Spartan Hobble - Pain for the Whole Family

Here are things I do not like:

1. Running
2. Signing waivers that inform me that by signing the contact, I am "giving up substantial legal rights".
3. Signing waivers that also inform me that I may get "diseases from exposure to fecal contaminated water or slurry", "permanent paralysis", or "death".
4. Signing waivers that contain the phrase "drowning and other injuries are common occurrences in the event".

Here are things that will make me run:
1. Being chased by a maniac with a chainsaw.
2. Being chased by a maniac without a chainsaw.

Here are things that will make me sign that stupid waiver:
1. My daughter

Many years ago, I ran in a race called the Warrior Dash with many of my friends.
Since I did not actually die in that event, I supposed that I would never be forced to run again unless I met with one-or both-of the two conditions for running that I listed above.

I was wrong.

It appears that when I ran that race, many years ago, my daughter, Tori expressed interest in doing it someday. I smiled and patted her head and said something fatherly like, "That's nice, honey."

Naturally, she assumed that I meant, "Wow! I'd love to subject myself to that same torture over again in the future. Let's do that!"

I did not mean that at all.

I meant, "That's nice, honey."

And from that small communication breakdown, I find myself at the starting line of the Spartan Race, an event that mentions "fecal contaminated slurry" in its waiver that you must sign.

Don't believe me? Go ahead. Read it.

Tori, Alex, me. Yeah. Tights. Shut up. All the cool kids were wearing them.

The Spartan Race was held at Killington Mountain in Vermont. The word, "kill" is right in the name. Does nobody else see this as a problem?

This race was described on the website as a serious 3-5 mile course (they couldn't be more specific) with 22-30 obstacles (again, specificity is obviously not their strong suit unless they are writing contracts detailing the way you can, and likely will, die during the event. Then, they are unnervingly specific.)

Pictures on the website showed people strenuously exerting themselves and, somehow, actually appearing to enjoy themselves. The pictures showed towering pillars of fire, miles of barbed wire, ropes to climb, water to traverse, and everybody in the pictures looked exactly how nobody actually looks when exercising strenuously.

Here are some screenshots from the Spartan website:

See that smile? Those things smelled like old gym socks left in a dank basement. Nobody smiles with 40 pounds of stink on his back.

This is how people finish the race on the website.

Kerri took pictures of some people trying that at the actual race.

It didn't generally end well.

Nevertheless, my daughter wanted to do this and I am a good dad so I signed her life away on a bunch of waivers. For added fun, I signed my son, Alex's and my own away as well. Kerri had to sign her own life away, as she is an adult.

Yes, spectators had to sign waivers just to spectate.

We picked up our race packets and were greeted with another friendly reminder about just how much fun we should expect to have.

They whack you for $40 if you don't return the timing chip in the bag. Unless, you know, you're dead. Then they charge your heirs.

They helpfully suggested that we arrive about 90 minutes before our scheduled race time. Check-in took about 3 minutes, so with 87 minutes to kill, we busied ourselves freezing to death.

Tori and I also got our numbers written on our arms. Why? Because it was a distraction from the hypothermia. Plus, the girl writing the numbers had amazingly neat handwriting. I asked her to write the preamble to the Constitution on my arm. She refused.

Just as our extremities began to freeze solid, it was time to begin! The first obstacle is actually to enter the starting pen.

Tori hopped over with ease.

As did Alex.

I used the lady in front of me for traction and was able to hop right over.

We were then treated to another opportunity to wait around and have warnings and waivers read to us again!

Rather than listen to "important race safety information" delivered by a man with no pants on, we opted to pose for pictures.

 And then the race began!

We rocketed from the starting line at speeds approaching 0.0003 miles per hour.

After this point, Kerri, being the only sane member of our family, wandered around the spectator area with the camera so there is no photographic evidence of anything. You'll just have to trust me on this.

We began a slow, uphill plod up the steep face of Kill-em-all Mountain. It was sort of like being stuck in rush hour traffic, but with more sweating and wheezing and panting.

