Spartan Trifecta Weekend Ohio, June 5-6, 2021
Southington Off-Road Park, Garrettsville, OH
I have written this race recap as a short story. All pictures and Garmin screenshots are posted at the end. Enjoy!
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Trifecta
Thursday Evening
I eat my Noodles mac and cheese in my hotel room in Indiana. The drive here was about 6 hours. Six hours closer to Streetsboro, Ohio, and my hotel for the trifecta weekend. My first trifecta weekend. I check Instagram and see that the maps were posted at last. Grabbing my notebook and pen, I save the maps and zoom in to see what I’m in for.
The Beast is 14 miles, according to the map. There are 36 obstacles. Twelve of them are in the last mile. Typical Ohio layout. There’s big fields near the finish line-slash-festival area. They can fit a lot of obstacles there. Which is good, because the middle ten miles of the race are in far-flung areas of a flooded off-road park. Hard to erect a rope climb in 20 inches of watery mud.
I make note of the obstacle placements. Monkey bars are early, in the first mile. This is good. No, GREAT. Get them out of the way before my hands sweat too much. Temperatures are expected to top 90 degrees both days. I’ll either be sweating a lot, or dehydrated to the point where I’ve stopped sweating. Kind of a lose-lose proposition there. Tyro traverse, Olympus, and the multi-rig are all present, as I expected. Those are the three obstacles I’ve been focusing on. My goal is to clear one of them. Any of them.
There are some obstacles I’ve never done in a Spartan race before, which is unusual at this point in my OCR “career.” Farmer’s carry? Irish tables? Helix? I know what they all are, at least. There are two sandbag carries, which are always easy for me. Spear throw at the end.
I write down how the obstacles line up with the mile markers. As I suspected, miles 3 through 11 only have a total of eight obstacles. The challenge in this section will just be the terrain. I’ve been watching Steve Hammond’s social media stories to get a preview of the course. It’s horrifying. But it was horrifying in 2019 and I finished.
I finish the mac and cheese and start in on my chocolate chunk cookie for dessert. Driving long distances gives me anxiety and a high heart rate, high enough that I actually burn about 200 calories per hour just by driving. I want those calories back. I need them back for the weekend ahead. I’ve been drinking a lot of water, too. Preparing for the relentless heat of eastern Ohio in June.
The preparation started a year ago, when the pandemic hit and Ohio 2020 was cancelled, with the promise of a Trifecta weekend offering in 2021. I wanted to become one of those people who can do three obstacle races in two days. I trained for this. I feel ready. As ready as I’ll ever be.
For now, I need a distraction. I recently read The Handmaid’s Tale. It’s time to start watching the series.
Friday Afternoon
Wes joins me at an outdoor table at the Ohio Turnpike mile 140 travel plaza. I have already finished my Panera soup. “’Fast’ food, my ass,” Wes jokes as he plops down his Burger King bag. He will be doing his first Beast tomorrow, with his first Trifecta weekend. Salty foods are required. He leaves again briefly and returns with his dog, who is spooked by every small child who walks by. I give her a slice of cheese to calm her down.
We discuss the course. We discuss the weather. We discuss post-pandemic life. I try to warn him about the realities of this race venue, how wet it is, how muddy, how the flooded areas have uneven ground at the bottom that you can’t see. We are both trying not to seem nervous. We don’t discuss being nervous.
Finally, we part ways and I continue to the mile 187 exit and the Streetsboro Hampton Inn. I’ve pre-selected my suite, room 201. Sadly, it isn’t ready yet. I wait in the lobby with my luggage and a complimentary hot chocolate until my digital key is delivered to my email. My room is huge, with a separate living room and bedroom and a large bathroom.
I set up the living room to my specifications. SpeedHound recovery system on the floor, with a pillow against the couch that I can lean on. Ottoman holds a massage gun, Wave tool, lotion, and a tennis ball. I put groceries that I purchased in the fridge. Essential provisions, such as Gatorade Zero, between-race Lunchables for Sunday, and my mid-race Nutter Butters. Equally essential treats, like Doritos and Snickers bars. I lay out my clothes for each day. I put stickers over the blinking red light of the smoke alarm so it doesn’t keep me awake at night. I think of everything. The more I control this room, the more in control I will feel.
Friday Evening
My pre-race tradition is to order spaghetti and meatballs from whatever local Italian restaurant will deliver. I am breaking tradition slightly today by going to the restaurant, in this case Blasiole’s, myself to pick it up. For a mere $10 I have gotten two meals’ worth of spaghetti and meatballs (thanks, huge portion sizes), garlic bread, a dinner roll, and a side salad. It takes two paper plates to hold half of the food I bought. The other half goes into the fridge for tomorrow. It is delicious. Especially the garlic bread.
After dinner I check my lists and pack my race bags. I must make sure the right stuff gets into the right bags. My hydration backpack requires my cookies, ID, credit card, cash, first aid kit, and a full water bladder. My pink backpack will be checked at the festival and needs flip flops, a towel, comb, sunscreen, some food, water, and more. I wrote everything I would need down weeks ago. I just have to execute.
This is my approach to the race weekend. Plan. Practice. Execute. I’ve been doing it for months for those three main obstacles. I’ve been doing it for my recovery strategy. This will be the ultimate test. Can I do something this massive? Can I stick to the plan? Can I improvise on the fly if needed? Can I maintain my focus?
