This…Is…Sparta!: Finding Strength in New Experiences
Written October 2023.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a “muscle mommy”.
I was the scrawny kid growing up, with arms that would make spaghetti noodles seem thick. Cross country and track competitions were my bread and butter throughout high school, but that was the extent of my athletic ability. No push ups, no dead-hangs on a bar, or benching any weight if my life depended on it. The most “lifting” I probably did was carrying my textbooks from one class to another (I know, what a nerd). Because of this, I’ve never really felt like a physically strong person. I was always envious of people who could display sheer strength in this way, and on top of that I was embarrassed about lifting in the gym and struggling during simple exercises. This would be an opportunity to go outside of my comfort zone. No longer shall I be confined to my tiny-muscled prison of an upper body! Something had to change, but how?
You sign up for a Spartan Race with only three months to train, of course!
Why Spartan? After my first ultramarathon in March 2023, which you can read about here, I was eager to get my paws on more unique races. Something that was really going to push me, something that would make me reevaluate the way that I trained. Along came the world of Obstacle Course Racing. I knew what obstacle races like Spartan, Tough Mudder, and Vikings were, but I had no idea how competitive they really were. There are dozens of professional OCR racers who make a living winning these races. There are sponsors, conferences, racing series, the whole sha-bang. World-wide competitions are held for the best of the best. Mornings were spent listening to OCR podcasts, evenings after work I would eat dinner watching OCR comp videos like an IPad kid watching “Baby Shark” for the twlevemillionth time. This was exactly what I was looking for. With zero experience and a whole lotta hope, I signed up for a 10k Spartan race in West Virginia. Climbing, carrying, throwing, and pushing were not my specialties, running in the woods hoping I wouldn’t trip or pee my pants was. The next three months would be tough. It would take hard work, a new style of training, and a whole lot of protein powder…
While proofreading this next segment of the article describing the three-month period of training, I nearly fell asleep because of how monotonous it was. BORING! To save you from a nonconsensual nap, here are the shortened highlights:
Entered my gym bro era, starting with light weight workouts, arm and back mobility training, and intense ab workouts. I would graduate to heavier weights every two weeks, depending on the muscles worked. Lifts lasted anywhere from 45-90 minutes a day.
Became a huge fan of the rope-pull machine, this thing ROCKS. I would use it anywhere from 25 to 40 minutes a day.
I learned that you want to eat one gram of protein per pound of body weight, but it’s different for every person so DO YOUR RESEARCH. 4-5 eggs for breakfast, shakes throughout the day, ground beef or chicken for dinner (sorry vegans).
Doubled my overall calorie intake. Pretty self-explanatory, to add overall body mass you need to eat more.
I believed deep down that these were going to be the catalysts to my god-like physique. After four weeks, I saw little results. My arms were just sore, a kind of muscle pain that I was not familiar with. When I winced when moving furniture or carrying a box of paper to the printer, I would gaslight myself into thinking, “oh yeah, the lifting is working all right.” Just when I was considering smelling salts as a viable training choice, I began seeing results. I was consistently increasing the weights on all of the machines I was using, my shoulders and forearms grew a little bigger, and I could hang on a bar for two minutes. Eventually I was able to even do a single pull-up. Oh yeah! It took many self-conscious gym sessions feeling pathetic with my 15 lb medicine ball and 10 lb dumbbells, but I was actually starting to get stronger. Who knew?! After three months the time had come, and with sore muscles and high spirits I saddled up for my Spartan Race and drove to West Virginia.
The morning of the race felt unreal. The scene was like the Cornucopia from the first Hunger Games, filled with thick woods, rich green tones, and mist that clung to the Blue Ridge Mountains. Instead of a group of teenagers entering to kill each other, 2,000 people and I flooded through a huge tent to get our gear before we suffered together. It was time. I checked my shoes for the 50th time and put on my Spartan headband. In prison-like fashion, everyone was assigned a number that was sprawled over our bands. What was even more prison-like was the barbed wire maze we had to crawl under just to get TO the start line. We huddled into the Start corral, eager to start the adventure. After the signature “What is our profession?!” shpiel, we were off.
The running was fine. There were some hills here and there and the terrain was sticky with dew and mud, but nothing crazy. What was crazy was how I failed the first obstacle. Literally, the very first one. Not even five minutes into the race. Want to know what’s worse? The obstacle was monkey bars. MONKEY BARS! I’ll chalk it up to the morning fog that dampened the metal bars, but you would think that someone who can dead-hang on a bar for 2 minutes could complete something as simple as monkey bars! I shamefully opted for the penalty and continued on the course. The next three obstacles were up my alley. One wall climb, one ladder climb, one rope climb. Maybe the next would be easy too? Monkey bars again. This time they spin. Crap. Though I tried a bit longer on these bars it was to no avail. I had to take yet another penalty. Frustrated with the pattern I was developing, I approached the next obstacle. The Bender. Imagine a huge slanted metal ladder that goes up 20 feet in height. The goal is to jump high enough to grab the first bar, shimmy your body to the top like a slug, climb around, and jump down. Wowzers.