We hopped over some logs, climbed up some walls, and came to the "Memory Test" where you had to find a word/number combination based on the last few digits of your race number. You had to remember the number to avoid the dreaded "Burpees" which are an exercise maneuver doled out as punishment for failure to complete any of the obstacles.

The name "burpee" is so stupid, all I could do was laugh every time someone suggested that I do one. Or thirty.

I memorized my word/numbers (Bravo 7489689, in case you're wondering).

I chanted it to myself throughout the rest of the race, repeating it like a mantra, incorporating it into the pacing of my wheezing and panting.

Bravo 7489689

Wheeeeeeeze...

Bravo 7489689

Gasp...

It must be one heck of a memory test because they haven't asked for it yet. There was no check point where we were required to recite it.

I expect that some day in the far distant future, I'll receive a telephone call in the middle of the night. "This is Duane - the guy with no pants on from the Spartan Race. WHAT WAS YOUR NUMBER?" And I'll be able to tell him, by gosh. I may not remember my own name at that point, but I'll know that number.

We continued ever upward into the thinning air. Climbing hills is not Tori's strong suit so she slowed quite a bit and Alex took off without us. Tori and I wound our way up the mountain, eavesdropping on conversations like this.

"Oh god, I hate you, Kim. Why did you make me do this?"
"I'm a 38 year old, overweight alcoholic. What could possibly go wrong?"
"Gasp... Wheeze... Retch..."

Probably as a result of the many years I have spent hiking up mountains with my hiking associate, Julie, climbing the big mountain was not an unpleasant experience for me. I just had to be careful not to step on the many, many people curled up in the fetal position along the trail.

Eventually, we arrived at the summit and were handed 40 pound sandbags called "pancakes". It was then politely requested of us that we carry them down a steep, rocky trail and then bring them back up to where we had been given them. I suggested that it may be much simpler if we merely left them where they were, but that idea was dismissed quickly. The main problem with the "pancakes" was not the 40 pounds resting on your neck or shoulder as you trudge along. It was the fact that I was likely the 10,000th person to have used that pancake and the fabric it was made from had absorbed a staggering amount of other people's sweat.

The stench was really something to experience.

The rest of the race consisted of running along trails, picking things up, putting things down, climbing over things, climbing under things, and falling in the slippery mud.

As we made our way downward toward the finish line, our paths crossed those of people doing "The Beast" or "The Ultra Beast" The race were were subjecting ourselves to was called "The Sprint". It is a leisurely 5 mile jaunt for pikers, newbs, and couch potatoes. The Ultra Beast is a 26+ mile endurance test for people who like to sweat at competitive levels. We overheard several conversations between Beast runners as they passed us. They were all having exactly the same fascinating and witty conversation:

"Hydration."
"Salt pills."
"Carb blasting."
"Electrolytes."
"Gatoraide."
"Liquid Amino Acids!"
"Water."
"Good talk, bro. Good talk."
"Yeah, bro. Good talk. Stay strong."

Eventually, we made it to the dreaded tunnel of barbed wire where you are supposed to crawl under about 100 yards of low strung barbed wire.

Many people opted to roll the entire distance and it was entertaining to listen to them start to moan after a few yards. "Uurrrrrgh... soo... dizzy..."

Turns out that Gatorade and liquid amino acids make for festive, brightly colored vomit, puddles of which add another dimension of excitement to the barbed wire obstacle.

After the tunnel, we were on the home stretch and had only to throw a spear and jump over a towering wall of fire.

Alex threw a spear and Kerri got a great picture of it.

Tori threw a spear and Kerri got a great picture of it.

I threw a spear and Kerri got a great picture of some other guy who stepped in front of me.

Then came the fire. The towering wall of fire designed to test each runner to his physical and mental limit.

This is a screenshot of the fire, as shown on the Spartan website.

Somehow, Tori and I managed to hurdle the six inch lump of smouldering cordwood.

