Dude, Where's My Butt?

March 2013 and I’m about halfway to my goal weight . So far, I’m down 20 pounds from my heaviest and have about 15 more to go. The last year or so has been an incredible journey, both physically and mentally.

The first Spartan Race was definitely the catalyst for this transformation, and the other races throughout the year gave me something to look forward to and work towards. When I knew I had a race coming up, I was on track. When I was on vacation at the beach, drinking margaritas every night or hanging out with friends over a couple pitchers of beer, not so much. The struggle is still in finding a balance between the wannabe-athlete-spartan-racer and the inner party girl. Still working on that.

Much like my diet, my exercise regimen has not been consistent for the last year. I had a six-month gym membership while training for my first racing season, then I decided to save the money and train on my own. This had mixed results. I live in an area with great hiking trails and amazing state parks nearby, so I was able to do quite a bit of hiking and running. I have a couple of kettlebells and some dumbbells, but I found that those did not get used very much when I was on my own. I would find a million other things to do rather than lift weights at home.

In December 2012, I tore the ligaments in my left hand and popped the joint sacs around the knuckles.  I thought it would be better in a few weeks, but it is now Mid-March,  my knuckles are still swollen and I have no grip at all. I have been to a sports medicine doctor, a chiropractor and an acupuncturist. They have helped (especially acupuncture) but they all tell me to be patient and that it can take a few months for a bad sprain to heal fully.  Between the hectic holiday season and the injury, I essentially took a couple of months off from working out altogether.

New Year’s Eve brought a big wake-up call for me – the sudden death of my cousin from a massive heart attack. He was 38. It was hard to look into a coffin and see someone a year younger than me lying there.

I joined a gym again in January. My 40^th birthday was approaching, and I was determined not to go into my forties being in bad shape. I can’t help being 40, but I can avoid being 40 and fat. Plus, the next racing season was coming up and I did not want to be the bloated, out of shape old chick huffing along the course.

While I tend to focus on how far I still want to go, I do need to stop and acknowledge how far I have come. There have been some amazing changes over the last year.

To begin with, I don’t beat myself up or put myself down anymore. Life has a way of doing enough of that. I am not one to sign on to the Oprah-style love yourself movement, but life is much better when you learn how to bitch-slap your inner critic into submission. It makes me incredibly sad to hear my friends constantly putting themselves down, especially about their weight, but that was me too a year ago.  

I also take a lot less crap from people than I did before. Maybe it is the newfound sense of being Spartan-tough, but my tolerance for BS has reached its limit. I accept that crappy situations and crappy people will always exist, but I do my best to avoid them. I no longer think it is my personal responsibility to change the world and all of the idiots in it.

The week after my first Spartan Race, I chopped off all of my hair and got a sassy new ‘do to fit my new attitude. I started making more of an effort with my appearance. I expanded my wardrobe beyond the standard mom clothes. I’m still not big on hair products or wearing a lot of makeup, but I try not to leave the house looking like a slob.

I am more grateful for my health and more willing to give up things that I know are not good for me. I’m not there 100%, but getting closer every day. I have come to truly appreciate how good it feels to feel good and very few things are better than that. Not even Girl Scout Cookies.

On the physical side, the biggest change has been losing the junk in the trunk. Yep, bye-bye booty. Hello skinny jeans - yes you, the ones that have been lurking in the back of my closet for years, because someday I knew we would meet again. Someday. Well, that someday finally came. And it was glorious. When I started this journey, I was muffin-topping out of a size 12. The day I could comfortably zip up a size 8 – well, mere words do not do justice to that feeling. At that moment, the skies parted, Divine light shone down upon me and a chorus of angels sang  Handel’s ‘Messiah’ in the background. OK, maybe that part was all in my head, but it was still pretty awesome. Those size 8s keep me accountable. If I fall off the wagon, they let me know. Right away. Without mercy. I had not been below a size 10 since high school. To be inching my way back to my former skinny self at age 40 feels great.

Before I started getting in shape, I pretty much had a big shelf-butt. I probably could have carried a cup of coffee on that sucker. Now, it is flatter, firmer and a couple inches higher than before. It actually stops moving when I do.

I can now comfortably clasp my bra without looking and feeling like a rubber band around a water balloon. The horrible feeling of the fat oozing above and below the straps, meeting in the middle on a bad day, is gone.

