Fenway Sprint- How do we measure success anyway? Also another chance for you to win free US Spartan race!

Dad and Yaz. As a kid, I never could pronounce his name.

"Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." Dylan Thomas.

Rather than braving the World's Toughest Mudder this year- a race that promised to be cold, miserable, and grueling- I opted to return from my injury at the Fenway Park Spartan Sprint. Just two weeks after the Red Sox World Series win, this was guaranteed to be a more pleasant return to the sport of self-inflicted punishment that I have missed so much for the last 2.5 months.

yeah, that is the World Series trophy. Bummed I missed that.

What I love so much about the Fenway race is the energy. Rex Sox fans and huge masses of people flooding into Fenway Park from the city of Boston (over 8,000 competitors in one day) guarantee a day of people-watching like no other. Men in Superman thongs,

While it might appear that the dude on the left is... well.. inappropriate- 
I am pretty sure this is a case of a misplaced, synthetic Red Sox beard. Photo Laura Messner

bearded ladies, superhero outfits and disguised superstars

(Andy Weinberg's daughter
 caught up with  Red Sox 3rd baseman
in his Spartan debut disguised in
body paint- Photo Sloan Weinberg) 

all guarantee that the day can never be boring. The race is FAST. Up stadium stairs jumping over dozens and dozens of rows of bungy cords suspended 12 inches off the floor, dozens of plyometric exercises squeezed between traditional Spartan monkey bars, rope climbs, sandbag carrys and wall ascents provide a high intensity frenzy that takes the athlete over every inch of the stadium in under an hour.

Additionally, this year was something special for me. My dad, who had planned to come to the World Championships in Vermont back in September before I had to bag out, finally got a chance to tag along with me to witness the madness. To add to the coolness of it all, dad has been a huge Red Sox fan as long as I can remember but has not been to Fenway Park in over 30 years. This event was one for the history books as far as I was concerned.

The race was as perfect as I had hoped. Even though I am still recovering from my injury, I made up for any lack in fitness with determination. After ball slams, water carries, stairs, walls, and more stadium stairs... I nailed the erg (rowing machine) that plagued me last year. Last year, this obstacle seemed unsurmountable to me. What I have learned since then is that simply rowing back and forth quickly does nothing to make the machine "row" faster. To row faster, you have to pull harder. Forcibly. While I suspect I was probably pretty close to the 2 minute/500 meters limit, I'll never know as I did not receive the 30 burpee penalty at this obstacle. I did miss the spear throw, but somehow I have come to expect that. Self-fulfilling prophecy, I suppose.

I finished the race feeling great. A perfect end to a perfect day. Oh, wait, it was still before 8am. But a perfect ending anyway... until I made the only mistake I made all day. I checked the results before I left.

When I entered my name and bib number hoping for a top-10 finish, the computer screen came back with a placing of 18th elite female. Eighteenth? How could this be? I replayed my race in my head. I ran as fast as I could. I nailed every obstacle save the spear toss. I executed each of the plyometric exercises with precision and strong form. Eighteenth place? This was my worst placing EVER in a Spartan Race. For a moment, I felt like the day had been a failure.

I shook it off and dad and I went about our business of being tourists. Pictures on the Red Sox dugout. Dad imitating Yaz outside of Fenway Park. Being with one of my favorite people on our own adventure together unlike any we had had in years quickly brought me back to my happiest place and we enjoyed our day together as if I had won. But I didn't want to think about the race.

Red Sox fans out in full force

But didn't I win? I mean, I ran my best, nailed the strength part of the contest, and kept my focus in an all-out-sprint effort, which is always my kryptonite. I was SEVEN minutes faster than I was last year (in which I placed 7th place in the event). It may be that this year's course was shorter? Likely, it was. However, my effort was nearly 2 1/2 minutes faster per mile than last year, so clearly, I HAD improved (last year I took two penalties since I failed the erg challenge). In comparison, the winner of last year's event was only about 2.5 minutes faster or 40 sec/mile faster this year. Clearly, my impression that I had improved was not totally misguided.

But why did I allow myself to determine my own success relative to the competition? Is being beaten a failure if you have improved? This begs the question, would I rather win a race because the competition never made it to the starting line or have a PR and be beaten? Which progresses me more as an athlete?

