By Dimity McDowell Davis
March 28, 2011
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At the beginning, Sylvia sped off with the herd of costumed riders, together with a Lucha Libre wrestler and Ponch from ChiPs. I adopted 30 seconds later on, so focused on the legion of granny panties around me I didn't actually notice the competition started with a constant. When I reached the first obstacle, High Walls, it briefly freaked out my fragile upper body, however the ascent was little more than the playground move around. I picked up the bicycle Sylvia had left for me as well as rode to the next obstacle. We ongoing to leapfrog as we negotiated barriers that had us crawling upon our legs for 20 ft on dry grass under a low net (no place for any Viking helmet), wobbling across balance beams (tougher to stability six ft of good than I thought), and careening lower a 30-foot inflatable slide (behind a Jane Fonda look-alike in a Day-Glo red leotard).
Compared to common road occasions where athletes are either rigged along with iPods or laser targeted, the costumed companionship made the actual Muddy Pal feel like a party. "Love your own fishnets!" and "Awesome thong!" don'capital t usually come out of my mouth on race days. There were also distinctive opportunities to communicate with and help fellow competitors. Late in the race, people on a biking leg had to carry their bikes across an ankle-deep, shoe-sucking, 50-yard-long bathroom and then scale a slick, nearly up and down, eight-foot slope. Loaded down, numerous cyclists made it a few actions up after that slipped to the bottom. Having only finished my running lower-leg, I crossed the obstacle first and stood at the very top to wait for Sylvia. I was concerned about her using the heavy bicycle. While I waited, I grabbed bikes for other people. They were immensely grateful, reminding me that cutthroat competition can be—and should be, sometimes—secondary to the experience with just being out there.
Sylvia and I hit the ultimate obstacle—a mud pit how big a backyard swimming pool—together. Flagged rules hovered a few ft above the surface, forcing groups to crawl from end to end. I watched one guy get stuck, flounder, and fall face-first into the goop. Really, I'm going to willingly crawl through this slop? But the finish collection (and the ale) was on the other side, so I dropped to all fours. We held the ropes up for each other's headgear, and kept each other'utes hands in victory as we crossed the line. Our thighs felt worked, our spirits were as high as the blow up slide, and our pleasure-not-pain perspective netted us a respectable fifth in our age group.
Attitude duly adjusted, I'm ready in my 14-miler next weekend break. I just hope there are a few good-sized mud puddles along the way.