group, and we got through the movement to the balance beams.

I made it through this reasonably well, but when I dismounted something in my ankle popped and I fell down. I checked it over just enough to know it would bear my weight, assisted the next man in line on the balance beam, and made it through the last few obstacles.

The last, appropriately called “The Tough One” was roughly 100 yards from the finish line. Many around me were walking, but with the Cadre waiting at the finish line I pushed myself to run as fast as I could without further tweaking my ankle.

Got my patch, got my Victory Beer, toweled off as  well as I could, and back on the road. Nasty had taken 4 hours longer than I budgeted, eating into recovery time that I knew I would desperately need.

My advice to anyone who does back-to-back events like this is to take very good care of yourself between them. That is to say, don’t do what I did. A nasty storm blew in, causing interstate traffic to move at 1/3 the speed it should have been. I pulled over for a couple hours of rest sometime in the wee hours, best pre-race dinner I could come up with was a gas station sandwich and a bag of cornnuts.

I stopped for breakfast in Killington, a few miles from the Beast. I took the chance to charge up my electronics and check in on Facebook. A friend had posted encouragement on my wall, hoping that I made it to Vermont okay. My response summed up my condition: “I’m in Killington. I’m here on 2 hours of sleep and one working ankle, but I’m here.”

My mental game was knocked off kilter when I saw posts from some of my friends who ran the day before. A few of them that I consider better athletes than me had been pulled from the course due to a time hack and listed as DNF. This did not seem to bode well. But I laced up my boots to support my ankle, found the venue, found my teammates at the starting line, and prepared to give it all I had.

Words cannot describe the brutality of this course. The steep uphills and slick nasty downhills. Carrying a 70 pound sandbag up and down a slope that you can barely walk up unloaded. Barbed wire crawls that had too much in the way to use any of the normal time-saving methods of rolling or butt-scooting under.

At one point I heard those near me discussing time, distance, and how long we had until the time hack kicked in, and I knew I wasn’t going to make it. So let’s see how far I can get.

I came to the wall that you have to duck under the water and go under. My hydration pack snagged and I had to come back up. I angrilly threw it out of the pit and I think I made some comment to the course official of “Bitch tried to drown me.” The next was the rope climb, full height coming out of water, which I had never successfully completed, and I surprised myself by nailing it. That raised my spirits a lot and put my mental game back on track.

We all knew we were fighting the clock at this point, and started having to be more pragmatic in the choices we made. There were several obstacles that I would like to try under better circumstances, but the fact remains that burpees were faster, so crank out your burpees and go on.

I was near another group of runners fearing the time hack when we heard a vehicle approaching. “Are those the people who pull us from the course?” “Don’t know. Head down. Keep moving. Don’t look back.”

I was finally sure they would let me finish when I hit the last sandbag carry. It was so dark that I could not see where it ended, just take the bag and go till you find it. I came up on a man sitting with his head in his hands and the sandbag at his feet. You can see the difference between someone who is just resting and someone who has given up. This man had no hope left.

“How ya doin’?”

“I don’t know. Too far. Too much.”

“Dude, you’ve come 13 miles, what’s one more?”

“Don’t know. Too much.”

“Want to do it together?”

Misery does indeed love company. We picked up the sandbags together, carried them as far as we could, dropped them, rested, then did it again. We finished the carry, made it through the last couple obstacles, and regrouped just before the fire jump.

“Let’s go get it!”

That race ending is something I will remember forever. As I go over the fire, I hear the cheers and realize that my teammates have waited to see me finish. I look ahead and all I can see is the silhouettes of heads, shoulders, and pugil sticks. A voice thunders out of the darkness, “CORN FED!!! WHO! ARE! YOU!!???”

I muster everything I have left, shout out, “I AM A SPARTAN!!” and charge in.

The gladiator pit is a whole different thing when you can’t see the blows coming. Just as I was getting past the last one, I took a shot to the back and was knocked off my feet. I was able to roll out of it and keep moving, but I did bounce my head off the ground enough to see a flash.