Tori crossed the finish line with wonderful form.

I crossed the finish line running a bit funny because of the stupid tights.

The final obstacle was to wait in line to get your picture taken and to try to eat a free energy bar without gagging.

I did it! I ate the disgusting energy bar!

The dude behind me got some excellent bunny ears on me. Well done, guy. Tori still obviously has the taste of energy bar in her mouth. I wiped my tongue on the back of some guy's shirt. Tasted better than the bar.

And with that, our day drew to an end. We limped back to the car, reeking of other people's sweat and made our way homeward.

Just before she drifted off to sleep, Tori asked, "When is registration for the next one?"

Both kids were asleep in less time than it took to eat a free energy bar.

Maybe I'll get a discount on the registration fee if I use the promotional code: Bravo 7489689.

Lord of the Flies - Welcome to the Fishydome

It's that time of year again, kiddos.
When the days grow long and sweaty and, for some reason that I still haven't figured out, I allow my old pal Julie to trick me into going on long hikes up big hills with her.

In her defense, I suppose, is the fact that if I didn't go on these long, sweaty, danger-filled hikes with her, I would most likely fritter my time away on inconsequential passtimes, like not sweating and being in pain and almost getting eaten by Bigfoot.

Julie is nearing the conclusion of her goal of climbing all the 4,000+ foot mountains in New Hampshire. It is alleged that there are 48 of them, but I do not believe that for a second. I have hiked at least 10,000 mountains with Julie and every time we finish a hike, she always says, "Well, just 10 left."

This summer's first hike was Mt. Cabot, which has the dual honors of being the farthest away, and the worst hike ever. Win, win!

Julie generally likes to begin the hikes early, so it's not uncommon for her to show up at my house at 6 or 6:30 a.m.  At first, I found this alarming. Being an author and illustrator, I had no idea that there even was a 6:00 a.m. Soon I got used to the idea and no longer found it alarming. Just annoying.

Julie insisted that this hike must begin earlier as the mountain is located somewhere in the very farthest reaches of the Canadian wilderness, bordering on The North Pole. To that end, she decreed that she would arrive at my house at 5:30 a.m.

It's even less pleasant than it sounds, my friends.

She dragged me to her car - a fancy new car, I might add; one with posh leather seats and all sorts of grown-up doohickeys - and I settled into the comfy leather seats and began 3 hours of incessant whining about how early it was. Julie ignored me and focused instead on bathing in the awesome splendor of her new car.

A few hundred hours later, we arrived at the Berlin Fish Hatchery, where our hike was to begin.

We were greeted with this not at all alarming sign.

If you don't get out by 4, we hope you have a sleeping bag.

"Oh, well," I said. "Looks like this isn't going to work out after all. How about if you just buy me some coffee, take me home, and I'll tell everyone that you actually climbed the mountain?"

Julie was as obstinate and unreasonable as ever and forged ahead, heedless of the fact that we may have to spend the night locked in a fish hatchery.

We passed an official looking vehicle and asked the Fish Hatcher about the gate. "We close it at 4," he said. "We lock it at 10, so you gotta be outta here before that or you're spending the night."

The accommodations did not meet my personal requirements of being dry and fish-free, so we resolved to be done with our hike before 10 p.m.

A fleeting moment of joy before the hike. Now, I no longer even remember happiness.

We parked the car and headed off into the damp, humid wilderness to spend the day sweating in nature. "You know it's supposed to be, like 95 degrees today?" I asked.

"Yeah," Julie said. "I do. Because you've told me that about a million times in the last 15 minutes."

"I just want to make sure that you don't die of dehydration," I said. "I'm not hauling your carcass down the mountain. I'm going to leave it up there to serve as a visual reminder to people about the dangers of hiking."

Julie must not have heard me because she charged ahead into the wilderness.

The name, Kilkenny Ridge Trail made me think of this:

And I'm sure that my constant repetition of that phrase amused Julie throughout the long, horrible hike. Because I am hilarious.