Well, I wasn't prepared to answer that myself until the following day. One of my favorite OCR friends and 2X reigning World's Toughest Mudder, Junyong Pak, was beaten for the first time in 3 years at his title event. He didn't fall short, in fact, he went further than he ever had on a course that was arguably harder. He simply was bettered by someone who either had better training, a better plan, or was just better for the day. It was as simple as that.

Do I respect Junyong less because someone out there beat him? Absolutely not. His athletic endeavor is no less impressive to me than if he had been untouchable.  I know him well enough to know that his concessions to the winner after the event are genuine and honest. His sportsmanship, however, is one that may be unmatched in the sport and for that I am in awe.

Junyong, conceding the win.

So, it looks like if I am going to be in the top 10, I am going to need to step up my game as more athletes rise to the challenge. But really, I have no one to answer to but me.





And I killed it this weekend.








So, if you haven't raced a Spartan Race, or are totally hooked already, don't miss the airing of the World Championships on NBC Dec 7 from 4-5 pm. Also, enter here for my free giveaway for any US Spartan Race in 2013 or 2014 @

Spartan Race giveaway raffle

Giveaway ends Sat Nov 23, 2013.

2013 Death Race recap. Part III (of 3): Leave It to Me To Be The First To Almost Actually Die At The Death Race

Reservoir punishment. Photo Pittsfield General Store.

"Life begins at the end of your comfort zone." 
-Neale Donald Walsch

The swim was a 1 mile loop that went nearly across the reservoir and back. Lifejackets were mandatory for all racers, which turned out to be an epic source of chafe for many of us. Personally, I enjoyed the swim. Being able to move in the water made it seem much less frigid, despite the fact that my body temperature had dropped significantly before the swim commenced. After a second mile loop, each racer spun a wheel to determine their fate: another swimming lap, permission to head back to Pittsfield, or a DSQ. I was fortunate enough to be able to return to Pittsfield without a third mile- at this time I was also informed that my punishment had still not been served: I would have to return the long way back over Bloodroot Mountain. After changing into dry clothes, I knew Stacie would soon be handed the same fate, so after she changed and packed up we were off to Bloodroot. It was at this point in the race that I had real doubt that I could finish the race. The last I had heard, the next cutoff would be in Pittsfield at 2 pm. Nearly 8am already, I doubted this would be possible. The first few hours of this hike were the most difficult for me: not physically, but wrestling with the idea that I had taken myself out of the event when we took that wrong turn the night before. I know many people like to say that that the Death Race is unfair. Sometimes, it isn’t fair. But this was my own fault. I shouldn’t have lost sight of the group. I had no one else to blame. I tried not to let negative thoughts take over, but they were there. After covering a few of the miles fighting our own self doubt, Stacie and I decided that our only option was to hustle. As we covered the miles through some of the sloppiest, muddy, buggy terrain, our spirits lifted and we both felt confident that the unknown was not to be feared.

Bloodroot Mountain took its toll on many racer's feet.
Photo matt Davis.

We would cover the 20+ miles back to Pittsfield through knee-deep shoe sucking mud, over Bloodroot mountain in the baking sun with 40ish pound packs and swarms of tiny black flies feeding off of us in just about 6.5 hours. The only times we stopped were to access food in our packs and to take care of our feet. Stopping for proper foot care along the trail would pay back huge dividends later in the day when continuous thunderstorms would plague us once again. Afraid of a 2 pm time cutoff, I covered the last 5 miles in a light jog- this would be where Stacie and I would cover the remainder of the race separately. I had no doubt that she would make it without me. 

When we arrived at the next challenge, I learned that the cutoff time was actually 6 pm. Having made the cutoff at only 2:30, things were pretty comfortable. Our challenge was to begin by retrieving 8 logs from a wood pile and split and stack them. The catch: log retrieval required a full submersion through a mud and fertilizer pit under a wall.