Received my medal, met the gladiators who turned out to be teammates, and went off to get my gear and try to get warm.

It wasn’t until it was too late to fix it that I realized what medal I had been given. I finished alongside the Ultra Beast runners, so the medal lady had accidentally given me an Ultra medal.

Now that I have been given one, I need to go earn it.

Mount Killington, it was a pleasure to meet you, and rest assured that we will meet again. I believe you owe me a dance.

I ran a local half-marathon on Saturday. I was impressed with myself. I ran a personal best for this distance, taking 25 minutes off of my previous time. I would like to say that I worked as hard as anyone on the course for my finisher’s medal.

But I didn’t.

There were quite a few on the course working much harder than me for the same prize. I started passing them where the 10K course rejoined the half-marathon course. Sweating, panting, struggling to keep putting one foot ahead of the other. Many of them overweight, more than a few wearing “Biggest Loser” or “Ft. Wayne’s Smallest Winner” T shirts. Wanting to say the hell with it and go home, but wanting the accomplishment more. Human spirit overcoming adversity, personified.

And there are those out there who would say that I, and all those slower than me, should have stayed home, simply because what I did in 3 hours could have been done by a decent runner in under 2.

I can only respond to that with, “Dude. Seriously. Screw off.”

I came across an article called “The Slowest Generation” (http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424127887324807704579085084130007974.html) complaining that many races are becoming “parades” due to lack of competitiveness among younger runners.

Wrong. We are very competitive. We just don’t compete with YOU. We compete with who we were yesterday.

Past the first 10 finishers, very few really give a damn what your precise rank among race finishers is. Most people simply go by comparing their own time to the winners time. Quite a few more go by how they did today against their time on a similar course or the same course last year.

The article notes that average times are getting slower, but somehow misses the massive increase in numbers of participants over the same time frame. These new runners are not the elites that ran track all through high school and never slowed down. They are your couch-to-5K people. People who were told they couldn’t do it and it took them to the age of 25 or 30 to stop listening. People like me.

Yes, we may well be mediocre athletes. But mediocre is the stepping stone between nothing and something, the first step on the road to greatness. I would rather be a mediocre athlete in the eyes of the elite than to not be an athlete at all.

If un-timed 5Ks while being pelted with colored cornstarch is what it takes to take someone from not an athlete to at least an athlete of some sort, awesome. If you need to push yourself against the best to know who you are as an athlete, cool. They have races for that, too. I have tried and failed to qualify for a number of them. And in most cases they don’t care what your rank in the pack was at your last race. You have either a set time to complete the course, or you must finish in less than double the winner’s time.

It must also be considered that there are ways to push yourself that do not involve going faster than everyone else. Can you complete the course in a weight vest? We had two soldiers complete Saturday’s half in 50-pound rucksacks. I know one man who bear-crawled a 5k for charity.

Being an athlete is not about ability. It is about force of will and pushing yourself to be better every day. It is about stepping up to a challenge that you don’t know if you can handle, spitting in its face, kicking its ass, and then looking for a tougher one. Which I will continue to do. Perhaps at a parade-ground pace, but crushing challenges that I would miss if “faster” were my only goal.

The team I am part of includes a wide range of athletes, ultra runners, GORUCK Toughs, Crossfitters, a little bit of everything, as well as newbes in all of these categories. Seeing that we had more than a few newbies curious about GORUCK challenges, the team put together a custom GORUCK light. I was instantly on board.

Got to the start point, helped some of the newer rucktards square away their equipment, and met our Cadre.

Cadre Mike quickly explained that Lights are fun and he had no intention of crushing anyone’s soul today. We then moved down to the surf of the lake and started the welcome party.

This was my first exposure to the infamous Tunnel of Love- everyone holds down-dog pose side by side, forming a tunnel underneath that everyone must, one at a time crawl through. Which really sucks when dealing with weighted rucksacks.

