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The Beast - 1
I want you all to check out this image. Remember it. We're going to come back to it later.
For those whose recreational activities include only sane things, there's this new class of sports called "adventure racing." They're also called "mud runs." Normal people would probably call them "obstacle courses," because that's what they are, but marketing people run the English language now.
I first heard about these things three years ago. Right before I turned 35, someone told me about a race called the Warrior Dash, where thousands of people wear furry viking hats, crawl through mud, and jump over fire. I made some friends drive all the way to upstate New York to do it.
Then we heard about others. The Ruckus, the Rugged Maniac, half a dozen more. There are races that require charging through snow, being chased by zombies, darting through dense woods in the dead of night. All of these are 5k runs, technically achievable even for the dedicated couch potato, but generally still challenging enough that more hardy souls will feel tested. I've seen otherwise very tough people falter and fail on these events. No matter how simple they may seem, some part of every one will push you.
And of course, whenever an event like this becomes popular, someone, somewhere will feel the need to up the ante. So there are bigger events, like the Tough Mudder, a 12-mile ordeal that pushes you up and down a mountainside, submerges you in ice water, and electrocutes you (seriously). At the extreme end of the spectrum is the Spartan Death Race, an event that ensures no matter how tough you think you are, there is at least one thing out there that will break you.
The Death Race was the first in a series of races run by the Spartan Race organization, and it reflects the philosophy upon which the entire series is based. Many of these other races could be considered "fun runs." Some don't even offer timing chips, choosing instead to focus on teamwork and a sense of accomplishment, which is why they're so addictive.
Spartan events are different. You are timed. The obstacles are designed to isolate and then break you. No matter how many people you run with, at some point you will find yourself alone, struggling, and probably near tears. Most similar events publish a course map and list of obstacles in advance. Spartan does not. Most offer encouragement and advice in the weeks leading up to an event. Spartan sends you emails questioning your preparation. Most feature photos on their website of smiling people clutching beers, mud smeared attractively across their faces. Spartan's marketing shows people slogging through filth, agonized grimaces on their faces.
In my experience, the 3.2-mile Spartan Sprint is roughly equal to the 12-mile Tough Mudder in terms of difficulty.
So for some reason, when I heard about the "13+" mile Spartan Beast, I decided to sign up. None of the friends who usually come with me on these adventures joined me, because honestly? The Beast does not look or sound like fun. At all.
I'd never done one of these on my own before. And the Beast is, by far, the most challenging one I've ever attempted. To face it solo seemed foolish.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cayetana would be there to support me (and carry extra calories should I need them), but for the vast majority of what would turn out to be nearly 14 miles up and down one of the tallest mountains (base to summit) in New England, I would be on my own among strangers, each of them undergoing their own ordeal, facing their own injuries and doubts, and certainly unequipped to help me should I need it.
Adding to the difficulty would be the nature of the venue. Killington is very sensitive about litter, which meant that there would be limited support during the race. One water station. No supplemental calories. Each racer was required to carry his own supply of water, and any other gear he would need, as access to spectators was not guaranteed.
I trained hard for this event, but in the week leading up to it, I began to grow nervous. We were renting a car for the trip, but if I seriously injured myself,cayetana was not listed as a second driver, so there would be no way home. We had walkie talkies, but if I was rendered uncommunicative, how would they find her in the crowd of thousands of spectators?
The week before the event, I got my start time - 12:15pm. With an average completion time of 7 hours (I was hoping for 5:30 myself, but knew that was extremely ambitious), I could be coming into the finish after sunset. Along with my start time was an addition to the rules - all racers were required to bring two glowsticks to attach to their person, and a headlamp. Anyone on the course after dark without that gear would be pulled. I reluctantly added the extra weight to my bag.
That final week flew by, with me thinking of nothing but mud, and blood, and pain. I packed my gear, double and triple checked it, tweaked my loadout of food, made two final rushed trips to REI for missing items, fretted about not being able to find the kind of gloves I wanted, drank too much coffee, and left for Vermont on Friday afternoon with less than 24-hours left to worry, or even think, about what I was about to do.
Up next: the course.
For those whose recreational activities include only sane things, there's this new class of sports called "adventure racing." They're also called "mud runs." Normal people would probably call them "obstacle courses," because that's what they are, but marketing people run the English language now.
