Recently, a friend sent word that he had an extra entry for a race that would be occurring that weekend. I jumped at the chance, eager to see how far my daily regimen of 45 half-assed minutes on the treadmill could take me in competition on an actual paved road course. Plus, there would probably be beer at the finish line because, goddammit, this is Portland. We have to incorporate beer into every activity.

Later in the week, I touched base with said friend to work out the driving situation. He casually mentioned that I should wear clothes I didn’t care about as it was going to be very muddy (luckily, virtually all of my clothes fall into this category). Only then did it occur on me that this would be a terrain race — a 5-K jaunt through the woods replete with obstacles,  dirt, mud, perhaps bears and, almost certainly, toothless mountain men out for revenge on a society that’s rejected them. Well, I realized that this would be the perfect opportunity not only to rage against my forties, but to exercise outside the confines of my climate-controlled gym environment. Plus, if I didn’t use my entry, I was pretty sure they’d cancel the race.

Note: Of course, some photos would have been helpful to illustrate the proceedings. Sadly, my fears of losing/destroying my phone in an unholy mud pit outweighed my desire to create a pictorial record. Let my prose be your guide!

On race day, we trekked out to the course site, which was a ginormous field at the edge of the forest. On the way, I had engaged in what I believed to be a foolproof pre-competition routine: downing a couple of 5-Hour Energy shots (that’s 10 hours of energy!) while watching Kenny Loggins soundtrack videos from the ’80s on YouTube. As we gathered at the starting line, however, I began to feel a bit queasy. I might have overdone it on the Loggins, I thought grimly. It didn’t help that the humidity had seemingly doubled since our arrival.

There seemed to be two types of people at the starting line: shirtless douchebros who seemed like they did one of these races a week, and everyone else. After some garbled instructions by a geeked-up race marshal, we were off: a teeming mass of sinewy bodies chasing that most ephemeral of goals: athletic glory.

As we made our way toward the woods, I noticed that the easy terrain of the open field we were in was anything but. The roughly-chopped grass concealed ruts, holes, and other mortal enemies of the human ankle. When running on such awfulness, there are only two courses of action: try to duplicate the steps of the person in front of you, and hope you don’t stick your hoof in a crater.

My pack hit the woods, and we were met by a maze of boards placed edge-down into the soil. Competitors were required to traverse the edges of the boards to complete the task. Ugh. Balance is not my strong suit; it’s not inaccurate to say that I sometimes resemble an elderly nursing home resident after his medication wears off. But, c’mon. Balance is overrated, anyway. You really only need it to pass a field sobriety test or to hide on a building ledge when drug dealers storm your apartment looking for the product you’ve stolen. I made it nearly halfway before what I can only surmise was the hand of God caused me to dismount. I shrugged off my failure and steeled my resolve for the travails to come.

<Running through woods…uneventful…>

The next obstacle loomed up ahead: a 6-and-a-half foot wall that competitors were expected to scale. Well, this didn’t seem horrible. Except… there was a line. After about five minutes of waiting without my phone to keep me entertained, it dawned on me: the real obstacle was trying to make it ten agonizing minutes without a sweet, sweet phone fix to alleviate the boredom. Just as I was about to take the drastic step of actually making conversation with the people next to me, I noticed that my turn was imminent. It looked like everyone was charging toward the wall and then pulling themselves over.  Pro tip: unless you’re an Olympian, getting a running start does nothing to aid in this endeavor. I grabbed hold of the top of that wall and, powered by the fear of failing in front 50 strangers, willed my 162 pounds over the top. I may have crunched a testicle or two in the process. But this deserves its own future post, so I’ll spare you the details.

<Huffing and puffing through the woods>

Up next lay an obstacle I can only describe as “dragging a small boulder with a chain attached to it around.” And you’d better believe I dragged the shit out of said boulder. I really think I’d do well in a gulag setting of some sort.