I have a collarbone. Haven’t seen that thing in a while. And I’m back down to one chin.

It is a strange thing to notice, but I finally have concave armpits again. I no longer look like I’m smuggling Grandma’s Bisquick dumplings under my arms when I wear a tank top.

I have some muscles in my arms and shoulders. Yes, me. You can actually see them. When I saw the after pictures from my second Spartan Race last weekend, I couldn’t believe that was me. I thought someone must have photoshopped  my head onto a fit person’s body.  No more flapping bingo wings.

My legs are definitely getting toned. All the running, hiking, squats and lunges have paid off. Maybe after a few thousand more, my thighs will no longer touch at the top.

The most stubborn part is the belly. When I started working out, I would put on my sports bra and workout pants and my midsection would ooze out in between, pale and doughy like someone had just whacked a tube of biscuit dough on the counter. My stomach is a bit flatter now and I am getting some curves back, but I still have a flabby marsupial pouch just under my navel. Most days I can tuck it down into the waistband of my pants and hold it in place with a belt to keep it out of sight.  No six pack here. Not yet anyway. You  might think "But you have twins, no wonder your stomach looks like that."  I adopted my kids, so I cannot use pregnancy as an excuse for this problem.

So, what’s next? Keep on keepin’ on, I guess. I really need to kick it up a notch and go full paleo on the diet, not just 75% like I have been doing. No more pitchers of beer. I need to make working out a priority and be consistent. After all, I’m paying for a gym membership, so I need to make the most of it. I am going to a friend’s wedding at the beach in two months. It would be so nice to finally be able to wear a real bathing suit. Not the fat mom one-piece with a skirt. And, I have a few races coming up so I need to be in tip-top shape for those. I just tackled my second Spartan Race (that story will be another post), I have the Badass Dash in two weeks, the Muck Run in May and the Mud Crusade in June.  I also have a house to maintain, a job with unpredictable hours, two kids with afterschool activities, and an impending move to juggle. Somehow I’ll get it all done. And I’ll be wearing my skinny jeans while I do it.

 

 

 

Mud In The Blood

 

After my first obstacle race, The Georgia Spartan Sprint, I looked and felt like I had been hit by a truck. The knees and elbows took the brunt of the abuse; they were black and blue and covered with scrapes. My ribs were bruised, I had a huge bruise across my abdomen and another big one on my inner thigh from heaving my leg over the walls. A lovely collection of cuts and bruises adorned my legs from knees to ankles and I was very glad that shorts season was a few months away. Every muscle in my body ached. For three days, every movement hurt and there were many moments in which I questioned my sanity.

 

 

 

However, the experience had left me with more than bruises. I had a sense of accomplishment unlike anything I had experienced before. I felt more alive than I had in a very long time. Finally in my life I had something new and challenging, something that made me push myself to do better and be better, and I was hooked.

As a kid, I had spent a lot of time outside - playing in the woods, wading in a creek or river and exploring the various wonders that only Nature can provide. Year round, I was in the woods getting dirty. I waded through the muddy riverbanks, grabbed crawfish with my bare hands, rescued a nest of baby flying squirrels after neighborhood hoodlums shot the mother with a BB gun and found out the hard way which plant was poison ivy. I  learned how to smell rain before it came, how the afternoon sunlight changed through the seasons, how the sky was bluer at certain times of the year. Then, I grew up and forgot about the lessons that Nature had taught.

On a muddy course in Conyers, in March of 2012, I became that kid again. I was no longer the weary and stressed-out mom, I was a girl with her feet in the mud. I was running in the woods, carefree and exhilarated. I was climbing and leaping over walls. I was double-dog daring myself to get up that rope ladder and see what was at the top. Something primal was unleashed in me that day and I wanted more.

The next mud run in my area was a local, family-friendly 5k called The Muck Run. I signed the whole family up for that one. My twin girls were 9 at the time and they wanted to do what Mom was doing. Plus, like all kids, any excuse to get muddy was OK with them. I was a bit worried that the course would be too long for them, but they did great. The obstacles were fun. The kids loved getting down in the dirt and thought it was hilarious that Mom and Dad were in the muck with them. They were determined to take advantage of the one day that their parents were encouraging them to get dirty and they must have gone through the mud pit six or seven times. It was an amazing experience. On that day, we all got to be kids again.