Two Weeks Ago
I tell the psychiatrist everything I came here to tell him. How I’ve been intelligent and good at taking tests my whole life, so my teachers considered me a great student with no difficulties. “Conscientious and diligent,” they wrote on my report cards. Even the teachers who regularly gave me detention for not doing homework assignments. They didn’t see the six cans of Coke I was drinking every day, which made me feel calm and borderline sleepy, but I somehow intuitively knew I needed them to be productive. They didn’t see my room, which was always either immaculately clean (after an hour of focused tidying up) or looked like a tornado hit it.
They didn’t see how, if I didn’t feel like doing something, I just couldn’t get motivated to do it. Yet I could literally play Final Fantasy 7 for twelve hours a day, in a state of hyper focus. They didn’t see how I was terrible with names and faces. How I needed to always be doing two or three things at once. How my toes and feet jittered and bounced constantly. How if I was terrible at something right away, I wouldn’t be able to put in the work to improve. How I need to make lists for everything, or it won’t happen.
I just thought I was lazy. Getting into fitness was my way to prove to myself that I wasn’t lazy. But there was still something there, something that couldn’t manufacture motivation or enthusiasm.
The psychiatrist sees it, too. And he tells me what I already suspected: it’s attention deficit disorder. He says I “definitely have all the signs.” He praises me for using my gifts to get through school and life and find a way to make it work for me. Finding a career that I enjoy. Finding activities that are productive. I feel seen. I don’t feel lazy. I might have a different type of brain, but I can make it work for me. It’s what I’ve always done.
Saturday Morning
I shut off my car, silencing the “Monsters of Rap” CD I’d been playing, and get my stuff. I walk across the slightly squishy field that is serving as a parking lot today. Towards the registration tents. There are lines of people. I stand at the end of one of them and overhear two people in the next line talking about their trip into town. “I came in from Waterloo, Iowa,” the man says.
“Waterloo?” I call over. “I’m from Cedar Falls!” We immediately bond. He is in my wave. Maybe I’ll see him out there. I make note of his outfit (long sleeves, long tights, spandex) and facial hair (burly). I may be lousy with faces, but I can remember stylistic choices.
I check in and find an open area in the festival to put on my headband, wrist bands, and timing chip. The dinner roll from Blasiole’s will make a lovely snack before my wave starts. I check my backpack and use the port-a-johns before getting into the start corral.
The hype man is high energy on the mic. He has had his coffee today. He mentions people from Pittsburgh being there and says “oh, Steelers fans. Yikes. What have you won lately? Tell me that!” I join the sea of groans. This guy’s got balls, apparently. He approaches a male racer and tells him “you obviously skipped leg day.” Holy shit, the cringe. I immediately diagnose the hype man with attention deficit disorder. We can spot our own.
He sends us off at 8:50 AM, but not before insulting the Cleveland Browns and the Dallas Cowboys. As I make my way towards the first obstacle, I wonder what team he roots for, based on his dislikes. Hard to say. At first I thought the Ravens, based on his AFC North hatred, but the Cowboys are a curveball. Must gather more information.
The initial segment of woods is not as muddy as I feared. I come out and find two overwalls by a road. Easily hop them and continue along the shoulder of the road to a 6’ wall. I see two men standing next to it, seemingly taking a break or waiting for a straggler. “What’s up, fellas?” I ask.
“Not much! Need any help?” one guy asks.
“I hope not,” I jokingly reply. Grab the top of the wall, walk my feet up, and hook my knee easily, straddling the top.
“No, you don’t need help. That was a silly question,” the guy says. I laugh and continue. The path takes me down a rocky slope to a set of monkey bars. They are all the same height, with some decent sized gaps. I climb onto a stool and feel the first bar. It feels greasy. Oh, no.
Deep breath. I swing from the first bar, grab the next, match hands. Use my swing to get to the next bar. Match hands. On one bar I stick to it slightly and the next grab is very inelegant. But for the other transfers, I am doing it. It’s going well. I feel amazing as I reach out and ring the bell. I got the most nerve-wracking obstacle out of the way in the first fifteen minutes. Whew. The nearby volunteer says he thinks that the bars are greasy from sunscreen and sweat. I suspect he’s right.
The sandy slope past the monkey bars leads down into a field of water about knee deep. I wade through, enjoying the cold, and my Garmin chimes with one mile completed. Two guys near me splash into the water to cool off. So refreshing. The barbed wire crawl after we emerge is split into two sections, each one blessedly short. I hold my hydration backpack and roll through the first one clockwise, and through the second counter-clockwise. I continue through a muddy section. This terrain is tough on the ankles. I’ll need to watch where I step.
They constructed a two-section Twister on a gun range. There are spent shells scattered all over the place. I grab the first handles and thank the lord that they don’t feel as greasy as the monkey bars did. I work my way through sideways, needing to get the second section helix facing down, but I manage to easily clear the obstacle. It’s time for my first cookie. I sit on the ground near the finish and watch people while I eat. A guy with no shirt on rings the bell. “Good job, No Shirt!” I call out. He looks at me, bemused, trying to figure out if I’m mocking him. I assure him I’m not. “Yeah, Yellow Shirt!” I yell to the next guy. No Shirt seems to understand me now.