We got through the welcome party, were assigned two group leaders, and given our first assignment: 30 minutes to reach a certain boardwalk a distance up the beach. Just as we are prepping to move out, we hear, “Oh, by the way, who are the two who were late? Yes, you two are casualties.”

Anyone designated a casualty has to be carried by the rest of the team. We took their rucks and started working out who would carry whom. One of the late arrivals was exactly who we would have chosen (and who we continued choosing for buddy carry for the rest of the day). The other was a big lanky firefighter who we quickly changed from one man to two man to four man carries.

We made our time hack, but one of the team had left a piece of gear behind. Leading to:

We had to start in low pushup position in a pond and low crawl to a boat trailer parked nearby.

New team leaders, new place to go.

At our next stopping point, everyone’s favorite part of GORUCK. *Sing along.* It’s LOG, LOG, its big,its heavy, its wood…

I was surprised that some motorists seemed to know what was going on and yelled encouragement. We also had to reroute the log carry around a triathlon that somehow was scheduled at the same time and place.

We got the log to the beach and broke into groups doing various forms of PT on the beach and in the surf.

We then carried the log off the beach and Cadre announced that we were done.

It was a good time, a decent challenge, and a good way to expose some of the team to other types of events that are out there. And I made my goal of not slowing down the team.

This is a self-challenge that I found on Facebook and was immediately intrigued by. 100 pushups a day for 100 days, totaling 10,000 pushups. No rest days. Post on the FB page every day when you get them done. If you make it to 100 days you are eligible to buy the T shirt. If you fail you get a poster of kittens.

Tshirt of glory. I’m in. They requested before and after photos to show the change in physique. OK, what the hell.

The 100 pushups is the easy part. 10×10, 4×25, whatever, anyone can do it. The unrelenting 100 days was the difficulty. Stopping during long road trips to knock out a set next to the gas pump. Getting home from a late work night with 50 left to do. Doing them on the hood of my car because it was the only clean surface I could find. More sets than I want to admit behind my desk, hoping the boss didn’t walk in.

The day of the Spartan Beast in Ottawa took care of itself, as the 100 pushups were contained in the 150 burpees required by the course. The day after, making it home at 1 pm on 2 hours of sleep and going straight to work, may have been the most difficult day of the challenge. But I got them done.

The FB page (https://www.facebook.com/100x100challenge) was great encouragement, posting inspiration and a place to share noteworthy accomplishments or places you got your pushups in. I contributed a shot from the CFS GORUCK Light. The team doing divebomber pushups in the surf of Lake Michigan.

I originally went into it with a midnight time hack to get them done. I had to adjust toward the end to noon the day after, as there were a few instances of falling asleep before I even got my shoes off, waking up thinking,”S***, I have back pushups to do!”

It was a tougher challenge than it looks like from the outside. I finished a few days ago, and posted my after photo:

Finding that I liked the challenge and that even days where you feel you have accomplished nothing feel better when you have at least gotten your pushups done, I am going in for another 100×100. Choosing my least favorite GRC exercise, 100 days of 4-count flutter kicks to be followed by 100 days of Hello Dollies. I think this could be a great way to cycle through my weakest exercises and force myself to get stronger at them.

 I have completed a number of virtual runs (races where runners are not in the same place and may not be running at the same time) lately. As the atmosphere is basically that I do my usual runs, maybe a little extra, all the runners encourage each other via Facebook, and someone mails me the finisher’s medal, I didn’t see them as worthy of a blog post.

A few days in to the Green Beret Foundation Run for A Million, during the car ride home from a seminar in St. Louis, I saw this post on the Facebook group (all named removed for privacy reasons):

“So, I’m not sure if I should write this. But here goes: I planned to ruck a marathon with 50 lbs tomorrow, but I am sitting bedside as my Mother is dying. I can’t right now. I’m wondering if 26 people could walk an extra mile as I don’t want these miles to go undone. Maybe there will be time next weekend, but, I just don’t know. If so, I will ruck it then.”