<Stumbling and bumbling through the woods>

I came upon the tractor tire challenge. We were required to flip a tractor tire approximately 20 feet in one direction, then return the tire to its origin. Thankfully, my adrenaline was still pumping, and I was able to show that hunk of rubber who’s boss. I was totally feeling my oats at this point. Those hours I spent in the gym — many of them actually working out — were paying off.

<Churning through the woods>

Oh no, the next obstacle was… another wall. Had I accidentally gone in a circle? Was this the cruel machination of the Blair Witch? No! I needed to face the wooden beast down yet again… preferably without murdering my other nut in the process. I would have welcomed a long wait in line for this obstacle to allow my muscles to recover. Alas, as shitty luck would have it, there was none. Grabbing hold of the top, ignoring the protestation of my cranky limbs, I hoisted myself over the top. As long as I didn’t need to use my arms for the rest of the day, I’d be fine.

<Plodding through the woods>

In all the hubbub, it had escaped my notice that I and my fellow competitors had remained relatively clean. The hallmark of these events is the mud — or, more specifically, how much of it they can get on competitors. As I came upon a ravine, I wondered no more.

Hello Darkness, my old friend.

Below me was a teeming mass of competitors in various states of struggle with an unholy pit of mud. Some were waist-deep in the muck; those who had escaped it were trying in vain to claw their way up the slippery slope; others tried to traverse the periphery of the main pit, only to become hopelessly bogged down. Before I knew it, I had slid down the hill on my backside and was taking a brown bath myself. It quickly became apparent that the more I tried to get out, the more entrenched I became (I had sunk to just below my waist). Okay, that’s only true for quicksand and sports betting. But still! The effort I’d expended to this point hadn’t left a lot in the tank. I paused. The squishy sensation of the mud was actually kind of soothing, once I accepted the fact that I would never be clean again. Maybe I could rest here awhile. No! There was work to be done! Marshaling my strength, I was able to lurch my legs forward incrementally, certainly not sobbing from the effort. Luckily, there were a couple of competitors who had gained a foothold at the top of the ravine and were holding out branches to grab. As I hoisted myself out of the viscous trap, I let out a primal scream. The earth had tried to swallow me up, but I had responded with an emphatic, Not today. Or, maybe the earth was just after my Nikes, as I noticed that I was missing my shoes. I didn’t mind, though — those, like my soul, would never be clean again.

I was covered with mud from my mid-torso to my feet. On the upside, if ever there was a time I wished to crap myself undetected, this was it. Such tomfoolery would have to wait, as there was one more obstacle to conquer: monkey bars. Climbing the ladder to the first rung, I realized that the toughest thing to overcome would be the lack of grip I’d have due to my sweaty, filthy hands. Shockingly, wiping them off on my sweaty, filthy shirt did nothing to improve matters. Screw it, I muttered as I ventured forth. The first few rungs were surprisingly easy, but the distance between each was quite a bit farther than you’d find on the playground. I was halfway by now, trying to keep a rhythm of momentum and grabbing at the right moment. Gritting my teeth, I tried to pick up the pace; there’s no need to take your time on monkey bars — it just prolongs the discomfort. Three quarters of the way home, my right hand failed to find a firm grasp and I landed with a thud, punctuating my frustration by cursing loudly.

While I was disappointed, I’d busted my butt and that was something to — oh, hi finish line! This shoeless douchebro was dunzo. I made my way to the booth to grab my flimsy race t-shirt — which became grimy the instant I touched it. I didn’t even care that there was no beer stand in sight. I’d hauled my 44-year-old ass through a moderately difficult obstacle course, and this inspired an equally moderate feeling of accomplishment (and a rambling blog post). It also served as a reminder why I had never joined the military.

The next few days were rough. I was very sore, and the use of my arms was limited so severely that I briefly considered getting a helper monkey. On the plus side, I have almost 12 months to come up with an excuse why I can’t make next year’s race.