Spartan Strong

When I wrote my original post about the Spartan Race, I knew I would write about it again. I held back because I felt like I had two different stories to tell. The Spartan ideology is dynamic, multi-faceted. The physical aspect is obvious. So, my first post focused on the toll the race took on my body. I talked about the obstacles, and the aches and bruises. There's a mental aspect, as well. I touched on that; the memory obstacle, the logistics. I also wrote about the social aspect, the idea that helping one another and encouraging fellow racers is almost a part of the race. What I didn't, couldn't, share in that first post, is how emotionally taxing it was for me.

I figured I would write about it someday, late at night, after a few glasses of wine. I'm a member of a writing group on Facebook, though, and when our moderator announced a five day writing challenge, I knew I wanted to write about the Spartan Race from an emotional perspective. Some stories just have to be told. It is the only story I had in me at that moment. So, I dug deep, much deeper than this little blog typically delves, to talk about what went on in my head while I trudged my way to becoming a Spartan. The goal was to keep it at less than seven hundred words. It was hard to pack what I really wanted to say into such a small box, but I feel like I did it justice enough that I don't need to write about it again. While I feel insanely vulnerable sharing this, I'm hoping I'll find it cathartic, once all is said and done. That being said, here's the piece I worked on for the challenge.

Sometimes, I forget I’m fat. As strange as that sounds, it’s true. I don’t feel like a fat person. I don’t think of myself that way. Occasionally, someone points it out. They may cleverly disguise their criticism as a joke about how my breasts sag, or how short my shorts are, but I rarely entertain those thoughts, or those people. Other times, I do feel fat. I feel people looking at me, judging me. The self-consciousness can be crippling.

When I registered for the Spartan Race, the thrill of a new adventure and the excitement of doing something extreme, distracted me from the logistics involved in swinging my two-hundred-forty-pound ass across fifteen feet of rope, hoops, and pipe. This is just one of the twenty-three obstacles we encountered on the four-and-a-half-mile course. I fell twice, then my friends dropped me. The lines backed up. Dozens of people stood there, watching me fail. In my head, they scoffed at me, the fat girl with the audacity to show up to an athletic event.

The pain I felt didn’t have anything to do with the previous obstacles, or the fibromyalgia, or the cramp shooting through my calf. This hurt like being six-years old and my dad telling me my birthday is just another day. It hurt like eating a raw onion because it’s the only thing in the kitchen, apart from the beer and cat food. It’s the kind of pain you feel once, and then for the rest of your life; the pain of inadequacy, and humiliation. This pain digs chunks out of your soul and no matter how many tacos I shovel in my mouth, no matter how many cartons of ice cream I pack down my throat, I never fill that emptiness. Standing there, fat and incapable, hurt like every time I wasn’t good enough.

As I walked off the cramp, two able-bodied Spartans approached and offered to help me across the obstacle. These were real Spartans, tall and toned; not like me, a fat pretender making a mockery of their sport. I wanted to run away, hide in the brush until everyone left, then walk back to the car so I could ugly cry in relative privacy. No one believed I could do this, anyway. Everyone knows I’m fat. Everyone knew I would fail.

There are different kinds of strength, though. I’m the kind of strong that keeps going even when I’m hurt. I’m the kind of strong that gets up and tries again after failing a dozen times. I’m the kind of strong that attempts the impossible, not because I believe I can do impossible things, but because it’s fun to try. I walked back to the start of the line. The Spartan women carried me, I carried all that hurt, and together we completed the obstacle.

I struggled many times that day. When I couldn’t carry the bucket of rocks, I nearly gave up. When I fell off the wall because I couldn’t support my weight on the little wooden blocks, I hated myself. When it took four Spartans to push and pull me over an inverted wall, the embarrassment almost crushed me. I picked the pain up when I had to, I put it down when I could, over and over that day. That’s how I made it to the finish line. That’s how a fat girl, with the audacity to show up, became a Spartan.

This race taught me so much. It showed me I’m strong, Spartan strong, in ways that matter more than how many pull-ups I can do.  I learned to focus on the process, not the problem. The biggest lesson, the most important one, is that we’re all just trying to get through the obstacles life puts in our way. If we work together, help each other, lend our unique strengths to one another, we’ll all make it. Maybe people did judge me that day, maybe it was all in my head. In the end, it didn’t matter. I jumped over the fire pit and crossed that finish line, fat and happy. Now, when I doubt myself, I look at my medal and I feel like I can do anything.

This is SPARTA!

It's been an amazing year for me! I've seen London, Boston and New York. I got to hear two of my favorite singers, Beth Hart and Beyonce, perform live. I tasted duck, veal, bangers and mash, and real New England Clam Chowder. I got to smell the Thames River and the English Channel and compare them to the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. I want to experience life with all my senses, though, and this weekend, I felt more alive than ever before. This weekend I became a Spartan. Aroo!

Before we were Spartans.

In a nutshell, Spartans are warriors! They train their minds and bodies to defeat all challenges put before them. Spartan Races are designed to test you physically and mentally. The Spartan Sprint at Fort Bragg is 4.4 miles long with 23 obstacles. It's one of the shortest Spartan Races and, according to the announcer, on some of the most level terrain.

Some of the bruises on my arm. I had lots more.

My leg bruise after a few days.