I first heard about these things three years ago. Right before I turned 35, someone told me about a race called the Warrior Dash, where thousands of people wear furry viking hats, crawl through mud, and jump over fire. I made some friends drive all the way to upstate New York to do it.
Then we heard about others. The Ruckus, the Rugged Maniac, half a dozen more. There are races that require charging through snow, being chased by zombies, darting through dense woods in the dead of night. All of these are 5k runs, technically achievable even for the dedicated couch potato, but generally still challenging enough that more hardy souls will feel tested. I've seen otherwise very tough people falter and fail on these events. No matter how simple they may seem, some part of every one will push you.
And of course, whenever an event like this becomes popular, someone, somewhere will feel the need to up the ante. So there are bigger events, like the Tough Mudder, a 12-mile ordeal that pushes you up and down a mountainside, submerges you in ice water, and electrocutes you (seriously). At the extreme end of the spectrum is the Spartan Death Race, an event that ensures no matter how tough you think you are, there is at least one thing out there that will break you.
The Death Race was the first in a series of races run by the Spartan Race organization, and it reflects the philosophy upon which the entire series is based. Many of these other races could be considered "fun runs." Some don't even offer timing chips, choosing instead to focus on teamwork and a sense of accomplishment, which is why they're so addictive.
Spartan events are different. You are timed. The obstacles are designed to isolate and then break you. No matter how many people you run with, at some point you will find yourself alone, struggling, and probably near tears. Most similar events publish a course map and list of obstacles in advance. Spartan does not. Most offer encouragement and advice in the weeks leading up to an event. Spartan sends you emails questioning your preparation. Most feature photos on their website of smiling people clutching beers, mud smeared attractively across their faces. Spartan's marketing shows people slogging through filth, agonized grimaces on their faces.
In my experience, the 3.2-mile Spartan Sprint is roughly equal to the 12-mile Tough Mudder in terms of difficulty.
So for some reason, when I heard about the "13+" mile Spartan Beast, I decided to sign up. None of the friends who usually come with me on these adventures joined me, because honestly? The Beast does not look or sound like fun. At all.
I'd never done one of these on my own before. And the Beast is, by far, the most challenging one I've ever attempted. To face it solo seemed foolish.
cayetana would be there to support me (and carry extra calories should I need them), but for the vast majority of what would turn out to be nearly 14 miles up and down one of the tallest mountains (base to summit) in New England, I would be on my own among strangers, each of them undergoing their own ordeal, facing their own injuries and doubts, and certainly unequipped to help me should I need it.Adding to the difficulty would be the nature of the venue. Killington is very sensitive about litter, which meant that there would be limited support during the race. One water station. No supplemental calories. Each racer was required to carry his own supply of water, and any other gear he would need, as access to spectators was not guaranteed.
I trained hard for this event, but in the week leading up to it, I began to grow nervous. We were renting a car for the trip, but if I seriously injured myself,
cayetana was not listed as a second driver, so there would be no way home. We had walkie talkies, but if I was rendered uncommunicative, how would they find her in the crowd of thousands of spectators?The week before the event, I got my start time - 12:15pm. With an average completion time of 7 hours (I was hoping for 5:30 myself, but knew that was extremely ambitious), I could be coming into the finish after sunset. Along with my start time was an addition to the rules - all racers were required to bring two glowsticks to attach to their person, and a headlamp. Anyone on the course after dark without that gear would be pulled. I reluctantly added the extra weight to my bag.
I began to obsessively read course reviews and watch GoPro videos from 2012. I read about men who far outstripped me in fitness failing, dropping from exhaustion or hypothermia, destroying their ACLs in bad falls, suffering and quitting and declaring it impossible. And by all reports, the 2013 course had been redesigned to be more challenging.
That final week flew by, with me thinking of nothing but mud, and blood, and pain. I packed my gear, double and triple checked it, tweaked my loadout of food, made two final rushed trips to REI for missing items, fretted about not being able to find the kind of gloves I wanted, drank too much coffee, and left for Vermont on Friday afternoon with less than 24-hours left to worry, or even think, about what I was about to do.
Up next: the course.