LET THE GAMES BEGIN
He’s barrelling at me at full speed. This 100-plus kilograms of gym, tan, laundry, wrapped in a [former NFL wide receiver] Randy Moss jersey. He’s already had five attempts at throwing himself up a huge, greased half-pipe – one of the many hellish obstacles along the New Jersey Tough Mudder course. The four times prior he’s landed right on his steroid pin cushion. But not this time, buddy. Not on my watch. Lying down on the lip of the obstacle, I’m stretched out as far as I can. As he readies himself for another go, I call him out, “Come at me, bro. I got you.” I’ve never met this bloke, and, let’s face it, I probably wouldn’t like him if I did, but today we’re in it together. I lined up to start the Tough Mudder a couple of hours ago. As author and Good Weekend writer Mark Dapin – also in town to cover the race – has chosen not to run the Mudder (something about mild indigestion, aversion to dirty feet…), I’m here as the sole Australian representative. I’m placed on a team
with a female UK journalist, who also happens to be a mother of four, and two PR girls, who do a little boot camp every now and then. After quick introductions, we’re ready to start.
Springsteen’s “Born To Run” is blaring over the sound system as a monster truck revs its engine and shredded blokes consume various gels and electrolytes. Some of the runners are serious fitness hombres and there are even a few carrying cinder blocks and kettlebells to add a degree of difficulty. Then there are the clowns dressed as superheroes and in drag. One muscle-bound guy in front of me has a leg missing and is wearing a US Army T-shirt with “Unfinished Business” printed on the back. As go time draws near, the first challenge for all the racers is to recite the Tough Mudder pledge:
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.
The MC asks for silence. The US national anthem is sung; hands move to hearts and some of the men salute. I turn to one of my team members, ready to land a bad joke at America’s expense, but the part of my brain that works to avert lynchings keep me silent. The pledge elicited some cheers, but when the anthem is in full red, white, and blue effect, the crowd whoops and hollers as though Osama Bin Laden has reanimated and then been shot in the eye all over again.
As the starting gun is fired, our group all charge down the track in the chilly morning with that other Jersey classic tune, “Livin’ On A Prayer”, ringing in our ears. Smoke grenades start popping either side of us. So begins the Tough Mudder.
TOUGH WHAT?
Despite being about as American as cheese in a can, Tough Mudder is actually the brainchild of a Brit, and one who looks a lot like Prince William at that. A few years ago Will Dean was a pretty typical upper-class Pom, spending his time playing rugby, enunciating words properly, learning sophisticated stuff, and drinking tea. Leaving university in the UK, he got a job working as a counterterrorism officer at the British Foreign Service. There he was introduced to the sport of kabaddi. If you’re not familiar with this south-Asian sport, there’s not much hope of me explaining it, suffice to say it’s sort of part-wrestling, part-British bulldog, and there’s a ball involved. Also, you have to say the word “kabaddi” a lot.
Working in Pakistan, Will organised a kabaddi league, mostly so the strong, rangy Brit could show off his game. When he
left the Foreign Service he signed up to do an MBA at Harvard. There, the course required him to set out a comprehensive business plan. Based on his kabaddi experience, he devised a company that ran adventure races, with his hook being that they were longer and harder than the current ones being offered. His Harvard professors liked the business plan but not the concept.
“They told me, ‘Nice try, but no one is going to do this,’” Will says. Yeah, wrong.
Getting the first Tough Mudder up took a lot of effort, with Will and friend Guy Livingstone doing everything from marketing to course design to permit allocation to rubbish collection. Eighteen months down the track and events take place pretty much every second weekend in America, with up to 20,000 people at each one. A Tough Mudder culture has started to develop, too. Some nutters travel around the US to each event, with many taking up the offer of free mohawks and tattoos after completing the course. In 2012 Tough Mudder will go global, with Australia being the first non-US destination to taste the pain.
After starting with just Will and Guy working the events, Tough Mudder now has 50 full-time employees. At dinner the night before the big event Will casually mentions he and Guy wouldn’t ever have to work again if they didn’t want to. “I’m fairly confident that we can make everyone working for the company now millionaires,” he coolly tells me. A couple of Will’s employees dining with us stop eating, almost comically, fork laden with food suspended in mid- air. “I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?” Will asks. Judging by the looks on their faces, no Will, don’t think you have. THE
SITUATION
Back to the race, we plough our way through the first 10 or so kilometres of mud and obstacles. From the full mile of knee-high mud, a crawl-only mud maze which in some parts is pitch black, a field of flaming hay bales, as well as inclining monkey bars and rope walls, some of the obstacles are actually fun, some are tough, and some are a combination of both. When we hit a huge wooden wall, a group of off-duty cops start spouting lines from Full Metal Jacket. “Oh that’s right, Private Pyle, don’t make any f–king effort to get to the top of the f–king obstacle. If God would have wanted you up there he would have miracled your ass up there by now, wouldn’t he?”
With most of the race behind us, we hit the half pipe, which is probably the toughest of the obstacles. Some teams have tried and failed, choosing to skirt around the side. Some have a good “human chain” strategy and have made it straight over. And then there’s my GTL mate, aka The Tough Mudder Situation, who is too tired to get over and too proud to quit. After getting to the top, with a little help from some firemen, and pulling the rest of my team over, I call out to this big unit. He sees me and gets a sizeable run up. He hits the pipe with heavy steps, getting ever closer to the top. His feet fail him and he throws his arms up at me. I grab one of his wrists with both hands. He looks up and our eyes lock. All of a sudden he’s playing a bandana-wearing, goateed Rose to my Jack. FYI: that’s a Titantic reference. Anyone? His hand starts to slip as I try to pull him up over the lip. I try for a better grip, but he’s starting to go. I give it my all but there’s nothing I can do for him.
He’s going, going… until four more hands reach down and grab onto him, then four more, with two more stopping me from falling back down myself. With all the extra help, we’re soon up on the right side of the pipe. I look around and it’s a team of Marines who’ve saved the day. They give a hearty, “HOO-AH!” America! F–k yeah!
MUDDER’S DAY
When our team crosses the line, we’re all handed a pint of beer and – guess what – it seems they’ve finally found a way to make Seppo suds taste good. The Tough Mudder bills itself as “Probably the toughest event on the planet”, and this call really is just some classic American bullshit. The reality is that anyone with a pretty decent level of fitness could complete the course, but, don’t get me wrong, the race is still a long way away from being a breeze. Point being, I down that beer in almost one draw.
Next to the finish line, a cover band is belting out US classics and some women dance around in the mud. Everyone is in a good mood. Muddy, cold, and tired, but happy. As far as 15km runs go, there can’t be too many more enjoyable than this.
On the way out, past the huge graveyard of destroyed and discarded running shoes, I see the guy with the Randy Moss jersey. He spots me and yells out, “Yo dude, right on!” He offers a little fist pump, I wave. Mark Dapin asks what that’s all about, but I just look at him like a member of the greatest generation talking to a teenager. He wasn’t there. He just wouldn’t understand.
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