That mud was really effective at messing with contact lenses.
Photo Peak Races

After splitting the wood, our ankles would be lashed together and we would have to hop up a steep hill about 1/3 mile to a memorization task that would require correct answered at the bottom. Failure to answer the question correctly meant another trip up the mountain with ankles lashed. Breaking the ankle straps meant beginning back at the wood task. It took a surprisingly long time to hop up the mountain. My calves were shot requiring frequent rest breaks. When I arrived at the top, my contact lenses were so caked in mud that I had to wait for other racers to move away from the board so I could see the tiny writing. I studied the board carefully the "Bones Dice Game”- memorizing every detail from the type of plastic used to hold the notecard and it’s dimensions. On my way back down the mountain, I nearly became the first racer to ever die in the Death Race: certainly not the way I had envisioned my day ending.

More wood splitting. This time I forgot my gloves.
Photo Valerie  Moreno-Hardison.

I must not have noticed the approach of the epic thunderstorm that was about to swallow up the little town of Pittsfield, but when it hit, it was something I will never forget. The winds blew in without warning and the tops of the 125-150 ft. tall pines began violently swaying above me, cracking as they were tossed about by the storm that raged above. With my ankles lashed together, I surveyed the area to see where to go in the event of some kind of trouble. No obvious safe haven jumped out at me. The rains poured down and the wind became more intense until finally I heard the unmistakable crack of a tree somewhere above me that was going to come down. Another racer just above me on the trail yelled for me to get out of the way, but with the driving rain and grit in my eyes I could not distinguish which tree was the biggest danger or in which direction it would soon fall. I dropped one of my walking sticks and scrambled to

Solo still smiling in one of the downpours.
Photo Matt Davis

the downhill side of the largest tree I could find. I hoped that if the tree came down on this one it would be strong enough to remain standing anyway. Within seconds, a large tree above me broke about 50 feet from the ground creating a widowmaker across the trail. A few moments later, the other racer that was with me (I wish I knew his name, but I was too frazzled), started down the trail in the driving rain and wind. I begged him to stay with me for just a few more moments until the storm had passed and the danger was gone. He somewhat reluctantly agreed, if nothing more than to humor me. No more than 10 seconds later, the tree broke a second time and smashed across the trail about 15 feet below us, ironically on top of the walking stick I had abandoned just moments before. 

I clung to the tree for what seemed like a long time before venturing on down the hill. Despite an uncontrollable shake in my left arm, I composed myself long enough to correctly answer the memorization task, gather my gear and head for another 5 mile round trip up to the summit of Joe’s mountain. At the summit of the mountain in Shrek’s (Joe's) cabin was a stove.

We would later be asked questions about the stove to ensure that we had actually made the trip. Despite the monsoon that had now completely overtaken Pittsfield, I snapped a few photos of the stove and returned through a torrent of water as it washed out many of the beautiful landscaped stone stairs we had worked on during the first day and night of the event. I then headed up the road to the iron mine to collect my final set of poker chips- a round trip hike of an additional 6 miles.

View from inside the iron Mine. Photo Peak Races.

I believe there was another time cutoff here at the mine at 10 pm. I arrived around 8 pm or so, but felt good and continued to move at a steady slow jog regardless. 

The final task of the day was to return to Riverside farm where we would endure poker PT. Poker PT required each athlete to select a card from a deck of cards and then complete the exercise indicated by the number on the playing card. For example, and Ace was 100 cartwheels (I remember that clearly because I got that one twice), other exercises included a 5 minute plank, 100 squats, 50 flip-flops, 50 Turkish get-ups, 100 bent knee sit v-ups, a bear crawl, a swim in a cold pond, 500 jumping jacks, hill repeats, and others that I can’t possibly recall. A PT session was concluded when 13 cards had been drawn and exercises completed. I am not sure how long this all took, probably nearly 1.5-2 hours or so. 

Amelia and I after finishing up the final challenge. Four women in the top 10 finishers, proud to represent the ladies! Photo Matt Davis

At 10:30(ish) I completed my PT session and was told to return in the morning at 6 am to the casino with my tuxedo for poker. This was about 62 hours from when my journey had begun and I was ready for bed. Ironically, I had felt great until the second set of cartwheels, somewhere in the middle of my PT session. Somehow, the cartwheel managed to hurt everywhere: from my hands to my toes. At the hotel, I attempted to shower, but found no hot water in the shower at the hotel, so I slept anyway. I felt kinda horrible about what the pillow looked like in the morning when I got up. Oops.

