Tough Mudder Blues
By: Josh Saunders
Whenever the Tough Mudder staff label a corse the toughest and most grueling in Tough Mudder history you may not want to laugh at them and do it anyway like we did.
Saying it was muddy is like saying Beavis and Butthead have a stupidity problem. I would have gladly repeated any obstacle for just a 10 percent reduction in mud. There is no way for me to describe the mud other than millions of gallons of baby meconium mixed with horse manure and flooded with enough water to float the ark. Unless you have walked 10 miles in calf deep meco mud over 4.5 hours you can't comprehend the level of hatred I have for it. I wanted to pick it all up, throw it against the wall, spit in it, cut it up, shoot it, gas it, slice it, rub poop all over it, and wish it eternal damnation. I jumped in it, slid through it, ate it, got impregnated by it, lost bits of my soul in it. I hate it more than Justin Bieber hates pants that fit, more than Dan Quayle hates spelling bees, more than Kim Jong-un hates a decent haircut. I hate it more than Dolly Parton hates mammograms and I hate it more than Ken Ham hates Bill Nye the Science Guy.
As soon as the race began I was sliding on my belly through mud and underneath barbed wire that combed my back hair to a perfect part that would make Vidal Sassoon jealous.
The Arctic Enema could not have been named more appropriately unless they went with Ball Chiller, Carcass Keeper, or Human Slushy. As I approached this neck deep storage container filled with thousands of gallons of ice, mud, and any sliver of self respect I had left, I shed my shirt and jumped in becoming completely submerged in frozen muck. The shock is indescribable. I was already freezing, hungry, tired, and soaked to the bone. Jumping into that vat of death ripped every last glimmer of hope I had. I could feel my boy parts retreat to depths once reserved for livers and spleens. My nipples ached as they puckered to the point that they could have replaced the safety pins for holding my bib on. Anyone who tells you that they came out of that water yesterday and didn't want to just lay down and cry is a liar. It is defeating. Only 5 miles to go.
I slid down a 20ft cliff on nothing but my arse and it now will take a wooden spoon, mop bucket, and a gallon on ky jelly to dig the black tar out of that thing. Several roots touched me so deep I don't know whether to press charges or buy them a drink.
At this point I met a lovely girl who couldn't have weighed 90 pounds soaking wet, wearing nothing but a tutu and a tank top walking along MISSING ONE SHOE. Please keep in mind it was 45 degrees and I'm wearing knee high socks, tights, shorts, dry fit shirt, thermal shirt, gloves and a thermal hat. This little thing, who appeared to be modeling tutus from Toddlers and Tiaras, just left me in her dust with nothing but a grin and a shoe carrying her along. Cheers to you Miss Tinkerbell Gone Wild, you are one tough mudder. You get all the respect I have left in me.
Before you ask, did I offer here any of my clothing to help her along? Hell no, she was tough but obviously not very bright. Survival of the fittest. I didn't make the law, Darwin did. Over the last few miles I was stuffed into pipes not fit for sewage, dumped in ditches deeper than some swimming pools and submerged in mud water that looked like diarrhea Saturday.
After 10.25 miles there was only one obstacle left, Shock Therapy. Being electrocuted with 10,000 volts not once but three times is not a pleasant experience. I was expecting a nice bee sting but received a club to the back of the head. Within 10 feet of beginning Shock Therapy I was knocked face down in the mud with no recollection of where or when exactly I was hit. I stumbled to my feet, jumped a hay bale and again knocked flat on my back. I crawled on my knees a few more feet before receiving a third shock that would have made John Coffey blush. Not daring a fourth hit I pressed myself against the ground so hard ...... (I'm not touching that one. Feel free to finish that sentence yourself.)
After 4.5 hours over 10.25 miles it was over! Would I do it again? No way in hell. Not if they paid me with a leprechauns pot of gold, not for the promise of Valhalla, Enlightenment, or 12 vestal virgins. I am done. 8 weeks, 3 half marathons, one tough ass mudder. I'm spent. Peace out!