I quickly commented “will ruck it as soon as I get home.” The other comments pretty much sum up the GRT community: perhaps a little rough around the edges, but will have your back when you need it.

“I am so sorry to hear about you Mother. I will do an extra mile. If others are unable, I can do the extra 26.2. Stay with your Mom.”

“Strength to you brother. You focus on your mother. We’ll focus on your miles.”

“Take care of your best girl. I’m in for an extra mile.”

“Is this covered? I have a couple operators here in bumfuck WV who I’m sure can take up any leftovers.”

“Any left over mileage I can cover it! I don’t care how much”

I got home, dumped my travel gear out of my ruck and loaded it with all 10 of my rucking bricks. I will be the first to say that I was tired as hell and had no desire to ruck anywhere, but it needed to be done. Turn on GPS tracking, half a mile down the road and back, drop the ruck and go to bed next to all the travel gear I just dumped.

I went to comment that my part was complete, and saw this:”Thank you all so very much. She passed away earlier this morning. Your actions today have meant a lot to me and my family.”

And the donated miles kept coming. Lots of us did a mile or two, a few more, up to one who rucked 31 miles. This response soon followed:

“I have to say, I am blown away. I had to turn off my 3 g because my Facebook notification kept beeping, all day.What you have done for me is simple. You gave me the strength to be there for my family. I was able to have a very hard talk with my Dad, and handle much of the days responsibilities. I was able to have a very difficult and private conversation with my Mother. I was able to pack up my Mother’s hospital room. I was able to meet with the cemetery staff and funeral director. I was able to be there for my wife. The sympathy you demonstrated by walking for me and my Mother was profound. I have to pay this forward. From the deepest place I know, thank you.”

I replied, “Humans are angels with a single wing. We only fly by embracing each other. I think I speak for all of us when I say the honor truly is ours.”

 Miles and supportive comments kept pouring in:

“Yesterday a man posted asking if people could donate an extra mile or two for him because he needed to be with his family in an hour of need, was no longer going to be able to participate and didn’t want his miles to go un-run for the cause. Just a little over 24 hours later, people have donated 123.93 miles. Extra miles they didn’t have to run or ruck, but they did. And they did it to show their support for someone that they may have never even met. Amazing!  I’m so proud to be a part of‪#‎runfor1m‬!”

“This was my thought process for me & my alter-ego that I wanted to share with the group:
Today is a recovery day/”so what” + I don’t have my running sneakers/”who cares” + I forgot my iPod/”get over it” all which resulted in me running my fastest splits in a long time and I was speechless when it was done at how well I felt physically, but dropping 5 miles in the bucket for Jason has left me feeling grateful to be involved in this event and surrounded by so many positive and inspiring folks. I think this is really what this event is all about”

“Each of you finished your run, or still have miles to complete. You are amazing. Many of you likely aren’t Green Berets, yet you are putting your heart and soul into this event.  I don’t know a finer group of people. You raise money for an awesome foundation, yet find a moment to provide strength to someone in need.  You don’t need to keep giving my family miles, you have given me and my family a lot of love and hard work, thank you. Give them to whomever you feel deserves it. I still need to find a way to properly thank each of you. You deserve it. If you still have miles to complete: when your feet hurt so bad, and you are losing your mind, take your strength from me. You helped me, I need to help you.  Know that I am indebted to each of you. Thank you.”

The total of donated miles came to just shy of 200 miles, nearly two of the full 100.2 mile challenge. The man who had made the initial request rucked the last 6-7 miles to make it 200.4 miles in honor of his mother.

What impresses me most about this is how few of the people involved actually knew each other, beyond a name on a computer screen. But he called out for support and all of us answered. THIS is what we are all working toward.

This was a small local race that I signed up for mostly for the novelty of it, expecting something on the level of a Warrior Dash. I was soon to find that I had underestimated  it severely, and what I had found was something with the feel of a Spartan Founder’s Race.

The races started out with polite trails and serious bottlenecks, but I didn’t mind as I was considering this a fun recovery run after the Beast and I was not concerned with time. Then we came to the first steep hill, steep enough to require ropes to get up it.