Bender is a bit further along, past mile 2, on the same sandy terrain. I get up to the top, climb over, and sit on the bottom bar, six feet off the ground. I jump down and land perfectly on bent knees. The 7’ wall is nearby and I again am able to grab the top and get over it by myself. Beater comes next, and this time the second beater is set quite high and requires big momentum. I am able to clear it. It occurs to me that I’ve already done three of the four overhead grip obstacles that are out here today. The last one, multi-rig, is one of my big three. And I won’t see it for many miles. The aid station behind Beater has electrolyte tablet packets and pickle juice. I put a bunch of the tablets in my pack and take a few gulps of pickle juice. I hate pickles. And it turns out, I hate pickle juice. But I immediately feel the sodium enter my blood and I feel invincible.
Right before Stairway to Sparta I see a mile 3 sign. My Garmin says it’s more like mile 2.6. I make a mental note of how badly placed that is, then focus on the obstacle. It’s in Beast mode, with 8 feet until the first handholds and a new, slick, Olympus-type surface. I try to get up there and it’s hopeless. My feet cannot stick to this wall. A couple of people give me a boost up several feet until I can grab the top of the wall above the handholds. I then get my feet on the handholds and try not to slip off before reaching the A-frame ladder portion. I do not slip off. I live to face another day.
Up a rocky slope to find tyro traverse. The first of my big three. I take off my hydration backpack, remove my rope gloves, and toss the backpack to the side. I don’t want any extra weight on me. Especially since these ropes are so slack that there are large men whose backs are scraping on the ground. They could have really tightened these ropes up. Oh well.
I mount the rope and hook my feet over the top, pulling myself along with my hands. It’s slow going. My legs do not glide easily. I can move only about a foot and a half with each pull, and I need to move about forty or fifty feet total. I keep pulling with my arms, then crunching my legs up. Repeat. Repeat. I accidentally open my mouth and a clump of dirt from the rope falls in. I turn my head to spit it out but gravity is not on my side. A wad of dirty saliva oozes down my cheek. Pull. Crunch. Repeat.
My hands freeze up. I can’t move my fingers. I crane my neck up. There is a long way to go. My hands will not grip the rope anymore. I drop down and sit on the box where I left my backpack, eating a cookie and emptying some of the gunk from my shoes. Then heading for the burpee pit, which is suspiciously empty. The guys that are there sarcastically note that everyone must be clearing the obstacle (they aren’t) because nobody else is doing burpees. It is clear that there are a lot of burpee-skippers today. I try not to think about it. I’m doing my own race. Another man enters the burpee pit and says “I just cannot get this obstacle, I don’t know why.” Same, man. Same.
As I walk to the next obstacle I take some electrolyte tablets. I’m feeling a bit woozy from the heat. Hopefully this will help. I see the mile 4 sign, which is at mile 4.5. Yep, 1.9 miles between mile markers is definitely a Spartan record. As I start to feel better with the additional sodium influx I come across Armer, and easily pick up the handle and waddle with the ball out to the flags and back. The terrain becomes more wet. There are long stretches through a flooded ATV road. There are deep ruts underwater that I cannot see. With each step, I don’t know which way my ankle will go. I must be careful. We are only at mile 6.
There is a pile of sandbags. They are all the same size and look like the sort you’d use to reinforce a levee. I grab one. It’s wet and weighs around fifty pounds. I turn around and enter another flooded road full of floating debris and follow the line of people. People are falling. People are slipping. I maintain my footing. Until I don’t.
My right foot strikes the rut on the bottom at an awkward angle. My ankle twists completely sideways. I have to hitch the sandbag back up to my shoulder to correct myself. I know immediately this is an injury. The pain squeaks through with each step. I exit the water and walk through mud, still with my sandbag. It gets worse. Cold fear runs through my blood as I visualize myself needing to be carted off the course in an all-terrain vehicle. If they can even get one out here.
I cannot panic. Not now. I cannot give in to these thoughts. I must continue, one step at a time, for as long as I can. I have no choice.
I limp through the mud and deposit my sandbag back on the pile. I turn away from it and step wrong, wincing in agony. I look up. I see an old friend. “No Shirt,” I say, forlornly. He looks at me, pity in his eyes. He says nothing. There is nothing to say. No Shirt knows I must figure this out on my own.
Saturday Afternoon
As I continue through the sopping wet course, I watch my feet intently, making sure my ankle stays as straight as possible with every step. Sometimes it jerks a bit sideways, and I wince and limp a bit. Fortunately, this passes fairly quickly. This sprain is not severe. The difficulty will be in not injuring it further in the many miles that remain in this race. And this race weekend. If it gets injured any worse…I try not to think about it.
Past mile 7. Halfway done. There is a bank of port-a-potties near the next obstacle, a single hurdle 5 feet off the ground. I use the port-a-potty despite not really needing to, because I know it’ll be the only one on the course. It is so hot that the water I drink is immediately exiting my body via sweat glands. There’s not much left for urine. I flop and turn (the “flop and turn” is my patented, fool-proof method for these sorts of things) on the hurdle and dismount gently. One obstacle at a time. Easy does it. Do not make things worse.