The hike to the summit of Mt. Cabot begins with a walk of creeping horror along a trail overgrown with weeds, brambles, man-eating vines, and snakes as big as school buses.

I can't even describe the horror of walking along this path.

I might have freaked out about this itching, scratching, claustrophobic, snake-infested path if I hadn't been distracted by the millions of biting, flying insects that accompanied us all along the trail for the entire hike.

When we passed this sign, I tried to convince Julie that pressing onward would be foolhardy and dangerous. "What if we get stranded at the top and freeze to death because we can't start a fire in the wood stove?"

"It's going to be 95 degrees today, remember?" she asked, forging onward.

We hacked our way through the underbrush and the trail opened up a bit to reveal the fine craftsmanship of a well-maintained wooden footpath.

"Look," I said, pointing to the splintered wood. "Bigfoot did that. Let's go get ice cream."

Julie must be losing her hearing. She kept walking, oblivious to the fact that we were no doubt being stalked by Bigfoot as we headed toward the wind-swept summit, where we would freeze to death because of the lack of woodstoves. If the bugs didn't bleed us dry first.

We soon reached a trail junction and Julie was undisturbed by the small square of wood that had been cut out around the arrow that showed the direction of our path.

"It's been cut out and replaced in the sign," I said. "Probably in the wrong direction. I'll bet that Bigfoot did this and that arrow points right to his lair. His family is probably all sitting around the table with napkins tied around their necks."

"Don't be stupid," Julie said. "Bigfoots don't use napkins."

"It's Bigfeet," I grumbled. " Not Bigfoots. And that's not the point. The point is that the sign has been changed and we are going to get eaten by Bigfoot and his extended family."

Julie charged onward, perhaps spurred by the ever-thickening cloud of biting flies that swarmed around us.

"I told you this was the wrong direction," I said through the deafening buzz of insects.

"What?" Julie cried.

"Look. It's a sign." I pointed.

"Well, duh. Obviously it's a sign," Julie sighed.

"No, I mean like, an omen."

"The Omen. That was a great movie. Did you see that?" Julie asked, ignoring my pleas for mercy and trudging ever upward toward the unmaintained summit.

We spent a delightful few hours sweating and swatting and soon reached a cheerful sign indicating a view which was probably still maintained.

And, indeed it was.

A view, still helpfully maintained by the state.

Even more view for your viewing pleasure.

A less well-maintained view.

A view of Julie trying to figure out how to work her camera. Blood loss from the biting insects has left us both woozy and confused.

After a delightful few minutes watching Julie futz with her camera, we plodded onward, propelled ever the more urgently by the incessant swarm of bugs who had obviously sent word to the relatives that a buffet was being served on the steamy slopes of Mt. Cabot.

"If I lose any more blood, I'm going to shrivel and die." I moaned. "Bigfoot will just have a dessicated slab of Marty jerky to eat."

Julie made a comment that involved the words "Marty" and "jerk", but I couldn't hear her over the buzzing of the bugs.

We staggered up the steep, rocky slope until we came to the Cabot Cabin, named after Mr. Cabot Cabin, who, in 1794, first stopped maintaining the trails on this mountain.

"HA!" I cried, my throat choked with dozens of bugs I had inhaled. "We can escape the bugs in there!"

We raced toward the cabin and yanked the door open. We were both blown backward by the thundering explosion of flies that erupted from the doorway.

"What the–" Julie might have said a very bad word except that she is a teacher and never uses such coarse language, so I obviously misheard her. She was probably talking about trucks or ducks.

We swatted away the flies and entered the cabin, which Mr. Cabot Cabin obviously stopped maintaining several hundred years ago, as well.

The initial cloud of flies, which numbered in the low tens of millions, was merely the welcoming committee, sent as emissaries, with greetings from the the billions of flies which remained in the cabin.

The kitchen, complete with flag, hung in the universal signal for "Send Cleaning Supplies".

The bedroom, viewed from the kitchen.

