Feast After Famine: Tough Mudder Revisited

My God, but the mountains in Central Virginia are breathtaking. 

On Sunday, we trudged up one ski slope after another, and scrambled, ran and slipped down them too on a 9.25-mile course that featured 25 obstacles and a total elevation change of 8,657 feet. As expected, it was a lot of wet, muddy, exhilarating fun. 

But mostly I was struck by the outrageously beautiful vistas of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Layers of mountains washed in a tapestry of fall colors stretched out as far as we could see as we stood beneath the Tough Mudder banner and took the pledge for the second time this year: 

"I understand that Tough Mudder is not a race but a challenge."

"I put teamwork and camaraderie before my course time. "

"I do not whine—kids whine." 

"I help my fellow Mudders complete the course."

"I overcome all fears."

We started at 8 a.m. when the thermometer put the temperature at 32 degrees. But the sky was clear, and as the hours wore on, the sun rose to warm our soaked bodies and make the orange and yellow leaves shimmer. I gasped with awe nearly every time we came to the top of a mountain or ran along a ridge line because everywhere I looked, the views were stunning. 

OK, not everywhere. Kent started the race in torn bicycle shorts that had a quarter-sized hole in the right thigh. Scurrying across nets, climbing over walls and belly crawling under barbed wire only made the hole bigger and bigger and then...

"I'm the J.Lo of middle-aged men," he said after one obstacle, a reference to his ample fanny that hung from the now gaping hole. 

But back to the pretty. 

I think the setting of the Wintergreen Resort made this Tough Mudder an entirely different experience than the Pennsylvania event. True, we ran on snow there beneath an overcast sky and we were submerged within the first 15 minutes, none of which happened at this event. But still, the mountains in Allentown simply don't compare. 

Our first Tough Mudder was more miserable and gritty. Our second: more lighthearted. Which isn't to say it was a cakewalk. Jumping feet first into a dumpster of ice cubes and water pretty much sucked, and there was a terrifying split second beneath the water when the ice cubes were so plentiful and heavy that I wondered if I could push through them and find air on the other side of the wall. 

We also had a legitimate challenge in scaling a new obstacle called Everest—a slippery plywood quarter pipe. To reach the top, you had to sprint to the wall, scramble up as far as you could and reach for one of the outstretched hands dangling over the top. 

I watched one giant, beanpole of a guy run halfway up the pipe then effortlessly pull himself up to the ledge. But everyone else needed the help of their fellow Mudders. 

Right before we rounded the corner to the obstacle, we came upon my mother and the kids. I nearly cried when I saw them all there smiling and cheering. "You took a long time to get here," Josephine said. We were about three hours into the race and still a half hour from the finish. 

So, my mother caught my biggest triumph on film, but first the failure. It took two tries to finally grasp a hand and the help of three guys to pull me over. 

I also settled my score with the Funky Monkey. In Pennsylvania, my body was so frozen I couldn't even clasp my hand around the first monkey bar. I fell into the straw-and-mud pit straight away. I made it all the way across this time (though I used my hands and feet) and even had to change from one set of bars to another midway through when the woman in front of me stopped. And refused to drop. 

Last time, we vowed at the finish line to do it again. This time, we didn't make that promise. Kent is racing Ironman Lake Placid next year and we might not be able to swing another big weekend away. But if we can, I'm all for reconvening Team Indefatigable Mountain Goats for another go around the Blue Ridge Mountains. 

Go team!