Now this was more like it.

I got to the top of the hill and realized that most of the runners were newbies who didn’t understand the concept of taking time to help the person behind you, as many of them were having trouble with the last few steps and transitioning from the rope to the ledge above. I did the only thing I could think to do: I stayed there and assisted every member of my wave that needed it.

More trails, a great tunnel crawl (great meaning wet, slimy, nasty, lots of rocks, and low enough that you have to do a full belly crawl) and some of the steepest trails that I have seen in Ohio. Some of the climbs had a rope, some used to have a rope that had since broken. We ended up bear-crawling much of it.

We came to the feature obstacle of the course, jump off a springboard to a rope/ cargo net. One of the obstacles that not many people completed. (I didn’t.)

Next was the Autism Speaks wall, a high enough wall that it requires forming ad hoc teams to get people over it. I boosted several people over before being boosted over myself.

The next obstacle that sticks out in memory was a log at about chest height that we had to go over, situated along a steep climb. I started directing traffic and getting people through, you grab his hand, you boost his feet, you get on top and throw a leg over. It appears I was rubbing off on some of my new teammates, as a pair that I helped over told me to go on ahead and they would assist the rest of the group behind me.

We next came to the simplest and toughest obstacle that would be repeated again and again:

Slick clay mud, ropes so coated in mud that you can get no grip on them. The first time I went up I got about halfway and slid back down. I joined forces with a few others who were stuck in the mud and started assisting those around us in getting up and over. Enough of them that we got the system down, brace one foot there, other foot on my shoulder, etc. They encouraged me to try one more time, and I found if I wrapped the rope around my forearm and put all my weight on it I could get just enough purchase to keep going. A woman on top of the mound that we had helped up called her companions back to help me over. Behold teamwork blossoming.

The other side of the hill were rope traverses that most of us failed, went into the water below, and ended up with another mud hill obstacle at the far side.

Likely the most interesting obstacle was the last, a flat strap that you had to walk across, with one hanging rope in the center that you can use to keep your balance. I nailed it. There was then an earth berm to go up and over, followed by log balance beams that I butt-scooted across (hardest part was dismounting the log onto the face of the berm with nothing to hold on to), and two more earth berms to cross with pools of mud water in between. The berms were particularly slick and I slipped and fell into the water on the next to last one. I remember feeling the bottom of the pit impact the flat of my back. So it is no surprise that my finish line photo looks like this:

Overall this race was a great time and a decent challenge. Will definitely do it again.

There are many people in this world who will doubt you. You absolutely cannot be one of them.~ Urban Samurai

This was by far the toughest race I have yet attempted. Let me give you some visual reasons for the difficulty:

My home is roughly 1000 meters lower in elevation than where the race started, with very few hills. Even without obstacles, this would have been a tough course for me.

The race started out with a run directly up a ski slope, which very quickly turned into an energy-sapping and demoralizing trudge. There were a couple relatively easy obstacles on top, then back down a slope that was just a touch too steep to run down controllably, and just a touch too flat to crab-walk down consistently, so I ended up doing a mix of the two as terrain required. We hit the cargo nets, the Hercules hoist, and the first water station, and back up the mountain.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel like an embarrassment on that second climb. I had to pull aside to catch my breath more often than I ever have before, stepping back in when there was a gap in the line of other competitors passing me.

We made it to the top of the hill, did a farmer carry with Jerry cans of water (Tip: If the obstacle can drip cold water on you on a hot day, carry it so that it will drip on you.), then headed back down the hill. The next obstacle was one of the cooler ones, the dip walk station. walk across the dip bars with your hands.

I was told my first attempt was an illegal technique, so they had me go again and I surprised myself by completing it. Next was the steepest up and down barbed wire crawl I have ever witnessed.

At the bottom of the crawl was a chest-height wall that I went over easily, and a rolling balance beam that I failed quickly.