The kitchen table.

Bunk bed #1.

Bunk bed #2.

The bedroom window, festively decorated with thousands of angry flies, pinging off the glass in a desperate attempt to escape. I knew just how they felt.

The kitchen sink.

Directions to the nearby spring, where you can go to get some fresh water in which to drown yourself to escape the squalid horror of the kitchen sink.

Please don't leave food. The cabin might get messy.

The tool kit. Dustpan, shovel, torch for burning the cabin to the ground.

Julie poses amidst the flies. Note the spectacular sweat design on her shirt.

We were sorry that we missed seeing The Burntbear. Perhaps our paths will cross some other day.

When we decided that we had inhaled all the flies our lungs could handle, we ventured back out to the great outdoors to visit with the swarming clouds of other insects who had hovered about the door, patiently awaiting our return.

We raced to the trail and, still disoriented by the bloodloss from all our bug bites, may have lost the trail if not for this helpful signpost.

I was concerned that there was a need for these signs - that some hikers might not be able to tell the difference between the summit and a toilet. It did not bode well for the condition of the summit.

"What's it going to be, Julie?" I asked. "Summit or toilet?"

After a brief deliberation wherein we considered the condition of the kitchen sink and hypothesized about what the toilet might look like, we decided on a visit to the summit.

The summit was indicated by a stake in the ground and the thickest cloud of bugs we had seen yet.

We posed for a quick summit picture and raced downhill toward Bigfoot so he could eat us, with or without napkins, and end our misery.

On the way down the mountain, Julie took a fancy to a few of the giant rocks which littered the path.

"This would look amazing on the walkway outside my house," she mused.

"What are you going to do?" I snorted. "Carry it down the mountain?"

Julie did, in fact, carry the rock for a few hundred yards. Then she stopped and took off her backpack.

"Ha!" I barked. "Too heavy, huh?"

"No," she answered. "I found another one."

This one, too, went in Julie's backpack. Because Julie is insane.

She managed to stagger a few hundred more yards before she toppled over and her ankle made a very unpleasant snapping noise.

"That... had... nothing... to do... with... the rocks..." she gurgled as she lay sprawled across the path.

I sprang to her assistance and immediately started taking pictures of the beautiful view that she couldn't see because of her tears. Because I am a good friend.

This is the view you missed, Julie.

You also missed this view.

And this view. You're welcome.

Julie reluctantly abandoned her rocks WHICH HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH HER FALL and we hobbled our way through the ever thickening bugs which had gathered just to watch us sweat. They probably assumed that we were some new kind of self-marinating meal, basting in our own juices for their dining pleasure.

Which we were.

Julie had swallowed a few thousand milligrams of Tylenol and was completely untroubled by my constant weeping and crying. After a few hundred hours, we finally arrived back at the Trail of Tears and were on our way to Julie's swank new car so we could ruin the seats with pools of dank, mountain-based sweat.

We finally arrived at the car and I celebrated by not collapsing in a heap and sobbing.

My sweat designs are just as spectacular as Julie's, thank you very much.

We climbed back into her car and headed toward ice cream only to find this:

I refused to exit the car to open the gate on the grounds that I was tired and Bigfoot was no doubt still in the area.
 

Julie also refused to exit the car on the flimsy grounds that her ankle had swollen up to the size of a '54 Buick and was a lovely shade of eggplant and she was in excruciating pain from her fall WHICH WAS NOT CAUSED BY THE HUNDREDS OF POUNDS OF ROCKS SHE WAS ATTEMPTING TO CARRY DOWN A MOUNTAIN.

I am not getting out of the car, buddy.

I suggested something like this, but Julie is a party-pooper and refused. "We might scratch the paint on my fabulous new car."

I eventually broke down and, at great risk to myself, opened the gate so we could escape.

Now, I just have to remember to pack a fly-swatter in my backpack for the next hike. Maybe I'll make Julie carry it. She can squeeze it in right next to the rocks.