 

At the end of May was the Warrior Dash. Kris and I signed up and were joined by a couple of other friends, also first time Warriors. I had heard great things about The Warrior Dash and was excited to see for myself what it was all about.  The course was posted online, with pictures and descriptions of the obstacles, so we knew exactly what we were getting into. The Warrior Dash was so much fun! It wasn’t as intense as the Spartan Race and had much more of a party atmosphere. There were a lot of crazy costumes and people in their underwear. The weather was warm and beautiful and the race site was in the lovely north Georgia mountains. The obstacles were challenging, but there was no penalty if you were unable to complete one.  The knee injury I had sustained in March was still not 100% better, so I skipped the super-high wall and the fireman’s pole. I had been stupid to make the injury worse during the Spartan Race and I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. So, I avoided the two obstacles that had the possibility of a high-impact landing and did everything else. This course included a lake, so there were some water obstacles. Those were incredibly refreshing on a warm day.  The Warrior Dash organizers were nice enough to use ropes above the mud pit instead of barbed wire, and for that I was grateful.  We finished in 1:07 , less than half the time it took for the Spartan Race. We were able to use the lake to wash off the mud and grime afterwards, so no frigid hose torture at this one. After the race, there was a great hang-out area with live music, yummy barbarian food  like turkey legs and beer and some of the most entertaining people-watching I’ve ever experienced.  Once again, my legs and elbows were covered with scrapes and bruises, but not nearly as bad as the Spartan Race and the muscle soreness was barely noticeable, about the same as after a moderate workout. I don’t know if that was due to the course being  easier or that I was getting in better shape.  I still wasn’t completely on track with consistent diet and exercise, but I was making an effort.

 

The summer was brutally hot and it was also my super-busy season at work, so there was not another race for me until October. This was the Merrell Down and Dirty. It was held at the same venue as the Spartan Race had been, at the Olympic equestrian center in Conyers. This race offered the challenge of a 10K option, so we decided to go for it.  I had been pretty good about working out over the summer – not perfect by any means, but I had toned up a bit. My diet had gone off track after a trip to the beach and had not really gotten back to where it should have been. As a result, I felt OK going into the race but also mad at myself for not making better progress.

This ended up being my favorite race of the year. The early fall weather was warm and beautiful. Completing a 10K after only doing 5K races was tiring, but the obstacles were fun and I had my pals Kris and Lori with me. It was great to have company on the course, but there were a few times where we got caught up in conversation and forgot that we were running a race. The course was challenging, but there were plenty of helpers around to assist if anyone needed help. ( For soon-to-be cougars like us, it was nice that most of the helpers were buff college guys). I may not have been much skinnier for this race ,but I was much stronger. I was bounding over the walls with no problem. There was a tall rope net to climb, but instead of shipping containers, there was a big inflatable slide on the other side. Whee!  Our finish time was 1:55. We had actually completed a 10K obstacle course in under two hours. Not bad for a group of out-of shape chicks who were pushing 40.  

 

 

Invasion of the Body Snatchers by KD

 

I have been fit for most of my life. I started ballet at 4, gymnastics at 5, dabbled in running, hiked, roller bladed, and swam all summer, and skied all winter. I was voted Girl Athlete of the Year in 8th grade and competed in  and taught gymnastics all throughout my youth, high school life and college life.

                                 Glory Days 1989

 

I dated a personal trainer for a few years that had me up early on the weekends to cycle along

the hills along the Palisades and Hudson River. I took every new exercise class imaginable at Bally's from Bust your Gut to a step class taught by a HIGHLY energetic male flight attendant who wore those Richard Simmons striped shorts in pink and white and had us yelling YEEE HAWW as we swung our air lasso and rode our pretend horse around the step.

 

 

I was never skinny in the fashion model sense of the word, but at 5"3 and 125 pounds, I filled out my size 4 jeans quite nicely, thank you very much!  When I weighed 130, I looked about 118 because I have always had a lot of muscle, which we all know weighs in more than fat.  I am a German bred girl with huge calves like my Mom, a big bubble butt and muscular thighs which come from my Dad’s side of the family. I lifted a lot of weights for a time, and could easily bench 125 and 100 max on that peck deck machine thingy. I could leg press a good 225. My point here is, never in my wildest of dreams, or nightmares did I imagine that one day I would be wearing a size 14/16 and huffing like a dime store crack ho just walking up a flight of stairs. Not me!! As if!!! 

