Where Others Fear to Mud
The race promised mud pits, tire obstacles, 5-foot walls--and 10 grueling kilometers of hills and river crossings in between.
Who would answer such a call to arms and legs? Try about 1,000 gung-ho U.S. Marines. Throw in about 900 civilians. And just for good measure, toss in a lone reporter, just your average muckraker snooping around where others fear to tread.
It was the third annual Camp Pendleton Mud Run--a dirty job that nobody had to do, but did. It wasn’t so much a case of “no pain, no gain” as it was “no brain and tons of stains.”
I don’t want to overstate the strenuousness of the morning exercise, but if they made a movie about it, they’d call it “To Hell and Back.” For now, all I can say is: I came, I saw, I collapsed.
My goal on Saturday morning simply was to beat one U.S. Marine. These uniformed men and women think they are so tough because they know how to use a bayonet. Ha, try getting a straight answer out of a city manager.
Anyway, I was willing to let 999 Marines trample over me--and they did--but I wanted to prove something to at least one of them. I wanted one unlucky Marine to know that journalists aren’t a bunch of carping, carpal tunnel syndrome-suffering naysayers, even though my employee evaluation states just that.
I just wanted to shake hands at the finish line with the unlucky Marine, check for firearms and, finding none, say “I guess this means I’m better than you.”
Sadly, there was a major drawback to this self-glorifying scenario. I knew that even under optimum conditions--good running shoes, shorts and a turbo-charged electric golf cart--I would be lucky to finish a 10K on a flat course.
This Camp Pendleton run was no flat course. It was hilly in parts, and on uneven ground when it wasn’t. And the dress du jour was high-top shoes or boots and combat fatigues with the pockets, waistband and ankles sealed with electrical tape to keep mud out and clothing on.
I did have a few things going for me at the race. I brought along my positive attitude. And I had the extra morale boost of two work pals--let’s call them Moe and Curly--joining me in the fun.
When the race began, everyone took off like their fatigues were on fire. I remembered thinking, “What’s the big hurry?”
After a few hundred yards, I devised a strategy for the race. I decided that as a journalist, to really give the reader the proper perspective, I’d have to hang in the back.
I mean, if I just darted out to the front of the pack, not only would the story suffer, but it would also violate every code of journalistic ethics. So, I cooled my jets.
As the race wore on and I ate the dust of my co-participants, I realized that running was really, really boring, which is why I rarely “just do it.”
The only truly interesting moments came when I wondered to myself and the other stragglers if my heart was going to explode. And if it did, I wondered, would my family be able to collect an enormous settlement from the U.S. government?
Also helping to break the monotony was a series of obstacles. A row of tires. A couple of river streams, which had to be crossed on hands and knees. Basically, I found this pretty inconvenient, although the civilian who won the race in 43 minutes and 24 seconds apparently did not.
The two 5-foot wall obstacles, surrounded with calf-deep mud on either side, were no cakewalk either. And because only three people at a time could climb over, the big muddy bunch of us had to wait.
That’s when my positive attitude kicked in. The eager beavers were disappointed by the roughly five-minute slowdown, but I used the time to gain even more journalistic perspective on the race.
As I approached the race’s end, I noted that there were actually some Marines behind me. Maybe they were with a military newspaper. I didn’t care. Here was my chance to finish ahead of them.
Then came the dreaded mud crawl, which forces you on your belly for about 25 yards. To make it even more entertaining for cackling spectators, wires are fixed closely overhead ensuring that your eyes, ears, nose and throat can fully enjoy the mud. (Of course, with my positive attitude, I saw the crawl as much-needed mud therapy and a chance to pamper my skin.)
I slithered through the mud as quickly as I could, hoping the Marines wouldn’t pass me. Finally, I emerged from the mud crawl drenched, but determined.
When I swung around, I couldn’t see a darn thing. It was then I realized as the mud stung my eyes, that my vision had never been clearer. Suddenly, I didn’t care anymore about “beating a Marine.”
I cared about only one thing--a clean towel. And I found one.
It was a truly transcendent moment. I can’t remember much after that.
As I continue to gain more and more journalistic perspective upon the race, I have to admit those hail and hearty Marines taught me something amid the muck and sweat. I learned about courage.
Oh, yes, courage--the kind that fortifies the spirit, the kind that triumphs over adversity--even if you’re dragging around six pounds of dirt and riverbed sediment in your shoes.