Okay, this one is mostly my wife’s fault.
Back in the spring of 2010 as she was just getting into running as an activity, Sue got it in her mind that she wanted to participate in an event entitled The Warrior Dash.
For those who are not familiar—
Yeah, great idea, right? A 5K run for “warriors” that includes obstacles such as climbing walls, crawling through mud under barbed wire and jumping over fire, all for the glory of saying you. are. a. warrior! Oh, and you get a fuzzy viking hat, a beer and a barbecued turkey drumstick, too.
Personally, this was enough “warrior” for my life, but any of you who know Sue also know that wouldn’t be enough for her. So she decided to sign up for the race, and quickly convinced a few of our other younger friends to join her. My initial reaction was that at that point of my life—just about to turn 45 and more than happy to call myself “retired” from true athletic endeavors (golf doesn’t count)—the last thing I needed was to take up running so I could claw my way through mud for a lousy T-shirt and overrated “glory.”
But as I contemplated the situation, I quickly realized that the thought of my wife doing this and me sitting on the sidelines cheering her on did not quite jibe with my faulty self-image of being a “man.” Besides, the event was on the weekend of our wedding anniversary in September, plus there would be turkey drumsticks and fire, sweet fire, involved. I might even get into “shape” in the training process. What the hell—I was in!
When I told a few friends that I was going to just do it, it was met with a universal response: “You’re going to die, old man!” And that’s actually not a paraphrase, as one friend literally said that [*cough cough* Joopiter *cough*]; others snickered in agreement. As a result, there was much laughter and jocularity over the idea of me competing in this event.
Clearly, it was hard then (as I guess it is now) to believe that I used to be quasi-athletic. In addition to being the John F. Kennedy Class of 1979 long jump champ (you may have heard about this somewhere), I played baseball and football (unorganized) for years, and ran track in high school. I was never the best athlete, but I certainly wasn’t a salt-sucking slug by any means.
Still, the jokes and taunts struck that competitive nerve. Because I’m generally a petty, vain and self-absorbed jerk, I vowed that not only was I going to run that event, I was going to shock the world—and my naysaying friends! I swore my wife to silence and immediately began to train in secret for the big day.
Of course, I hadn’t run more than 10 to 15 yards since 1980-something, so it took me a while to get my old running legs back under me. I started jogging in late April and by June, was running in 5Ks around the area. I wasn’t exactly knocking out 5-minute miles, but by August, I was completing the 3.2-mile races in under 25 minutes, a respectable time I thought.
I was running a few days a week, the mental image of my friends’ laughing faces fueling my efforts: “Gonna die, eh? You’re all gonna die of embarrassment when I blow past you punks!” The subject of the dash would come up from time to time, and like the decent poker player that I am, I just sort of laughed it off. I never said that I wasn’t training, I just never confirmed that I was doing it, either. No one ever really pressed, being more content to chuckle about the prospect of my impending demise.
In August while on my way to New York Jets training camp in Cortland, New York, I stopped by Windham Mountain Ski Resort in upstate New York, which was to be the site of the Warrior Dash. I started talking to some of the guys working there and they showed me the course they had laid out, which was straight up the fracking mountain!
I warned my wife and trained even harder, repeatedly trudging up the large half-mile hill that leads to our house. I ran countless laps at the old gravel track near our house, and by the time race day rolled around, I was probably in the better shape at 45 than I had been at 25. I was ready.
We got to the Warrior Dash well ahead of our wave (the event is constantly running groups throughout the day) and went to the viewing area near the finish line. From there we could see a steady stream of racers—some stumbling and bumbling, others bloodied and bruised—coming down through the final stages of the race, which included sliding down a water flume of sorts, hurtling over fire, diving into mud and crawling under barbed wire to the finish line. We all sort of looked around at each other like, “Okay, why did we think this was a good idea again?” But it was too late. It was go time!
Sneakers tied and game faces on, we wandered over to the starting corral. A few of us were in one wave while a few others would be running the next day. We all made a few jokes while warming up, and of course, there were a few more laughs at my chances of survival. They all figured we’d finish more or less according to age, with the old man—me—bringing up the rear.
Unable to contain myself any longer, I finally turned to everyone and blurted out, “Hey, listen. I’ve actually been training secretly for months, running 5Ks all summer long!”
They all paused for a long second before my buddy Ian smiled and nodded. “Sure you have, Ray. Sure you have.” Everyone burst out laughing, and then the non-runners went over to the finish line to identify my corpse when it came rolling down the hill.
I was about to laugh best, I told myself. I nodded to Sue, who shot me a knowing smile. “See you at the finish, good luck!” she whispered. The starting gun sounded and the race was on!
I won’t bore you with all the details of the run, but it was as I expected, with literally the first 1.5 miles going straight up the fracking mountain! I got out ahead of my friends and kept going as hard for as long as I could, sure they were on my heels and ready to pass me any second. I slogged through the chest-deep water, clambered over obstacles and ran through the woods like Rudy the Rabbit (with longer shorts). I was almost completely out of gas at the summit, but after all the training, I was not going to let anyone catch me. I pushed myself as hard as I could on the way back down, and as I got closer to the bottom, I started hearing the crowd below—an extra adrenaline boost. I was going to do it!
My brother-in-law Greg, who is 15 years younger than me and in terrific shape (and who had never made any sort of age-related joke at my expense), suddenly appeared at my side, not nearly as winded as I was. “Hey! Mind if I run with you a bit?” he said. I nodded and managed to stay with him until I stepped in mud and one of my sneakers go sucked completely off my foot.
Damn! Not now, not so close to the finish!
I scrambled to get it back on quickly and tie it, but Greg had managed to get 20 yards ahead of me. I chased him as best I could, but we were suddenly at the water flume. There was a line of people waiting to go and he was about seven in front of me. I could see by the intervals they were letting people go down the flume that unless he caught fire jumping over the flaming logs, there was no way I was going to be able to pass him before the finish line. I was a little disappointed, but quickly realizing coming in a few seconds behind a good guy in great shape who was two-thirds my age wasn’t too shabby.
Besides, what was to happen next made it worth while.
I slid down the flume, got to my soggy feet and squished down the hill to the flaming logs. As I was approaching the obstacle, I saw my friend Greg (who was going to run the next day) in the crowd. We momentarily locked eyes and he suddenly realized it was me coming down the hill—very much alive and well ahead of everyone else but my brother-in-law.
“RAY??!!!!” he exclaimed.
That’s right motherfrackers!!!!
Adrenaline shot through me as I leapt over the flaming logs and I floated in the air for what felt like 5 seconds—enough time to point to the official photographer and give him the double finger guns and wink. (Sadly, I didn’t realize my race bib had been torn, so they couldn’t scan my number properly in the photo and assign it to my account. Dang!) I sprinted down the hill, tried a swan dive into the mud bog and trundled through to the far side, emerging triumphantly. I trotted across the finish line in a sweet victory, as my friends were all stunned that I had finished the race so fast—at least 10 minutes in front of my wife and disbelieving friend Ian.
I had truly shocked them all—vengeance is obviously a dish best served muddy.
Chalk one up for the old man!
Anyway, despite having proven my mettle, I am once again training for The Warrior Dash—this time at a different (hopefully mountainless) course in Connecticut. I’m not going to shock anyone in a few weeks when I run, but that glorious moment from the first one will certainly be fueling my finish again.