I have a thigh bruise the size of an eggplant from climbing over walls. I wake up at night shivering from the ice bath I had to jump into. I learned I’m terrible at monkey bars. Midway through I slipped and fell into a murky pit of muddy water.
I ran the Tough Mudder in Central Florida last weekend. I was part of a team from Flagler College that braved the 10-mile course with its 18 military-style obstacles — electrified wires you crawl through, a quarter-mile creek hike, 12-foot-tall walls you scale.
It was brutal and grueling, and strangely, pretty fun. By the fact that I still have a pulse, I would call it a success.
Well, that’s not entirely true.
“You left a dirt ring on your pillow!” said my horrified wife the next day. I had no idea the mud would leach into my skin, cake my hair and plague me for days, no matter how hard I scrubbed. (I used half a box of cotton swabs just cleaning out my ears.)
For a guy who hates dirt, that may have been the toughest part.
That, and an obstacle at the end called “Everest.” It was a 15-foot-tall quarter-pipe covered in mud and grease. The objective was to run up it, leap at the last moment, and grab someone’s outstretched hand. If you missed, you landed with a flop and slid back to the mud. Onlookers would shudder and whisper, “Dude’s gonna’ be missing teeth!”
It was intimidating and nerve-racking. It seemed to defy gravity. And common sense. Bodies flew everywhere. People hobbled off. I swore I saw a guy break in half and fly in two different directions.
I failed my first two tries. Then steeled myself for a third. Somehow I found the will — and the traction — to leap and grab two hands. They helped pull me over. My heart raced. I felt the rush of adrenaline. My hands trembled from fear, excitement and exhaustion.
I turned to face the crowd and pumped my arm in the air to savor the victory. Only, I couldn’t. Because there — pointing up at me and yelling, “Ready!” — was a 240-pound freight train preparing to launch himself in my direction.
“No, no!” I thought. “You got the wrong guy. I’m two toothpicks taped together!”
“You got this,” he said, and then came charging up the wall.
He missed the first try, and got my hand on the second. I nearly toppled over the side. My right arm is now two inches longer than my left.
“Just hold on!” he yelled, as if I had some say in the matter. He had a death grip on my hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll walk up.”
Which sounded utterly ridiculous. And would have been, if he didn’t start doing it. One hand on me and another on a teammate, he stood up at a 45-degree angle to the wall. The crowd went nuts. My rib cage separated from the rest of my body.
I don’t know how we got him over. Other Mudders rushed to help. We all collapsed into a horde of mud and sweat and humanity. It was the epitome of willpower. Of determination. Of teamwork. And maybe that was the real victory — the unforgettable lesson.
That, plus getting all the mud out of my ears. I just wish I could say the same for the dirt rings on the pillow.