At this point I had not yet realized that the thinner air was having an effect on me, I just knew that my aerobic capacity wasn’t even a third of what it should have been. I was not able to do more than 3-5 burpes at a time. When I got to the next obstacle, the monkey bars, I did not even have the strength to jump high enough to grab hold.

The course volunteer saw me struggling and told me I could go at 15 burpees rather than the usual 30. When I was on number 14, he waived me off and sent me on my way. The next obstacle was a concrete block-weighted deadlift, 15 reps, which I handled easily, but the setback on those two obstacles was enough to reintroduce thoughts into my head that have been dormant for a long time. That I’m not really strong enough to do the things that I have signed up for. That I don’t DESERVE to be here. That everyone who told me that I would always be a screwup was right. Even worse, the location where this happened overlooked the parking lot where I had left the car, so a DNF meant a straight shot home.

I decided that even though I no longer thought I had what it takes to finish, I wanted to see the rest of the course and that I would oblige the sweeper crew to pull me from the course rather than stop on my own. Back up the hill.

I was logical enough to bring a 3L camelback of Gatorade and some of the energy gummies along with me, and I ended up looking after people who had carried nothing as we passed each other along the steep trails that followed.

Most of the obstacles that followed were simple, carry this over there and back, but complicated by tough terrain. In several cases it morphed into a weighted bear crawl or crab walk type exercise.

Then, several hours into the endeavor, something magical happened. We came to the tractor pull, which is MY event. It is one of the few things that my bloodline of stubby-legged little farmers is really good at. This one was a little different, as we pulled the block a certain distance, did 20 overhead press with a telegraph pole, and pulled it the rest of the way. At the overhead press station, the course volunteer told us that we were roughly 2/3 done with the course. That raised all of our spirits a lot, like we all just realized that we were less than 2/3 dead, and the course was wearing out faster than we were. The next obstacle was a farmer carry with weighted ammo boxes (another strong event for me) and the rope climb, which I had never before completed on race day. I nailed it.

Something shifted at the moment I rang the bell at the top of the rope. Before that point I had been afraid of a lot of things. Failure. Letting down the people that I promised I would bring home the Trifecta medal. Disgracing the team uniform that I wore. From that point forward, I feared nothing. Not even the fact that I just rope-burned the heck out of my hands on the way down.

Memories of the rest of the race are a bit of a jumble, but a few things stand out:

I went over to do my burpees after the spear throw, I noticed the young man next to me not quite able to start his. Sort of like the people you see stop at an obstacle that they know is going to hurt, unable to muster the courage to charge into the pain.

“Hey, how many are you on?”

“Zero.”

“Want to crank them out together?”

1,2,3, recover. 4, 5, 6, recover. Ten sets of three and we were both on our way.

The last uphill stretch was by far the worst. Possibly that fatigue was setting in, possibly just that it had gotten hot. The leader of a group that was passing me noticed the rest of his team flagging, and his response solidified concepts I have been taught, but didn’t really understand.

From the top of the mountain, he called out to the team, “Why did the hipster burn his tongue?”

“Because he drank coffee before it was cool!”

Dumb viewed from the outside perhaps, but it did make us smile and we did pick up our pace. Dumb jokes continued. How many to change a light bulb. Ninjas. Chuck Norris.

The Premium Rig was an interesting obstacle that I would like to say I smashed, but I did not. A series of random objects that you must navigate monkey-bar style, and the first was a rectangular steel bar that I couldn’t get a grip on.

The sandbag carry involved going under a wooden bridge that you had to bend at the waist to fit under, and there was a sunken log to stumble over under the water. I fell flat on my face, but managed to keep the sandbag balanced on my shoulder and above water.

The last obstacle was the standard slip ramp and gladiator pit, but with a twist. Most that I have seen have just been covered with slick mud. This was draped with plastic sheeting and lubricated with soap to make a slick surface. Technique was still the same, keep your butt down and you will be fine.