In the unlikely event you've never seen the movie 300, and you want to know a little more about what it means to be a Spartan, check it out.

Full disclosure, I am 36 years old, 5 feet and 3 inches tall, and I weigh about 240 pounds. I'm not exactly Spartan material. I registered for the race in January, expecting I would train for eight months before I made the attempt. I didn't train, however, and found myself facing this monumental challenge completely unprepared.

Lucky for me, two friends of mine were crazy enough to want to do it too. I wouldn't have made it without them, and Cosandra, Shaquetta, and I wouldn't have made it half as far as we did if not for Erica. It never fails to amaze me when God gives me exactly what I need at the exact moment I need it. Erica is a seventeen time Spartan veteran who just happened to sprain her ankle before the race. She met us by chance and struck up a conversation. Even with a sprained ankle, she could lap us, but she didn't. She stayed with us, offering tips, words of encouragement, and a firm shove to my backside when needed. (I needed several shoves to get my big ass over some of those walls. I'm surprised she didn't sprain her wrist.)

Our angel, our hero ... Erica!

A few of the obstacles didn't require much skill or strength, but made for a good time. We clopped through mud, went through and under a few walls, memorized a sequence (Sierra-738-4689), and pulled a trough of sand bags through the dirt, then dragged it back.

It was hard, I was hot, and it hurt, but I was having the time of my life!

Some obstacles presented more of a challenge, but didn't discourage me. We climbed vertical and slanted cargo nets, crawled downhill under barbed wire, hefted a fifty pound cement ball, carried twenty pound sandbags up and down a hill, and jumped over a fire pit!

I was wearing white socks, but they'd long turned brown by the time this photo was snapped.

Other obstacles, proved near impossible. At my height and weight, to get over the hurdles and walls would defy the laws of physics. I couldn't have done it alone, but I had a legion of Spartans around me. When the walls were to high, they lifted me. When the distance seemed too far, they carried me. And when my bucket of rocks got too heavy, Shaquetta emptied her bucket, so I wouldn't be ashamed to carry an empty one.

That bucket is empty. The grimace on my face is shame, not strain. I definitely got in my feelings during this obstacle.

Complete strangers passed with words of encouragement as we trudged from one obstacle to the next.

"You're doing great, ladies."

"Keep up the good work."

"You're almost there."

"There's beer waiting at the finish."

"You can do this."

Do you need a tissue? I did. I cried several times. After the rock bucket fiasco, I felt defeated, but with the love and support of my good friends, my new friend, and all those around me, I managed to pull it together and enjoy the rest of the race. At one point, Erica turned around and pointed out my big, cheesy smile. I can't lie, as hard as it was, as much as it hurt, as embarrassed as I felt about my weight and complete lack of upper body strength, I had the best time of my life!

Just before the end of the race, the second to last obstacle, I encountered the Slip Wall. Erica told me how to get to the top and her advise worked perfectly. Once you get up there, though, you have to let go of the rope and grab the wall to pull yourself over. My feet kept slipping. My hands burned on the rope. My lungs ached. My head swam. Next thing I knew, I was sliding back down the wall on my stomach. I laid there at the bottom, crying and trying to catch my breath without vomiting. I had nothing left. 

I wanted to feel like a failure, but I couldn't do that either. A dozen times that day, I did something I didn't think I could do. Before the race, I stood at the finish, looking up at that wall, knowing I'd never get up the rope. There I was, though, looking over the other side of that bitch. Aroo! So, I picked myself up off the ground, cheered Shaquetta on as she went up and over, and walked around to the other side. Cosandra and Erica were there, as supportive as ever, completely unaware of the Doubt Demons I'd buried on the other side of that wall, all by myself.

The fire burned hotter than I anticipated and, for just a single moment, I feared we wouldn't clear the hot logs. I worried for nothing. As with every other obstacle that day, we landed on the other side, a little dirtier, a little out of breath, a little changed by the experience, but smiling all the same. The fire is the last obstacle, and the one I looked forward to most. Shaquetta came up with the idea for us to hold hands as we jumped, and that made it the most perfect moment of the race. I only wish Erica had been beside us, but she'd already taken the leap.

Why is my mouth open?

It took three and a half hours! I kept searching the crowd for my mother and my nephews, who'd come to cheer me on. My nephew raced as well, on the kid's course. I thought they left. It's no easy feat keeping a 10-years-old and a 3-years-old entertained that long. Just as I approached, I heard one of my favorite voices in the world yelling, "Auntie!" I spun, arms raised, and used the last of my energy to run to my older nephew's waiting arms. I hugged him over the railing and cried again. I even managed to lift the younger one so he could hug my neck. After a long moment, I let the boys go and joined Cosandra and Shaquetta on the other side of the finish line I'd forgotten all about.

I'm not the only Spartan in the family!

My love and my light!

Most of you know I have fibromyalgia, a pain disorder that sometimes makes it uncomfortable to even be touched. I'm 100 pounds over weight and I haven't exercised in months. I look at the medal and I still can't believe I finished that race. I had a tremendous amount of help and I didn't do all the burpees I should have, but I gave it everything I had! When I look back, I can't think of a single moment when I could have tried harder, gone a little further, or done more. And, if I can do it, anyone can. I hope to see some of you at the next one! Aroo! Aroo! Aroo!