So what happened?!!? How in BLOODY HELL did I get to be THAT girl in the reflection of my mirror? Holy double chin Bat Girl! Call Michelin I think we found the new spokes person because this girl has plenty of spare tires, yes plural, to share! Wow!!!!!

If only I felt comfortable in white stretchy pants, hot pink half shirts and flip flops I could easily be one of those women featured in the “People of Wal-Mart” clips. You know the ones you view on Facebook where you sit in disbelief that people left the house like that. How did they let themselves go like that? Do they not own a freaking mirror?!? Where do you even buy spandex in that size!?!?!? 

BODY SNATCHERS!! OMG we must have been invaded by body snatchers!! My former fit self has been devoured by some Guinness drinking, chicken wing eating, blue cheese burger and French fry loving BODY SNATCHING HOOKER!!! She has transformed me from a svelte young Ellen Barkin in Sea of Love to a puffed up bloated Anna Nicole Smith on a bad binge day!!! Even my 34 C cup breasts, which I have to say were quite nice, have been changed into cannon size 38 DD’s. I fear that without intervention these once bodacious boobies have a future of sagging wearily, and in seeking solace and warmth will come to rest on the fold of my nearest tummy roll. For the love of everything good and Holy and how on earth did it all come to this hideous mess?!!?!

 

 From this      to this

Sure, I had a baby. I know many women blame their mommy pouch on their children. I however cannot use this as an excuse. I puked my freaking guts up for 9 months straight! I could look at food and puke. I have puked all over Atlanta and its surrounding suburbs. This is not an exaggeration. I lost about 16 pounds in my first trimester, and then gained it back, plus six. So essentially, I gained six pounds. I was overweight and out of shape before I got pregnant, so for me, again, no excuse. 

 

So, after two years of making up excuses for myself and being tired of looking in the mirror and not recognizing the fat girl staring back at me I decided to do something about it. September of 08 ', and I was 37. I started getting up before the crack of dawn to meet with my girl Keicha three to four times a week for a boot camp class that was held inside of a roller rink before it opened. We were out running, lifting, squatting, curling and crunching for an hour and were back home before our spouses or kids had taken a step out of bed.  

I was off to a great start! For three months we met in the early hours and hit it hard. I was feeling stronger, getting more toned and finally starting to lose the rolls that had accumulated around my mid section and settled in like unannounced redneck relatives at a Thanksgiving feast.  

 

It was December and a new year was coming. I was going to be ready to take it on by storm. We were going to do what many parents do and "try" to reproduce another offspring. The hope was to have another child to run partially naked through my home with my two year old daughter, giggling and causing a ruckus. Who wouldn’t want that?

Well, actually I know plenty of people that wouldn’t but that is beside the point.

 

It so happened that another plan was in store for me. I was going into a storm alright, and that storm has a name, cancer. I was diagnosed with Ovarian Cancer on 1/13/09. Game changer for sure, but I believe if I had not been working out as much as I was, I would never had been able to survive the shit storm of chaos I had coming to me. I had my wake-up call and by the grace of God was given a second chance to ride on this beautiful tide called life.  

I took some time off after cancer, or AC, and then turned 40 in September of 2011. I vowed that 40 would be my year to FINALLY get back into shape and start living the healthy life style that I enjoy.  By chance I reconnected with my girlfriend Jess on Facebook. It seemed we both were on a quest to find our mojo and clean up our acts, so to speak. Which makes it all the more funny that being “clean” is the farthest thing we ended up being on our journey to “Lipstick and Mud Pits”.

 

 

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A Girl Never Forgets Her First Time

It was awkward, it was painful and I couldn’t walk for three days afterwards.

Yep, that pretty much sums up my first Spartan Race, The Georgia Spartan Sprint 2012. As obstacle races go, this one is the toughest I’ve done yet. I probably should have done some research and eased into it with one of the less challenging races, but my approach to life is more along the lines of  ‘dive in head first and see what happens’. So, since the Spartan Race was the first one on the calendar in my area, that’s the one I did first.