Rather than a ramp down and a run toward the gladiators, there was a rope climb down that delivered you directly in front of them. The last bit of run in tends to cause them to take it easy on me because I look like I have nothing left. Because they didn’t have the chance to make that judgement, I finally got them to seriously hit me.

This may be my favorite photo from the race. A beaten-half-to-death Spartan warrior with a Spartan halo.

I had made up 3 of the burpees that had been forgiven when I stopped to help the man at the spear throw. I did the remaining 13 behind the car before leaving. Always earned, never given.

The greatest victory I had at this race was one that I have difficulty putting in words. I have never wanted to be remembered as the racer that is the Uber badass, can smash any obstacle before him, etc. Don’t get me wrong, that would be nice, but not what I want to be remembered as. I just want to be the guy that people remember helping them get through, helping them find the power within them. I don’t want to be the fireworks display that everyone cheers at, but the spark that can ignite those around me to burn more brightly.

Two people that I had helped along the course made it a point to find me after, say thank you and wish me a safe trip home. On that point I can say I did my team proud.

Lastly, I got a view of myself from the non-OCR world. I didn’t get a chance to take a shower or wash off my bib number before heading home. I pull up to the border checkpoint with a huge, sweat-smeared sharpie-marker number on my head and hand the nice man my passport.

“What happened to your face?”

I explained the race and that we mark our numbers on our foreheads. We go through the normal border security questions.

“So what does this race entail?”

“It’s a half-marathon distance obstacle course, and along the way we went up and down Mont St. Marie four times.”

He stared at me for a moment, I think trying to determine if I was serious. “Do you have enough left in you to drive home?”

I really did not expect much from this race. So much so that I almost skipped it entirely to deal with the office. I had signed up for it when I was trying to fit a race into every month and had not yet realized the range of travel and OCR options that I have. I expected it to be like all of the other trail runs I have seen, polite trails, easy terrain, no real challenge. What I got was something entirely different.

This is one of the smaller events put on by a local race organizer, so the bibs in use were leftovers from other races, the Galloping Gobbler, the Gingerbread Pursuit, etc. My bib turned out to be from the Huff, the 50K I will take on in a few months. For some reason I found that oddly fitting.

I showed up for the race, got my bib, and started chatting with the other runners. One woman noticed my Cornfed jersey, identified herself as a Chicago Spartan, and we got started talking about how the CFS were doing in the Death Race, which was held the same weekend.

We lined up at the starting line, and heard a little of the course information as it was spoken by a very soft-voiced announcer. Honestly all I remember from this was that part of the course was on equestrian trails and we should be careful not to step in the horse manure, that the second half of the 10K was particularly nasty after recent rain, and anyone who wished to stop at the 5K mark could do so. This got me even more fired up for the 10K.

We started off on paved roads, and the first mile confirmed my expectations of an easy flat trail run. Then we turned off the pavement and entered the nature preserve itself.

By the time we got to the stairs, I knew I had found something I have been looking for for quite some time. A place to train on rough terrain, which is in short supply in the flat lands of Indiana.

Something else that I had never seen in this part of the country: the course passed just above this waterfall.

This sign was enough to ensure that I returned to this place. The “very difficult” trail was not part of the 10K course, but I knew I would come back to check it out.

We came back out of the preserve where we had entered and followed the roads back to the starting point, where the 5K runners finished and the rest of us crossed the dam to the equestrian trails on the far side.

These stairs are the crossing of the dam. I vaulted the handrail on the way back just to make it a little closer to an OCR.

The trails were indeed steeper, muddier and nastier on the far side. Meaning perfect Spartan/GRT training ground.

We hit one point where the signs marking the course were in conflict, and I followed the runner in front of me. If you are going the wrong way, its best not to go alone. It turns out that this cut a little more than a mile off our distance, and several runners who were GPS tracking reported that they had also taken the 5-mile route instead of the full 10K.

Overall it was a good time, about as challenging as a 10K can be without man-made obstacles. And most importantly it showed me the tools to build myself into a stronger athlete that I have needed for so long.