A mile of wet terrain. Irish Tables. These are foot-wide platforms, set about 5.5 feet off the ground. Basically another hurdle, only taller and with a flat top. I jump up and flop and turn on top. Dismount. Gently. More wet terrain. I empty my shoes of muck again. The obstacle density here is very low, about one obstacle per mile. Lots of time to think. Lots of opportunities to twist my ankle again. Or twist the other one. Don’t think about that.
“Clare!”
I know that voice.
I turn to face Wes. “I sprained my goddamn ankle on that stupid sandbag carry!” This is no time for subtlety, stoicism, or beating around the bush. I must give Wes all of the information immediately, before he leaves me in his dust.
“Oh, shit,” he replies. What more is there to say? We walk together for a while. The 8’ wall looms. It’s probably nine feet, actually. Spartan loves to lie about the 8’ wall. Wes gets over the top, then comes back around and gives me a boost. I straddle the top of the wall and look down. Oh god.
“WES! MAKE SURE I DON’T FALL TOO FAST!” He comes back around and grabs me around the waist to slow my descent. Thank god, I land okay. This was the farthest drop remaining in today’s race, and I did it. Wes goes on ahead and I proceed with caution to the next obstacle, another hurdle. Flop, turn, dismount. I’m past mile 10 now.
The terrain dries out. The major flooding is largely behind me. Back into the sandy quarries. I see logs with small chain handles on the ground. Farmers carry. I grab two in the women’s section. They’re light. Only about 25 pounds each. I walk out and back to the cones about 30 feet away. Easy. As I walk away I see a photographer snapping pictures of some men. First photographer I’ve seen today, and I didn’t even realize he was there. I briefly wonder if he got my picture, too.
As I walk to the next obstacle, I see a woman walking with arms akimbo, struggling. I ask her if she needs anything. I have everything one could need in my pack. Except for a chiropractor, and this woman has thrown her back out and is deep in the pain cave. “I came here to do an obstacle race, not this bullshit mud and water shit. But I’m finishing this,” she grits, hating every second. I know, as a personal trainer, that this woman does not want or need a cheerleader. She needs commiseration and agreement. “That sucks. But you will finish.” She nods. I continue past.
There is an aid station by the next obstacle, The Box. It is the same aid station we passed by Beater, with the pickle juice. I take another swig. It doesn’t taste any better the second time. I chase it with water and head toward The Box. My attempt to lock in my feet on the rope fails, and I request a boost. Two women say “we’ll boost you if you help us from the top.” Deal! They get me up there, then I grab the next one and help pull her up, along with another guy. The Box, along with Stairway to Sparta, will always be a Tough Mudder obstacle in the Open heats. It requires teamwork. And that’s okay.
More terrain. Pipe Lair. I make my way through the maze of pipes as straight as possible, without having to turn my ankle. It hurts off and on. Its presence is always known, but can sometimes be ignored. And coming up next is Olympus. The obstacle I’ve prepared for the most. I’m finally facing my Waterloo.
“Oh hey! Waterloo!”
I call out to my buddy from the check-in line. “Cedar Falls!” he responds cheerfully. We catch up with each other and agree that this race is nuts. We hit Olympus at the same time. I try it with my left arm leading. I’ve planned to do the top line of holds and holes and try to scramble my feet. Ankle won’t cooperate so I decide to try it with knees in the wall. I use the holes. I stay in the holes. The holes are getting lower. I am too low. I can’t save it. I give up, gently, after two of the six panels and head to the burpee pit to do extremely slow burpees. I lay down. I get back up. Repeat for thirty reps. Waterloo has also failed. Lots of people have failed. Most of them are skipping the burpee pit.
Waterloo and I spend ten more minutes discussing the local soft trails in our hometown area and exchanging our actual names when he decides to jog ahead. I pass the mile 12 mark and find the infamous Ohio sandbag carry, up and down the steep, slightly gravelly hill. I grab a bag, shoulder it, and head up the first steep hill. My shoes have incredible grip. I push people from behind who are sliding backward. I do not stop. If I stop, I will not only be blocking the path, I will never get going again. I press my heel into the hill to stretch my ankle gently. It can move in this direction.
At the top of the first hill, I drop the bag, gasping for breath. My heart rate is about 200. This carry gets me every time. When I’ve recovered a bit, I pick the bag back up and descend the steep hill, keeping to the left side where there is less gravel. I cannot slip. I do not slip. I circle around to the next uphill and climb up. Rest. Climb down. Drop off the bag in the bins. Another obstacle down.
A relatively short walk to the Atlas carry, where I pick up the ball without using my right ankle. I walk around the poles on the far end, and they force me through a huge patch of poison ivy. I don’t even care at this point. I’ve touched so much poison ivy today. If I die, I die. Itching is the least of my concerns. I drop the ball back at the start and watch the entire ground vibrate from the impact. Through more sandy puddles. And there it is. The multi-rig.
Wait a minute. The monkey bars are next to it. The multi-rig was next to the monkey bars? How did I not notice this before when I DID THE MONKEY BARS? I have been dying of curiosity this entire race to find out what the multi-rig configuration is, and I could have learned it 12 miles ago?!