This is one iteration of the Bender via Spartan Race website.
I grabbed the first rung and tried to swing my leg up to wrap around it. No dice. Six minutes into trying to climb the Bender, and about to take a third penalty, I was suddenly struck by the presence of a guardian angel. I took two steps away from the obstacle before hearing in the distance “Don’t you dare leave!”. He looked like Danny Brown if he went to a David Bowie concert. A man with military boots, a pink tank top, red sunglasses, and a running vest with a portable speaker approached. His name was Mario, and while he was running at a leisurely pace and clearly having a great time there was no denying that he was an incredibly talented athlete. “Show me how you’re swinging,” he said. I did, to which he responded, “Try to jump, grab, and swing at the same time,” before proceeding to demonstrate perfectly what he was instructing me to do. This guy completed the obstacle in what felt like three seconds before he was back on the ground asking, “Can you try to do that?” Bro….. no.
A pair of ladies soon approached and demonstrated too. They completed the obstacle the same way the mystery man had and were sticking around to help me. Finally, I was able to get the motions right and climbed up the first bar. Mario and the two ladies were hollering. I reached the top and climbed over, completing the Bender. I was taken aback not only because I was so close to skipping this obstacle, but because of the unprompted kindness of these people. It was a powerful testament to what encouragement can do for others, even more because they could have easily gone through the obstacle and continued without stopping to help me. It is a race, after all. Instead they were uplifting another runner, and for that I’m so grateful for them. “You’ve got some catching up to do,” said Mario, a huge smile lighting his face. “Let’s go get it, girl!”
We left in a sprint, finishing three more obstacles including a difficult Atlas carry and the Z Wall. I made up some ground via running in-between obstacles and absolutely dominating the quarter-mile sandbag carry. I’m a mule, I’m a mule, I’m a mule. During this portion of the race I met another quirky character. He wore jorts and a ripped white shirt that had “Mini Sasquatch” scrawled on the back in thick black marker. Though we chatted about plenty of things, it slipped my mind to ask what his bizarre shirt meant…
Four more successful obstacles passed before I got to the Hercules Hoist. Pull a rope pulley to lift a 90 lb sandbag over 24 feet into the air. Like the Bender, I tried a couple of times and was left stumped. This was literally impossible, until I heard the faint and familiar sound of reggae music approaching. Once again, my guardian angel Mario seemed to materialize. “No, no! Put your legs up on the barriers! And tie the rope around your foot.” I planted my feet against the metal bars that protected the athletes from the falling sandbags while wrapping the rope around my left leg. “Now drop like a weight!” I straightened my legs and dropped down. The bag rose, not by much but still an improvement. My arms and legs were shaking at this point, but the stranger placed his hand on the rope to steady it. “I’m not going to hold it for you, you do that 5 more times and you got it!” Muscles straining, face grimacing as I struggled to slowly pull the bag up. Rope around the leg, drop, restabilize, repeat. My arms reaching one in front of the other to pull. Finally the sandbag hit the bell, and with a smile I released the rope. Again, I genuinely didn’t think I could do it. With the help and encouragement from Mario I was able to complete the Hercules Hoist. I thanked him again, wished him luck, and sprinted to complete the last bits of the race.
Three obstacles, one swim through mud water, one spear throw, and one epic leap over a burning fire later, I finished my first ever Spartan.
It all went by like a quick and indistinct blur. There were so many emotions, but overall I was feeling so grateful for those who encouraged me and proud of every individual who decided to spend their weekend having a crazy adventure. Over the speakers an announcer shouted the names of incredible finishers. Cancer survivors, people running for charity, amputees, and one woman who was 76 years old filled the ranks. 9-to-5er or elite athlete, everyone had completed the race together while providing help to one another and congratulating each other along the way. This was what it meant to be strong: testing yourself, trying something extremely difficult, and rallying others along the way. To be uncertain if you can even finish, and yet to try anyway. Even after months of training I had no idea how it would go, but because of my desire to make a change in myself I trained my ass off and it paid off. I was stronger than I had ever been in my life, and it was all because of this race.
No matter what it is, people need to occasionally do something that tests them. Historically-accurate Spartans believed that boys must go through rites of passage before becoming men, and though I don’t believe in sacrificing our children or going into constant war to prove ourselves worthy of being alive I think there is something rewarding in doing difficult things. You are a capable and strong person, have confidence in the fact that you can do anything.
Thank you to Joe De Sena for creating Spartan Races so I can be humbled by Monkey Bars.
Thank you Mario, I still imagine you frolicking on that course listening to some tunes in the woods.
Thank you to Mini Sasquatch for telling some funny jokes and making me question what your shirt meant.
Thank you to the ladies who helped me during the race, I hope your selflessness is repaid.
