Mud Run Notes--Part One

Notes from the AFYMCA Mud Run

So, I really had no idea what the hell I was getting myself into this morning. First, let’s start with a point of explanation. For those of you who have seen me face-to-face at various points in my life, I was fat. Very fat. And badly out of shape.

Recently.

Like within the last year.

I was 400 lbs.

And there is no svelte 400 lbs. unless you’re a pachyderm.

For those of you I’ve never met face-to-face, I have (and will always) look like a young Javier Bardem. Trust me.

So I signed up for the mud run at the Little Creek Amphibious base today. No big deal. It’s an 8k. That’s only 5 miles. I can do that in my sleep.

Yeah…not so much.

Let’s just try to cover some highlights…

I wanted to make sure I was up early and alert and perky. The run would start at 8 am, but I needed to be there early because of the adventures of getting onto base. So I set my alarm for 5 am to get me plenty of time to get up, eat a high energy breakfast, and get my vitamins and protein supplements sucked down. Plus, and I am sorry for being so up front, by when you’ve had a gastric bypass the exiting process of the energy intake system can be a little unpredictable. Sorry. So I made sure to give myself plenty of lead time.

So, I rolled over and looked at the clock. 6:45.

Enter panic mode. So I quickly throw down some yogurt and vitamins and hit the car.

5 minutes into the drive I regretted oversleeping.

I got to the race site after proving I was not a member of al-Qeida to the guards on base and parked. The parking was somewhere outside of Uzebekistan. Seriously people. I am here to run a race….do I have to run a race to run the race???

There is a line of port-a-potties near the race line. While queued up, I actually hear a woman complaining about the bouquet of the plastic booths of relief. Well I hate to break it to you darling but a bakery smells like bread. Deal with it.

With sweet relief finally upon me, it was run time.

At the gun, I was off with the pack…and onto the beach. The beach??? Who the hell runs on the beach. Maybe Rocky getting ready to fight Clubber Lang, but come on. Running is for roads…Actually it’s for treadmills in nice air conditioned gyms…with the MSNBC news crawl. Oh Contessa Brewer…I am running to impress YOU.

So I am working my way down the beach…genius that I am I decide to stay near the drier sand. I figure it is important to keep my feet dry. I am a moron.

I get a couple of hundred yards up the beach and I notice a trench. You gotta be kidding me. A freaking trench?? I so hoist myself up over and think that this may not have been the best move on my part. Now I discover that there is a huge problem with running through sand. Sand.

After the third climb I notice something is really chaffing my butt, and since my ex-wife is nowhere to be found, I quickly deduce that it’s sand. Great. I am not even a mile in and my butt is on fire. Fabulous.

I hit the end of the beach and there is asphalt. Ah sweet, sweet asphalt. You are so solid under my feet. You support me. And you rarely chaff my butt.

Now I come up on the firs****er station. Sweet liquid relief. I am a little over a mile and water is my friend. How could water every do me wrong? Well maybe if you’re a creek I have to run you….you have to be kidding me….a creek?? I did not sign up for this.

But then a thought. This will solve the sand problems. Man…this is sweet. Of course, I am feeling pretty silly about my effete desire to protect my dry feet back on the beach.

As it turns out a creek is a really bad idea. That creek no more got rid of the pains in the butt than the divorce did. Rather they both transformed into for more complex ones. Water + sand = discomfort…..

Now begins the run through the woods. Seriously, am I going to hit every branch? And it really is tough to get a pace going when you have to cut and duck trees every 20 feet. This is not making me happy. Well at least they can’t screw me worse than what I dealing with….add the race to the list (that includes my butt and ex-wife) that I missed the boat on.

Two miles…more roads…I can do this. This isn’t half bad…And more water. Wait didn’t they royally screw us last time we had water?? I round the bend and it’s a freaking wall I have to scale. Now I am not the sharpest tool in the shed. So I actually think that they best pivot point for the wall is to hoist myself and turn on my boys. Yeah, the crotch is not so good and idea. At least this point of the story is happy for my ex-wife.

The route now goes onto the grass. I can do this, I think.

MORE TO COME