Authors note: The following post contains mature language. Please read at your discretion.
I’m alive
So my last wattblog stated that it could be my last posting. That I could perish because I signed up for Mud Hero… as you can see, I haven’t actually died, however, at this point (day after) I’m not so sure death isn’t a far more merciful option.
I said I would do a blog about it when I finished and I needed to write it all down before my mind blocked the actual trauma so without further ado… here’s how it went.
Our team. Names have been changed for the purpose of this posting, so hopefully the pseudonym’s are self explanatory:
Me
C – Gretzky
T – Strongman
S – Super Woman
***THAT DAY ***
I wake up. My ankle feels the opposite of good. No idea why this keeps happening to me lately, but the Achilles tendon aches a lot and is slightly swollen. I apparently sustained this injury whilst doing nothing. That’s right up there with the time I fractured my metacarpal bone in three spots by golfing… both of these things take immense talent that yours truly seems to possess.
Gretzky picks me up for a 1.5 hr. drive to mud hero. This awards me with an extra 1.5 hours to woefully regret my life’s choices….
The people at the registration table hand out a t-shirt, your individual racing number with safety pins and a timing chip to attach to your shoe (this crafty little dodad doubles as a beer voucher for when you’re finished racing). They all have smiles on their faces—almost diabolical if you ask me, they know the perils that lie ahead.
I take my t-shirt and my stuff and pin my number on my shirt. I cannot figure out how to attach a timing chip—one may conclude this is my first rodeo, so with a little help, I have a cool little circle on my shoe.
I’m starting to feel like a real athlete. No. Not Really. Not at all.
Superwoman, Strongman, Gretzky and I stand around and bake in the heat of the sun for a while. There are people in tutus, people with flotation devices and goggles, people in things that they should not be wearing.
As we tan/people watch, I see that there are those in far worse shape than I. Some of them are clean (as in have not yet raced) and some are filthy. For a second I have confidence: If they can do it, surely I can.
Strongman and Gretzky are stretching.
Let’s be real.
Stretching will not help me.
We have to line up for the race at the 6-minute countdown. Oh joy! I’m so freakin’ excited I can hardly contain myself! Their playing LMFAO and Britney Spears. Also diabolical.
We count down.
10, 9, 8, 7, 6. 5, 4, 3, 2,1.
Not one person runs at first. It’s a causal walk through the starting line and I think, hey, I can do this. I can handle walking.
Then everyone starts a little jog. I can also do that. It’s not too bad.
So we jog for a bit until we get to obstacle one.
Demolition Derby. You have to run up and over cars. I’m petrified at first that I won’t even get on the car without crawling like a small child on account of my near-midget status but alas, to my utter delight there is an “easy option” I take that route, which provides a step to hoist myself up.