To say the odds were against me would be an understatement. I had only been seriously working out for a couple of months, I could barely run for ten minutes straight on the treadmill and I had no upper body strength at all. On top of that, the week before the race, I was doing a trail run and tripped over a stump, landing in gravel and successfully removing most of the skin on my right knee. Yeow. Once I was certain that it was merely a flesh wound and my kneecap was more or less intact and functioning properly, I decided to suck it up, wrap it up and carry on.

I was fortunate to have found another brave soul, my friend (and now blog co-author) Kris, who was as willing to jump into this craziness as I was. Running with a friend was great, I would definitely recommend it to anyone who is new to this.

Springtime weather in Georgia is unpredictable to say the least. It can be 38 with freezing rain or 70 and sunny. We really lucked out for race day and got the warm and sunny. Traffic was insane and we had to park about a mile away and walk, so we had a nice warmup on our way into the venue. The air was thick with that special electricity that comes from anticipation and fear. As we got closer to the race site, we could hear the crowds cheering and see the mud-covered finishers milling about. My stomach was in knots.

 

Since traffic and parking had taken much longer than expected, we were rushing a bit to get checked in and ready by our 1:30 start time. We skipped the line for a timing chip. At that point, we weren’t concerned with our finishing time. Our goal for the day was simple: Don’t Die. I really just wanted to cross the finish line, preferably with all limbs intact.

It was interesting to see the different types of people who were doing the race that day. There were the Crossfit fanatics with the awesome bodies. They were inspiring and I wanted to be like them. There were also a lot of people who were older, overweight and obviously out of shape. They were also inspiring. I thought “If they can do this, so can I.” Then there were the super-fit moms in their little sports bras and short shorts, with their sculpted biceps, washboard abs and tight squat-butts. I hated those bitches. OK, OK, I didn’t really hate them. I hated myself for getting to the point where I looked and felt the way I did and they just reminded me of the path not taken.

When I got into the starting line, my chest was pounding, my legs turned to  jelly and I didn’t know if I wanted to throw up or pass out. Instead, the cannons boomed and I started running. We ran across a big open field, then had to crawl under a fence. Bang – sore knee hit the ground and  pain shot through my body. I hadn’t quite grown any skin back on it yet, but was counting on a waterproof bandage and elastic knee wrap to get me through the day.

The first obstacle was climbing over some barricades – easy. I was feeling good at this point, thinking ‘Yeah, I can do this’. Then came a long walk through a muddy creek. That was pretty much my favorite activity as a kid, so I enjoyed that part. Next was a set of walls to climb over. I think they were about four feet high, so not too bad. We were fairly confident about our chances of surviving the day.

Then came the net tunnel. There was no way around it, it was hands and knees all the way. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. The sore knee was screaming after being slammed into the hard ground a few dozen times, but I told it to shut the f*%# up and kept on going.

I almost had a panic attack when the next obstacle came into view. It was two shipping containers stacked on top of each other with a big rope net to climb up and over. No safety pads, no hay bales, nothing to break a fall. And, oh yeah, I am terrified of heights. As the blood turned to ice in my veins, I stopped for a moment to decide whether I wanted to face my fear or do 30 Burpees. Bravery (or stupidity) won out and I grabbed the rope. I took it one rung at a time, making sure that one hand had a firm grip at all times. Deep Breaths. Don’t look down. One more. Just keep going. I made it all the way up and finally felt the reassuring steel edge of the shipping container. I pulled myself onto the top to gather my wits while I had a solid surface beneath me. I felt triumphant, like I had just slain a dragon. Then I realized that I would have to swing around and do the same thing backwards and I almost peed my pants. But there was no turning back. I was shaking and terrified, but I did it. I backed that thing up, slowly lowered my legs until I felt the rope underneath and carefully released my death grip on the ropes above me. Back down. One rung at a time. Deep Breaths. Don’t look down. Then – solid ground. Yes! I did it!

Next were the higher walls. Luckily, Kris and I could work together for this one. There had been speculation about the Large Hadron Collider tearing apart the fabric of the universe, but that is nothing compared to two hefty chicks attempting this obstacle. If we didn’t break the laws of physics in hoisting our ample bootys  up and over a five foot wall, we surely stretched them as far as the elastic waist on our workout pants. Our plan was simple – one of us would kneel in front of the wall and the other one would use the outstretched leg as a step. We would step up, grab the top of the wall, swing one leg up and over, while praying that gravity would do its job and the ass and the other leg would follow. Somehow it worked.

