The Dirt on Mud Mania

It’s so hard to know how to dress for the mud.

Several weeks before Sept. 11, a friend had invited me to join him in the 10th annual fall Armed Services YMCA “mud run” at Camp Pendleton and I had agreed without hesitation.

I’d been looking for a race as an incentive to focus a running regimen that had become rather lax. And running on muddy trails for 10 kilometers with a few river crossings along the way sounded different enough from the run-of-the-mill road race to be enticing.

I was excited about the chance to wade the camp’s streams and climb its hillsides. I had no idea I’d also wind up straining its dirt through my teeth, literally tasting the place where Marines are made.

That it was at Pendleton, a place that had long intrigued me, was another plus. What you can see of the camp from the freeway is oddly serene, mysterious even. It’s right there, out your car window, the greenish humped hills rising from the rumpled blue bedsheet of the Pacific.

Yet that stereotypically beautiful California setting also is associated with the landscape of war. Now, of course, war is upon us. And though I’m well past recruitment age, I welcomed the chance to participate in what I imagined would be some military-style training.

A few weeks after the attacks I began wondering if the race would go forward. It seemed rather frivolous at a time of national crisis to ask real soldiers to chaperon us pretenders as we played in the mud.

But race organizers sent out word that the event was still on, and the 2,900 competitors began assembling before sunrise one recent fall morning. Five of us entered Pendleton through a security gate, parked and piled into a bus that would take us and some of our fellow runners to the Lake O’Neill staging area.

Dawn revealed that we were on a flat area overlooking the lake, which is nestled among brown, sandy hills. The light also allowed us to see photographs of mud-drenched participants in previous year’s races displayed on banners.

Until that moment, I had no idea what I’d gotten myself into. Slogging through mud is one thing. Slithering through a 3-foot-deep pool of it on your belly is something else. I suddenly understood why race organizers advise runners to wear tight clothing without pockets.

I also understood why all around me runners were busying themselves with duct tape. They wrapped their shoes and ankles in the gray stuff. Some put it around the tops of their socks and even around their waists. No one wanted to experience the embarrassment of losing shoes--or shorts--in the muck.

With the 9 a.m. race time approaching, the runners gathered on a dirt road behind the starting banner. This was not your usual 10K crowd.

Many of the runners--men and women, military and civilian alike--were wearing combat boots and battle fatigues--competing in “boots and utes.” The “utes” refer to “utilities,” which is military-ese for uniforms. A few men wore Speedo swim briefs. Many wore spandex shorts.

I wore conventional running gear but, taking a cue from those around me, wrapped my shoes and ankles in tape. I stood out, though, because I wore ski goggles to keep my glasses from becoming smeared with mud.

The crowd counted down the last few seconds together, and then we were off amid war whoops and cheers and a fog of pure testosterone.

Only a few minutes down the trail, the pack slowed down and veered left. I heard shrieks up ahead. And then I saw a stream of water arcing into the crowd. A second later a guy with a hose locked on the old guy--me--as his target, following me until I was out of range. I may have looked silly but I was glad I’d thought of the goggles. Five minutes into the race and I was already water-logged.

The next time the pack slowed it was to hop through tires. A bit later we crawled on our stomachs beneath some low-slung wires. The first “mud” obstacle was an ankle-deep pool only a few feet across. Then came a shallow stream.

I was gaining confidence. As the fire road we were running on headed up hill, offering a view of the lake off to the right, I picked up my pace. Some of my fellow runners had become walkers, and I pushed myself past them.

After another stream--deeper this time--the trail turned a corner, and there was a long pool of mud bisected by a 6-foot-tall plank wall. As I hopped down into the pool the color of cafe au lait, I sank calf-deep into more solid stuff. Some of my fellow competitors tried to keep running, causing a great splashing. Others were more tentative. I managed to boost myself to the top of the wall, where I hesitated for a moment to contemplate my landing. I managed to avoid falling on my face. Not everyone was so lucky.

Now I was dirty. Dirt was in my shoes. In my shorts. I squished as I ran. Then came another wall with mud before and after. This wall seemed higher. The mud deeper. People trudged through. This time, they didn’t even try to run.

“Motivation!” one race monitor yelled as we passed. “Motivation!”

What, I asked myself, was my motivation? Why, exactly, was I out here?

The question would have to await an answer, because now the trail headed straight up a steep hill. Water cascaded down as we ascended step by step, single file. About three-quarters of the way to the top a woman ahead of me slipped to her knees. If she had lost her purchase she would have taken out dozens of her fellow runners on her slide to the bottom.

A couple of us grabbed her under the arms and hoisted her to her feet. Then we scrambled the rest of the way up. Our reward was to be hosed down again. We’d reached the highest point on the course and had a commanding view of the lake and the panorama of hills. But no one lingered.

The sloppiest obstacle of all remained, just ahead.

Not just another pool of mud, this one had a series of wires strung low over the surface. That meant, instead of wading, we had to propel ourselves along with our elbows, almost as if we were swimming through the mud.

“Stay down! Stay down!” race monitors yelled at us. The pungent aroma of sour-smelling muck filled my nostrils. Gritty dirt coated my lips. I tried to hold on to my shorts. After 50 feet or so I crawled out, stumbled to my feet and sprinted noisily the last few hundred yards across the finish line.

I crossed in one hour, 14 minutes and 53 seconds, good enough for 79th in my age group of 40-to-49-year-olds. I finished 624th overall. The 27-year-old winner posted a time of a little more than 41 minutes.

Everywhere people were posing for pictures to document themselves at their dirtiest. Just as the sun came out and rock music blared, everyone moved on to the outdoor showers to rinse off at least the outer layer of Camp Pendleton before it dried to a crust. Most tossed out their ruined shirts and shoes, filling a massive dumpster.

We’d raised $60,000 for a good cause--supporting a recreation center where Marines relax while completing infantry school. We’d visited a place most people do not get to see. And we’d gotten a slight taste of what infantrymen go through in training.

Perhaps best of all, we each had a dirty story to tell.