I was facebook snooping last year and came across Monique, who was my friend and neighbor when I lived in California. She looked exactly the same as the last time I saw her 16 years ago- beautiful and happy. She has lots of fun pictures and lots of crazy adventure ones as well. Like the action shots of her participating in a Tough Mudder event. She said it was really fun! Ten to Twelve miles with 25 tough, military-style obstacles that involve heights, mud, tunnels, mud, freezing cold water, mud, electric and barbed wire, mud and hills. That does sound fun in a crazy, someone-dropped-you-on-your-head-when-you-were-a-baby type of fun. Thanks mom, for dropping me and SIGN ME UP!!! When I told Monique that I wanted to play, she mentioned that her team (The Good, The Bad, and The Muddy) was already signed up for the So Cal Tough Mudder on Feb 25 and that I could join them. I got sooooooooo excited. For about 10 seconds. Then I reminded myself: you’re not in shape, you’re packing a few extra pounds(“few” is a relative term) and you’ll still be doing the raw food cleanse on that date. So I will sit this one out and live vicariously through the facebook photos. This time around. One day I will do that race because I know, deep down inside, that under all my layers of jiggly, slothful, undisciplined apathy I AM A TOUGH MUDDER. I can do that race.
I remember doing the 50 K Hong Kong Green Power Hike years ago. Brandon has done races his entire life of all distances but at that point I was a confirmed sprinter. At BYU I was on the swim team and my best event lasted all of 23 seconds on a good day. I didn’t think I could finish the hike but wanted to try. Hubby kindly stayed with me that first race and even carried my water bottles. Before you think he is a supportive saint, let me clarify. He carried my water bottles so that after I got a drink he could “convince” me to pick up the pace and jog by running slightly ahead of me while I tried to replace the bottle in his back back. I’d get close and he would pick up the pace. This would go on for what seemed like eternity until I either caught up with him or cussed loudly and threw the bottle towards his head.
I did end up jogging a little, but mostly hiked and walked- trying prudently to make sure I had some energy for the end. On some of the steep climbs I could be heard muttering under my breath: “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…” The last couple miles were on a rocky mountain trail in the dark. Brandon led with our only flashlight and I had to keep up if I wanted to see anything. It was another one of Hubby’s sneaky ways of getting me to move faster, but it worked. I ended up running like a crazy woman after the light, pumped up high as kite on adrenaline. I knew at any given moment I could break my ankle or take a fall that would keep on going. I guess that’s what they mean when people say they feel alive when taking risks.
We finished in 10 hours and I was amazed and euphoric while crossing the finish line. About 15 minutes later I was puking and feeling as though I had just given birth to a gorilla. I hobbled for about a week afterwards, crippled and seriously doubting my mental stability. But like most child birth experiences, I soon forgot the pain and planned to do it again.
Two years later I did. But this time I knew I could finish. I had actually given birth to a new me. This time I knew I could, I knew I could, I knew I could! I told Brandon he didn’t have to wait for me, that I wanted to see what I was capable of doing without a coach, a pacer and water pack mule at my side. I wanted him to do his own race and I still hadn’t forgotten about his sneaky water bottle and flashlight tricks.
There was lots of tedium and discomfort and pain involved in the race. Sometimes it was crowded and I was annoyed at having to wait for slow pokes on the trail or got passed why someone who was just plain insensitive to my ego. Other times it was crowded and I relished the camaraderie of strangers/unknown friends doing something hard, together. We were laughing, encouraging and advising one another along the way. Sometimes I enjoyed moments of blissful solitude where I felt my heart would burst with happiness for no apparent reason. Sometimes I trudged along a steep part and wondered what the heck I had been thinking to sign up for this AGAIN. Other time I felt like an graceful animal, lightly bounding through the jungle over rocks and logs, hill and dale, without tiring, having tapped into some source of primal energy. I was alive with the realization that I was doing something I couldn’t actually do. I learned to fly down the hills by just letting go, leaning forward and then praying my body would keep up with my feet.
I didn’t set any records that day and it didn’t really matter if I finished in the top of my class. (I didn’t) When I crossed the finish line 8 hours later (I think it was actually 7 hours and 59 minutes which feels a lot better than 8 hours) I was exhausted but happy and I felt great knowing I had pushed myself beyond my limits. Hubby wasn’t at the finish line because he hadn’t expected me for at least another hour. But I found him shortly afterwards. And like the race before, 15 minutes later I was down on a blanket in the grass and only moving when I had to throw up. One kind medic abandoned his first aid station to take my vitals because of how great I looked. He advised our friends to take me to the hospital if I didn’t feel better soon. I didn’t go-mostly because the thought of one extra stop between me and my bed was unthinkable at that point- but I appreciated his concern.
Years later I had the realization that this race was a metaphor for my life. (I know I’m a little slow, be patient with me.) I had always known that my Heavenly Father helped me out quite a bit during that race. I had put my heart into it but my body had surprised me. I knew that I had done things I wasn’t in shape to do and that He had carried me throughout some of the harder stages when quitting would have been so easy. I was grateful afterwards but thought it was a little strange that He had been so helpful during a silly little, recreational activity that I had participated in mainly for bragging rights. I was grateful, but knew that my performance in the race really meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. So why the help?
Then one day it hit me. The race is your life. There is lots of tedium, discomfort and pain involved. Sometimes you will be slowed down, hurt, or annoyed by those around you. Sometimes we will be a supportive comfort to each other in this journey. Sometimes when kids/spouse/jobs/unemployment feels like an endless steep climb you just need to keep putting one foot in front of the other and you will eventually reach the summit. Sometimes strangers at an aid station offering a banana look like angels and sometimes you need to wear the halo for someone around you.
And often, quite often it feels like, you will need to do something you don’t feel capable of doing. You will surprise yourself what you can do. There is help. It usually comes in unnoticeable but crucial ways. It doesn’t usually come in the form of a helicopter that will lift you off the mountain and give you a free ride to the summit. Trust me, the view is better if you climb the mountain first. So don’t be afraid to ask for help. Don’t be afraid to offer help. We’re all in this together.
I am ONE TOUGH MUDDER. And so are you.
The view from the top of the Barrel Roll