And the configuration…is not expected. I’ve prepared for, I thought, all the possibilities. Rings, bar, ring, two ropes. Rings, bar, rope, ring, rope. Rings, bar, two rings, rope. But here before me…three rings. A very high horizontal bar (about 1.5 feet higher than the rings). And three ropes in a row before the bell.
SHIT. This is, by far, the most difficult multi-rig I have ever seen in a Spartan event. Even the televised ones.
Okay. Don’t freak out. I look at it. I look at the ropes. I see which have solid knots on the bottom. I find a good lane. I grab the ring. It feels dry as a bone. Thank god. I swing, grab the second ring. Swing, grab the third ring. Get backswing. Swing for the bar.
Miss.
Swing back, grab the second ring with my back hand. I swing back and forth a few times, generating height. I need to make a HUGE grab for the bar. I pull back as hard as I can and swing up.
Fingertips.
I hold on. I hop my hand a bit farther onto the bar. My fingers are latched on top, but no part of my palm is on it. I have to go for it. I let go of the ring still on my back hand and reach up.
Grab the bar.
Phew. I shuffle sideways. I try not to think about how high off the ground I am. My feet are probably dangling about 4 feet off the ground. I cannot fall from here. But I trust my grip and ability on a bar. It’s the ropes that scare me.
I get to the absolute end of the bar. My plan is to skip the first rope. I grab for the second rope, which is a good foot or foot and a half below the bar. I hang with one arm on the rope and the other on the bar. I steel myself for the force of the downward swing. I let go of the bar, match on the rope, and grab the last rope in quick succession. I have one hand on each rope. I swing myself side to side. I need to generate a lot of momentum. The bell is three feet away and a foot higher than the rope. Swing several times. Let go, match, and reach for the bell.
And I miss it.
My one shot. I don’t have the steam to reach back and regroup on the ropes. I didn’t even have the steam to do the little pull-up hop I apparently would have needed to reach the bell on my first swing. I drop to the ground, simultaneously defeated and incredibly proud of myself for getting that far on the rig. There is a man in his twenties nearby who looks just like OCR pro Ryan Atkins. He looks at me, impressed. And a bit bummed. His eyes say it all: “damn, I thought that’d work.” Me too, Atkins. Me too.
As I do my burpees, a blonde woman with a sports bra, booty shorts, and very unnatural breasts gets on the multi-rig and hangs from the first ring. She doesn’t swing. She hangs. She screeches. She makes a spectacle of herself. She falls and gets right back on, refusing to go to the back of the line. She does it again. I watch, fascinated. She is truly terrible at this. But the worst part is that she is not yielding to other racers. Finally she gives up and heads towards the burpee pit as I’m finishing. I move along gladly.
Next up: bucket carry. I shoulder a bucket and start walking. I feel exhausted. My lower back is killing me. I stop a few times to give my back a rest. There is a log I need to step over in the middle of this carry. Ugh. My ankle hurts. It is getting harder to stay positive.
I drop off the bucket and continue past mile 13. The map said the course was 14 miles. Oh man, the last mile. Thank god. There’s a vertical cargo net with a platform. I easily flop and turn onto it and climb up and down the net, watching my feet. The view is lovely. A gravel road leads down to Herc Hoist, which overlooks a picturesque lake. I get the rope gloves out of my bag for the second time today and haul the bag up and down easily.
The gravel road continues. I walk around the dark puddles. I want to see where I’m putting my feet whenever possible. We are approaching the festival. I know because I can smell the smoke from the fire jump, and I can hear the music. “Yakety Sax” is playing. That’s hilarious. I can’t stop chuckling. Nobody around me thinks it’s funny.
I exit the road and enter the forest via a muddy ditch. The man in front of me chooses the closer path, and when he steps into the dark water he sinks down to his waist. I pause, then proceed to the farther path. I only submerge a few inches. I have chosen wisely. Through a long stretch of muddy forest. Mile 14. We are not at the finish. The map lied.
Finally, I emerge into the big fields near the festival area. The final gauntlet of obstacles. There is one last water stop next to the Z-walls. I get through the walls with some difficulty, trying to balance on the small footholds without straining my ankle any further. Next is the inverted wall, which is normally easy for me. I climb up, then try to sling my left leg over the wall. This is much harder than usual. My right ankle refuses to turn out enough to give my hip the flexibility. I am stuck. I start to freak out. I see a man at the bottom of the wall in front of me.
“Help!” I call out to him. He comes up and grabs my arm so I can risk throwing my leg over. I am very grateful to this random man. Carefully I slide down the wall and get down. I walk towards the next obstacle. The cold wash is to the left, and I see a bunch of people who have already finished hosing themselves down.
Rolling Mud. Oh god. I am already limping. I can’t do this. I walk past the three muddy banks and water pits of Rolling Mud, only to see a photographer at the end behind the dunk wall. Ugh. FINE. I’ll do the stupid dunk wall. I take off my backpack and sunglasses and set them in the grass, then enter the water before the dunk wall. There is a girl next to me trying to psych herself up. “I’m scared of going underwater!” she says to me. I tell her “it’s kind of far. A couple feet. Just plug your nose and keep moving, and don’t dawdle at the end because someone might ram you from behind.” She nods. We go under at the same time. We emerge. “Thank you so much!” she tells me. Thanks for what, who can say for sure, but I think I know what she means.
