My friend Kirsten asked me to join her for a run she saw advertised on the NYC subway, an all women’s “mud run,” a gentler version of Tough Mudder, a race which has gotten press for, among other things, offering electrocution as part of the experience. I was looking for the benefits of a physical challenge without the incapacitation.
But the event’s tagline confused me. What does “Exfoliate your 5K” mean? I got the gist after finding the names of some of the ‘obstacles’; Mani-Pedi, Tan lines and Bad Hair Day. I don’t wear make up, get a manicure only for my own weddings, and haven’t brushed my hair in months, so I might’ve taken the disconnect between my image and theirs as a sign that our union was not meant to be. But mud run is on my bucket list, so I swallowed complaints about girly language, and signed up.
Wanting to get in the Girls-Just-Want-to-Have-Fun spirit and also make an anti-pink statement, I wore one of my recently acquired 42nd birthday presents, a “Mother of Dragons” T-shirt. This is a reference to the fantasy series “Game of Thrones.” The wearer is identifying herself as Khaleesi, the queen who spends the night with her husband as he is cremated on a funeral pyre. She emerges dirty but unharmed in the morning. Her baby dragons incinerate bad guys at her command. I was pleased with the Girl Power message I was projecting.
By the time we found the event’s destination, after an hour of navigating city traffic in three boroughs, roadwork, missed exits and U-turns and drinking way too much liquid, I was dying to incinerate the GoogleMaps lady. My discomfort level did not abate with the onslaught of full volume Katy Perry that prevented a parking attendant from hearing my shouted request for directions to a bathroom. Luckily, a speedy traverse of the parking lot brought an oasis of port-o-potties into view. The rest of the venue wasn’t so heaven-like. It was a flat, featureless, abandoned airfield, which made the appearance of the randomly placed ‘obstacles’ all the more bizarre. They reminded me of extra large versions of the bouncy house I rented for my 3 year old’s birthday party. It was as though I’d landed on a joint film set for Barney and Survivor: Site of the Apocalypse.
(Above, Kirsten Larson and Sheela Clary before the race, in a happy frame of mind, creating a dual selfie.)
Most of the other participants were in packs of 6 or 8, with matching outfits and accessories. The MILF team wore bright pink, as did the Girls Gone Dirty, Dirty Divas and Mud Now, Cocktails Later teams. As I stood near the raucous costume contest scanning NPR headlines on my phone, it occurred to me that I was not in my element. The whole thing: the unnatural placement of childish objects, the sorority-party-after-midnight atmosphere, the pounding bass (It’s Saturday morning! What’s wrong with a little Fleetwood Mac?), made me feel less like a Mother of Dragons than a Grandma of Disapproval.
I decided if I couldn’t join ‘em, I’d beat ‘em. When we were off and ‘running’, I tried to skirt the Sunday drivers in front of me. But then came the first obstacle. The Exfoliator was a mud bath like the ones army movies use to demonstrate how tough basic training is. We were required us to elbow our way through it. Well, not required. All the obstacles were optional. There was no barking drill sergeant there to push me. I could have behaved like any normal person would when faced with the choice of crawling through mud or strolling around it. But there was a reason to get muddy, of course: the photo op, to capture you and your buddies being amazed by your muddiness. There seemed to be nearly as many male photographers — sorry — “paparazzi” — as there were female participants.
So I got dirty head to toe. Well, that wasn’t too different from hanging out with toddlers on a typical day in April. (Thankfully, the paparazzi were not drawn to memorializing the Mother of Dragons with her haughty smirk; there were no photos of me in the albums we were later invited to purchase.)
Mud, done! Onward and upward! I’m gonna show these chicks what walking through fire looks like. Come on! Why’s everyone slowing down again? For a little hill? Wimps! While everyone else carefully crawls up the steep sand dune studded with rocks, I try sprinting.
If this story so far could be called “Snide and Superior Sheela”; the rest of it could be “Sheela knows she’s an idiot.”
At the top of the dune, I decide to further distinguish myself from the pink crowd by sprinting down. I don’t recall the precise order of events that followed, but bottom line is, I really regret doing that. The results of the ensuing crash onto asphalt were a throbbing left ankle, right knee, left shoulder, and skull.
I sat up. Cheering ladies were making their careful way down the hill of my humiliation and streaming by on my left side to make their leisurely way to Tan Lines. Some asked if I was OK. A paparazzo asked if I was OK. I didn’t know. Then Kirsten came up (I’d left her in my muddy wake) and flagged down a staff person in a fluorescent shirt. He poured water on my bloody knee, and offered, “If you can walk on your ankle, you should be fine.” At this point, I wished for Percocet, a man with a stethoscope and MRI machine to wander by, and my mommy.
Insisting that Kirsten finish the course — no use in two of us wasting a workout — I hobbled back over the sand dune and stumbled onto the Fun House obstacle, from which I could see two ambulances and a dozen idle EMT’s in the distance. But the fluorescent-shirted girl there had a non-working radio; none of my would-be saviors appeared to copy her repeated “Do you copy?” If I’d been in a clearer frame of mind, I might have suggested that she simply wave and point to my blood-stained body. But neither that nor sitting down occurred to me, so I stood awkwardly at the Fun House entrance until Kirsten came around again and flagged down the medics.
The tide then turned decidedly in my favor, with a barrage of tactile attention from a scrum of well-muscled New York City firemen. It was all, well, completely unnecessary and oh so nice. All I need, guys, is a little help walking over to the medical tent, really, why all the fuss? But, OK, if you insist…….a truck? Which you are backing up to reach me, at the entrance to the Fun House? In front of dozens of women whose cocktail hour I am delaying?
Mr. Sexy Brooklyn Volunteer EMT #1 tried to revive the festive mood after he and #2 and #3 gently placed me in the open bed of the truck. “Hey, Ladies! Let’s give a hand for da Mudda uh Dragons!” The ladies were no doubt looking for blown kisses or at least a Rocky salute from me in return for their waiting and clapping, but all I could manage was a mock-mortified eye-shielding gesture.
On the brief ride to first aid, my knights made conversation by noting one of the better-endowed teams having their post-Exfoliator red carpet moment. “Team MILF’s really getting into it they-a! You go, team MILF!” I do believe that is the comment with which I’ll always recall my 5-minute foray into mud runs.
So here I am a week later, spending the better part of each day with my foot in the air. I was incapacitated not by live wires or “Tan Lines,” but by the combination of arrogance and a perfectly natural hill of earth and rock. My badly sprained ankle is an excellent lesson in humility, one that I hope will stay with me long after the pain is gone. It’s also a reminder that one of the only things that matter in life is how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.