Then came the baptism that would forever mark us as mudders – a 400-foot slimy pit full of Georgia’s finest red mud. Squishy, watery muck as far as the eye could see. And a nice net of barbed wire about 18 inches above the surface. I started with the army crawl. Belly to the ground, knees and elbows pushing me forward. Inch by muddy inch. Some guys around me were rolling through the mud. I tried it for a minute, but it made me dizzy and brought me a lot closer to entanglement in the barbed wire, so I went back to my belly. For once in my life, I was  thankful that I am flat-chested. I had finally found the one area in life where having no boobs was an advantage. As the more well-endowed gals struggled to keep their heads out of the barbed wire, I easily made my way to the end. I stayed well below the danger zone and emerged without a scratch.

The next challenge was a spear toss. Or more accurately, a broom handle with a nail sticking out of one end that we had to hurl at a target on a mound of hay bales. One try only. 30 Burpees for me.

30 Burpees is the Spartan Race penalty for failing to complete an obstacle. Burpees are basically a combination of a pushup and a squat-thrust thingy, sometimes with a little jump at the end. If you want to see the proper form, just google ‘how to do a burpee’. I think they were mentioned by Dante as one of the inner circles of hell, most likely the punishment for fat housewives who had let themselves go.

On to the slippery wall. We waded through a mud puddle, then had to pull ourselves up a slanted wall using a rope. I made it to the top then slipped backwards. With great effort, I made it to the top again and just as I was reaching up to pull myself over the wall, my feet slipped out from under me, my body slammed into the wall and I almost lost my grip on the rope. Then, my guardian angel appeared – in the form of a hunky guy who grabbed my arm and pulled me up. Thank you, whoever you are. I don’t think I could have made it up a third time.

For the next obstacle, we had to flip some tires. Piece of cake. Then a bucket full of concrete on a rope that we had to raise up about 15-20 feet and lower slowly back to the ground. No problem. I just used my big badonkadonk for leverage – bucket went up, bucket came down.  Then more walls. Then we had to drag a huge and heavy concrete block on a chain. It was impossible to find a comfortable position. If I put the chain over my shoulder it would dig into my skin. It wasn’t long enough to wrap around my waist. I finally had to walk backwards, pulling it along the best I could, like dragging a screaming toddler out of a public place during a trantrum. It was a battle to get that thing from point A to point B. For me, that was by far the most challenging obstacle. But I did it.

More walls, then Monkey Bars, which for me meant 30 more Burpees. Then the sandbags. We had to carry a sandbag up and down a big hill. I grabbed the sandbag, hoisted it onto my shoulders and started walking. I don’t know the exact weight, but it was heavy and I had to dig deep to keep myself moving up that hill. I saw other racers crapping out, dropping the bags to the ground and turning around to do the Burpees instead. I was determined that that wasn’t going to be me. One foot in front of the other. One step at a time. Focus. Almost there. Just keep going. At some point, a random song lyric popped into my mind, so I just went into the zone, using that as a mantra. I repeated the lines over and over in my head, kept my eyes on the ground in front of me and before I knew it, I was done. The feeling of accomplishment when I put that sandbag down was nothing short of euphoric.

The swamp was next. Wading through frigid, waist-deep muddy water wasn’t difficult, but I was glad that we were doing the course in the afternoon. It was warmer, and there had been hundreds of people ahead of us to scare off  the water moccasins. As I made my way through the murky water, I thought about the open wound on my knee and hoped that I wasn’t contracting the flesh-eating bacteria at that very moment.

At the super high walls, I decided that I had already conquered my fear of heights, so I had nothing else to prove. I took the 30 Burpees and moved on. Same thing with the rope climb. Another 30 Burpees. At the vertical wall, I acknowledged that there was no way on earth I was going to make it across a wall sideways on little pegs that were 1-2 inches thick at most. Between my size 10 feet , my jelly belly and my lack of upper body strength, it just wasn’t happening. I tried anyway, slipped off after two steps and did 30 more Burpees.

We were in the home stretch now. We had to climb up and through more shipping containers (Been there, done that, nothing to it) and the finish line was in sight. The only thing that stood in our way was a group of burly guys with big padded sticks. I was ready. Bring it on, boys. I gathered what little energy I had left and charged full speed ahead. Alas, they were gentlemen, and we made it through with barely a tap. Victory at last.