There is a short walk back toward the cold wash, through deep, nasty mud. Then the slip wall. People are falling on it. Hard. I cannot attempt this. To risk slamming into the wall, sliding down fast, and hitting the ground at an awkward angle would be idiotic on this ankle. I walk past. I don’t even consider doing burpees. I am exhausted and consider this an ankle-saver rather than a failed obstacle.
Through a tree line and I see Helix. It is a metal X-shaped traverse wall. I work my way through it, not sure if I’m doing it right. I try not to tweak my ankle. I do anyway, a few times. But I make it to the end without touching the ground. One last short patch of woods. I’m almost done. Almost done.
Out of the muddy woods and looming above me is the rope climb. I am so tired. I get my gloves out of my backpack and grab a good-looking rope. My hands slide right through. Huh? I try again. I have no grip. I try another rope. No. “The gloves do nothing!” I think in Rainier Wolfcastle’s voice. “What the HELL,” I say out loud, and walk toward the burpee pit. There are a couple guys already there. “Hope you don’t mind if I do bicycle crunches instead, I sprained my ankle,” I tell them. “I am not offended,” one guy replied.
After my bicycles, I get up and stagger over to the spear throw. Boob Blonde is there (she must have passed me at some point), hogging a spear throw station by throwing over and over. I get in line behind some dude. He takes a shot and misses. He immediately takes another shot and makes it. I walk forward and he reels it in to take ANOTHER shot. “Dude, let someone who hasn’t gone have a turn.” He stares at me. How dare a woman speak to him like this. “I just got here,” he says. He is incredulous. I raise my eyebrow at him. He walks away to stand in line at another spear station. Jagoff.
I reel in the spear. I balance it in my hand. I take a couple deep breaths. It’s not that far a throw. Wind it back. The spear feels heavy. I toss it and miss, short by several feet. DAMMIT. I do more bicycle crunches at the burpee pit. People are watching. I thank god I’m almost done.
I struggle to my feet and lightly limp toward the A-frame cargo net. I climb up, turn myself around at the apex without moving my ankle sideways, and climb back down. I walk toward the fire on a pile of loose rocks. I cannot run. When I get to the flames I hop over, leading with my left leg so I can land on a decent ankle. I walk across the finish line. My Garmin says 14.9 miles.
The volunteer hands me a medal. I get a photo, my chip removed, a FitAid, and my shirt. I see Wes before he has to leave. He finished a while before I did and seems to be doing okay. I get my bag and hose off, stopping by the medical tent to get a bag of ice so I can start treating this sprain immediately.
It’s late afternoon. I have no idea how I’ll come back tomorrow morning. Let’s just hope I can get this sprain healing tonight.
Saturday Evening
I have iced my ankle several times. It doesn’t feel great. I’ve used a massage gun on my calves a lot. They’re not in great shape. That much mud and water used my muscles in weird ways.
I’m scared. I have no idea if I can even attempt the races tomorrow.
If I wake up and this ankle feels worse, then no.
If I wake up and this ankle feels better, great!
If I wake up and this ankle feels the same…
…I don’t know. I have no idea what’s going to happen.
This will be a game-day decision.
Sunday Early Morning
My ankle feels…the same.
I eat breakfast. I don’t know. UGH. Fuck. FUCK IT.
I have to go for it.
I did not drive ten hours to get to Bumscrew, Ohio, to just attempt to get ONE measly finisher medal. Oh no. I did not.
I don’t care if they have to drag me off the course on a stretcher, I have to TRY to finish this trifecta weekend.
Wes and I will stick together today. We are the walking wounded. I’ll start a bit later to get into his wave. I can skip obstacles that aren’t safe for my ankle. I can make him boost me over things that are sort of safe for my ankle.
Just about ten more miles to go today. I can do it. I have to at least try.
I ice and use the massage gun again.
Sunday Morning
Standing in line to register again. I see Wes up ahead of me in line. We eventually both get our stuff and check our bags and get into the corral. We have agreed: we are a team today. No man left behind. The hype man is making fun of the Cowboys again. “What do you think his team is?” I ask Wes. “Probably the Eagles. Who else would hate the Cowboys AND the Steelers?” Wes says. This is an excellent theory.
We start shortly before 10 AM. We walk. Most other people are running. Most of them probably didn’t do that crazy Beast yesterday. But we know some people did. Walking near the back with us is a woman who is also moving slowly. “I sprained my ankle yesterday,” I tell her. “I sprained my ankle too!” she replies.
I pause. “Was it on that damn first sandbag carry?” “YES!” Holy crap. Turns out H is also doing the trifecta weekend and has a few other nagging pains. We invite her to stick with us and we form Team Survival Mode, aka Team Strugglebus. It’s good to have a team before the first obstacle.
We hop the overwalls carefully, then hit the 6’ wall. I walk my feet up and hook my left knee, coming down carefully. And I notice immediately – my left knee hurts. I must have hooked it funny or something. It feels like I pulled a hamstring. Dammit all to hell. As if I need more injuries today.
We get to the monkey bars. I feel the first bar. It’s even greasier than yesterday. I can’t risk a fall. I head for the burpee pit and do bicycle crunches. I’ve already decided I am not doing any burpees today. I’ll do different penalties, but I can’t get up and down that much. There are too many opportunities to bend my ankle as it is. And I don’t feel bad about it because at least we’re doing SOMETHING as a penalty. Lots of these folks just fail and move on.
We stroll through the water and go under the barbed wire again. This time there’s a photographer! And the walk to Twister has been in hot sunshine for an extra day, so is slightly firmer than yesterday. I continue to watch carefully where to place my feet. Perhaps the farther along I get, the less careful I’ll have to be. But there are still a lot of miles left.
I grab the handles of Twister. They feel slippery. I slide right off and almost stumble over the starting blocks. I do sit-ups in the burpee pit, which is full of bullet casings. At this point Wes gives up on burpees as well because his bicep is majorly screwed. Squats it is! When we get to Bender I just lay in the grass immediately and do a penalty while H and Wes climb over. That 6-foot jump is not happening today.
I get Wes to boost me on the 7’ wall, now that my knee is out of commission. I land as gently as possible, but it still hurts a bit. I think this is the tallest wall remaining today. I hope so. Beater is a no-go. I don’t even try it. Sit-ups. Oh look, they’ve modified Stairway to Sparta! It’s not in Beast mode anymore. They removed the panels that have the rock climbing holds. I try to get over the initial 8’ panel by myself. Nope. I need a boost. This surface is so slick, they should be selling it in the family planning aisle.
We loop back to The Box. I am pleased to see that we basically teleported past eight brutal miles of the Beast course. No long stretches of flooded ATV road today! Just some big puddles, basically. Much more manageable. Much less ankle-breaking. Wes and H haul me up The Box, then we get Wes up there, then we get H up there. H is former military and is one badass chick. Definitely a valuable asset to Team Strugglebus, even with aches and pains.
Pipe Lair goes smoothly. The team sort of races to get through it, since we all go at the same time. I don’t win the race. We walk along the gravel road towards Olympus and H yells. I look down and see a four-foot black snake slithering across the road several feet in front of us. “WHOA!” I say, watching it slither into the grass along the side of the road. Apparently sudden large snake appearances are one of the few things that can catch H off guard.
Olympus looks different. The chains didn’t have balls yesterday, and they do today. I half-heartedly attempt it but quickly give up and do my sit-ups. There are several people on Olympus who have absolutely NO idea what they’re doing. They’re trying to climb along it with their feet in the holes, bending to put their hands on top of the wall for balance. It looks incredibly dangerous and stupid, but there is no volunteer to tell them to stop. It also is taking them forever to get across. We finish our penalties before they can finish the obstacle.
The sandbag carry. Thankfully we don’t have to do the mucky one again, just the crazy hill one. H struggles to maintain her footing up the hill. I push on her back to help her out. We descend as safely as possible, then go back up. This time there is a guy in front of me who is probably 6’4”, 260 lb. He starts sliding backwards. I do not want to die. I reach out immediately, shove my hand into the small of his back, and yell “GO GO GO GO GO GO GO!” He quickly steps up to the top of the hill. I don’t know if he thanks me. He doesn’t need to. I didn’t do it for him, I did it to save my own life from having over three hundred total pounds of mass (him plus sandbag) falling backwards on me.
The sandbag carry finishes without further incident, and we get through the Atlas carry fine as well. The holes the balls sit in are getting deeper. We continue to the multi-rig, which has been changed to rings only. I reach out and grab the first ring, and it feels dry, just like yesterday. I swing through fairly easily, matching my left hand because my grip is a bit weaker on that hand today. I ring the bell. I land mostly gracefully. Wes fails, H clears it. I take my time at the water station as he does a penalty.
Ah, here is the bucket again. We start walking. “Elites on your left!” we hear, as the elites running the afternoon Sprint race come jogging past holding buckets. Hey, I’ll try to get out of your way, but I can’t make any promises. It’s not like I have a lot of “juke” holding a fifty-pound bucket with an ankle sprain. I am not Barry Sanders up in here. I refuse to stop and rest. Ditch the bucket at the end and breathe a sigh of relief.
Vertical cargo has been altered as well – no more platform, and there’s a photographer today. I climb over and down. Then the scenic Herc Hoist again. It’s nice to have a team today. It’s nice to not be at mile 13 today. We can smell the fire again as we make our way towards the finishing gauntlet. The muddy ditch has changed today. The far side is getting worse, and the close side is getting better.
We emerge at the Z-walls. I manage to clear it a bit more easily today. The inverted wall, though, I will not attempt. I do a penalty as Wes and H make it over. I also don’t attempt Rolling Mud, although I do go through the dunk wall again. I’m determined to get at least one decent dunk wall photo this weekend. I emerge, completely disgusting, on the other side. I spit out dirt for the next quarter mile. I hope I don’t have too many open wounds.
The slip wall looms. It isn’t any less nasty on day two. Wes and H attempt it. Wes gets over. H slips and hits the ground fast. She gets up. Thank god her ankle seems okay. She joins me for a penalty. I ain’t doing that thing. I couldn’t handle that fall. Today there’s a volunteer at Helix! She’s telling us we cannot touch the top of the obstacle. Oh. Yeah, yesterday I definitely touched the top. There was no volunteer then. I try to get through today. It’s twisting my ankle up too much. I have to step down to the ground a few times.