Crossing the finish line was amazing. When the finisher’s medal was draped around my neck, I felt like I had won a gold medal. I had done it. I didn’t die.  I was a Spartan Racer. Yes, me. It had taken about 2 and a half hours, but we finished.

 

 

The beer afterwards was the best beer ever. Adrenaline and elation must do something for the taste buds.

The clean up station was the most brutal experience of the day. Rows of garden hoses were available for washing off the mud, blood and whatever else you picked up along the way. That water was cold. Much colder than the swamp. I’m talking cut-through-glass-with-your-nipples cold. But, mud in your unmentionables is an even worse feeling, so cold water it was. At least enough to get the big clumps out. When I peeled the muddy wrap off of my knee, it looked like raw hamburger meat. But, thankfully, no flesh-eating bacteria.

 

The mile-long hike back to the car was painful. The sun was going down and I was chilled to the bone from the frigid hose water. My feet hurt and now that the adrenaline rush was wearing off, I was becoming aware of just how battered my body was.

A real shower ( possibly the best shower of my life ) washed away the rest of the grime and revealed the multitude of scrapes and bruises that I had acquired. To me, they were a source of pride. I had reached far outside of my comfort zone and had succeeded. I had the battle scars to prove it. Not just succeeded, I had totally kicked ass. I walked into it a frumpy middle aged mom and walked out a Spartan. A warrior. I carried a heavy sandbag up and down a big hill. I did something tough and scary and intimidating and didn’t give up. I faced my fears. I defeated my weaknesses.  I kept going, even when it hurt. I learned what I was made of and what I could do if I put my mind to it. After this, nothing was going to get me down. I mean, I did a Spartan Race – what could be worse than that?

 

Surviving The Mombie Apocalypse

Last summer, when some crackhead decided to eat the face off of another guy, everyone was wondering if this incident was the beginning of the zombie apocalypse. Since then, I have not seen a widespread outbreak of face-eating or reanimation of the dead, so I think it’s safe to assume that is not the case. However, there is another apocalypse upon us that is just as devastating, if not as drastic or newsworthy – the one I like to call The Mombie Apocalypse.

All across America, hordes of lifeless women are shuffling aimlessly through Wal-Mart in sweat pants and flip-flops, with muffin tops protruding from under their worn T-shirts and remnants of dried-up oatmeal or Cheerios in their hair. Their hollow eyes still hold a faint glimmer of the life that was before, but their muddled minds cannot grasp the magnitude of what once was, and so they shuffle onward, aisle by aisle. They trudge home, back to the demands of housework, jobs, children, and a thousand other mundane tasks that drain the life out of them, drop by drop. Then they do it again, day after day, year after year.

Somehow, through the haze of my Mombie brain, I realized that I had joined the horde. I was one of them. While waiting for my daughter in a department store, I caught a glimpse of myself in a full-length mirror. Pale skin, stringy hair, hollow eyes. It was like a scene from The Walking Dead. But it was real, it was me.

The mind-numbing routines of domestic life coupled with a few years of unrelenting tragedies and stresses had taken their toll. I was drained. Lifeless. Soulless. I existed, but I was not living. Day in and day out, I somehow managed to keep the laundry clean, the children fed and the bills paid. I was functional but not alive. Life was nothing more than a neverending to-do list. My health, mental and physical, was in the toilet. I was in my late thirties, depressed and overweight. Not hugely obese, I was in no danger of needing a scooter to get around Wal-Mart, but packing an extra 30-40 pounds of  blubber and misery.

One day, just before my 39^th  birthday in January, I decided I was sick of being life’s punching bag and I made up my mind to fight back. Life was short, I was pushing 40 and it was time for this Mombie to come back to life. I wasn’t going to eat any brains, just reclaim mine. So, I joined a gym. I started running. I signed up for a Spartan Race in March.

In those two months, I learned some things. I learned that running and swinging a kettlebell (NOT at the same time) are great ways to relieve stress. I learned that although there were many things in life I could not control, my health was not one of them. That was entirely up to me. I read The Paleo Solution by Robb Wolf and learned that everything I had ever been told about nutrition was wrong. I followed his advice and realized that when I ate better, I felt better.  When I quit putting crap into my body, my body quit feeling like crap. My mood improved tremendously, I had energy and finally, I was alive again. I had survived the Mombie Apocalypse.