Team Strugglebus skips the rope climb in favor of the burpee pit. Then the spear throw. I gear up. I tell myself “remember: this spear is HEAVY.” I throw it with power but ease. It sticks. Huzzah! I turn to Wes to celebrate only to see him walk to the burpee pit. “How come we never both make the spear in a race? If you hit it, I miss it,” he says. That is…true. Wow. Only one of us has ever made the spear in the same race. Yesterday he apparently hit it and I missed. Plus the three other races we’ve done together, only one of us has hit it. That’s some crazy luck.
We head for the A-frame cargo, only to be stopped in our tracks by a pack of people sitting on the apex getting their picture taken. They’re holding an American flag. It is taking forever for them to get this picture. WHY is it taking so long? “Can we MOVE?” Team Strugglebus is all saying to these people. Finally they climb down. I know we will complain about these douchebags through the entire Sprint.
We tenderly hop over the fire and collect our medals. We get a team photo. We make plans to reunite in the festival area before the Sprint. H is with us. We might actually pull this off today.
Sunday Afternoon
Dude, where’s my car?
The parking lot is a field with no landmarks. I feel like I overshot my car. I turn around. I walk forward. I finally see it. THANK GOD.
I reapply sunscreen and lubricant, and change my socks and shirt. I can’t believe I’m gonna do this. My ankle feels no worse than it did this morning, by some absolute miracle. I just did a seven-mile Super. Now I just need to do about 3.5 more miles.
I can do this. I will do this.
I meet up with Wes and H back in the festival and eat lunch. We get into the start corral for a 2:30 start time. The hype man is still lit. We tell H our theory about the Eagles. Wes’s backup guess is the Giants, since he hates the Cowboys so much. But that wouldn’t explain the Steelers hate. I tell Wes I will ask the hype man. I will not leave Ohio without this information. I would regret it forever if I did.
Before I get the chance to ask, though, the hype man grabs two teams – Team Barbie (clad in pink) and Team Unicorn (bronies clad in unicorn tank tops). He identifies the “team captains” (a 14-year-old girl and the handsomest brony, respectively) and makes them do a dance battle to “Scenario” by A Tribe Called Quest. Although I wish we could just start the race already, I do appreciate this song, which is of course on my Monsters of Rap compilation that I listened to both mornings on the way to the venue. I bop around to keep limber while the hype man declares Team Barbie the winners. After he starts us on our way, I hang back in the corral. “My friends and I want to know what your team is! We think it’s the Eagles.” He looks like he sucked on a lemon. “Hell NO! The Giants!” he calls into the mic. Wes and I laugh and Team Strugglebus is on our way. “I should have asked him what’s the last thing the Giants ever won,” I say.
The obstacles tick by so fast. Even more of the course has been chopped off. It’s the same path through the overwalls, 6’ wall (I get a boost), monkey bars (I skip them again), and the barbed wire crawl. Then we take a hard right and skip eleven full miles of the Beast course to eventually re-emerge at the second sandbag carry on that diabolical hill again. It goes even better than the Super, as there are no big dudes threatening to bowl me over. The pits with the Atlas carry balls have gotten so deep they’re almost halfway underground. On the multi-rig the team celebrates a triple clear as we all make it through. You can tell we are almost done and we are catching a second wind. We feel beaten up, but great. Mentally, you cannot beat the feeling of having come so far and not having much farther to go. And having not made our sprains worse after so many more miles, we are feeling confident about our strategic movement.
The bucket carry. Upon finishing it I feel a huge sense of relief. My lower back won’t have to struggle anymore today. On top of vertical cargo we pose for a team photo. We are close to the end. We can taste it. Herc hoist, no problem. Through the muddy ditch and woods. Back to the final gauntlet, for the third and LAST time of the weekend.
Z-walls are a struggle at this point. I have to re-mount but I fight through. Inverted wall is another penalty. Rolling Mud I skip. Dunk wall. I’m so over this dunk wall. It’s somehow getting more disgusting by the hour. Slip wall, Wes does. H has had enough sliding and falling for the day, so we do penalties together.
Almost done. Holy moly.
Helix. I do not attempt it today. I do squats instead. Wes and H make their way through. More woods. “This is the LAST MUD OF THE WEEKEND!” I yell. We come out to the rope climb and all do penalties immediately. We don’t even make a half-hearted attempt to climb the rope. We are beyond exhausted.
At the spear throw I have to inform yet another man that he cannot take tons of shots while people are waiting, then I promptly miss. As I’m doing squats, H and Wes approach. They’ve both hit their spears. Of course. Wes knew he’d hit his as soon as I missed mine. I’ve done about 22 squats. “Fuck it, let’s finish this shit,” I say, and we walk together to the A-frame. We climb up and down. We leap majestically over the fire (LOL, psych). We cross the finish line. The Sprint was 3.7 miles.
We finish. We finish the whole damn Trifecta Weekend.
Photos. Trifecta medals. More photos. Promises to reunite Team Strugglebus in Attica this September. Goodbyes.
We did it. I did it.
Twenty five point six miles. Eighty four obstacles. Two days. One ankle sprain.
Several new friends. H. Waterloo. No Shirt.
I’ll probably do this again next year.
***
Garmin data (Beast, Super, Sprint):
Beast Pics
Super Pics
Sprint Pics
Trifecta Weekend Finisher Pic