My apologies to housekeeping at the Swiss Farm Inn.

The casino was a bit of a circus. Those of us who had collected poker chips at every challenge were sent into the casino one by one first to play a game of hi-lo against the dealer. After losing 5

Waiting outside the casino to see what was to come next.
 Photo Courtney DeSena

consecutive games of hi-lo at the the barbed wire crawl, I was pretty sure this one was rigged too. While I lost my first chip (my yellow chip from the swim) to dealer Chris Davis on my first try, I beat him handedly in an all or nothing second round to collect my finishers skull. 

In the days since the race I have heard all sorts of confusion about what went on in that casino. Evidently, there were some dirty dealers. I don’t know. What I do know is that this weekend delivered all that was promised. Once again, Spartan Death Race, you forced me to look beyond what I see everyday and into the depths of the human condition. Well played, sirs.

Gotta love Amelia's tux. The top hat was a nice touch.

I conclude this post with another from fellow Death Racer Will Bowden.

Life changes...evolves. I was reminded of this concept several times during the race. It comes to this...life, and all situations therein, are as simplistic or complicated as we allow or want them to be. We can stop, pause or break...or we can decide to push on, when circumstances appear unbearable and impossible. For, there is always a way...if we want it. 

But, there is no shame in coming face to face with a boundary and choosing not to cross it. Showing up is amazing all in itself. 

This race was the epitome of life. For life, is not smooth, nor planned. it is how we respond that tells all. There are those who will understand, those who will eventually learn and those who (unfortunately) will never get it. 

This race was a game changer for me. Any situation that brings you to your mental or physical boundaries (or both) and allows you to decide if you want to hold short or cross them and create a new boundary will always change the core of your being. The Death Race did just that. 

Life is awesome...always. I will always remember the power of a smile as I continue this journey. 

"I'm pretty tired... I think I'll go home now."- Forrest Gump

Ready for a nap. Who could ask for a better crew? Photo Christian Hrab

Death Race 2013. Part II (of 3): Chillin' at Chittenden Reservoir

Chittenden reservoir in the early AM. Photo credit Peak Races

As the 8 pm cutoff came and went, we lined up to prepare for our hike to Chittenden reservoir over Bloodroot mountain. I had been over Bloodroot once before in the 2012 summer Death Race and recalled that it was a long (20+ miles), tedious hike that followed the Long Trail for much of the distance. Embarrassed that my original rock had been smashed to pieces, I hastily grabbed a stone from the driveway at the farm and lined up with the other athletes. Joe carefully inspected each racer’s rock and gave me the hairy eyeball as he inspected mine, which was clearly too small. I admitted that I had just grabbed a new rock because my original rock had been crushed in the barbed wire crawl and agreed to get a larger one before departing. As the group began to depart from Riverside Farm, I found myself scrambling along the roadside for larger rock that would not be inadequate for the task. I grabbed a large, heavy chunk of quartz from the hillside, got it checked and headed off with the first part of the group departing.

Racers headed off to Chittenden with rocks. I can identify Amelia, PJ, Don and Ken amongst the group.
 Photo Peak Races.

As the hundred or so remaining racers headed off into the night, I tried to find a comfortable position to carry my new rock in. It had no rough edges to grab on to, and was smooth and round from years in the riverbed. I tried to use webbing to secure it somehow in front of me, which was futile with a smooth, round rock, especially now that it had begun to rain. As I struggled to find some way to carry the rock, a small group splintered off the front of the pack and their headlamps disappeared in the far distance. My friend Stacie and I decided that we didn’t need to travel at the blistering pace of the lead group anyhow and settled into a comfortable fast hike. As we arrived at what appeared to be the end of the dirt road, an old man stopped us for 50 push ups with our packs on and directed us to a trail that followed the river. Shortly thereafter, we came to a to a trail junction. To the right was what appeared to be an old road- to the left a trail through the long grass with a sign marked “Chittenden reservior”. We headed up the trail towards Chittenden and soon found more pink streaming flagging tape, providing confirmation that we were headed on the correct trail toward Bloodroot. I vaguely recognized the trail from the summer before, but the fog and driving rain in the darkness of the night made it difficult. I continued to struggle to find some way to carry my rock. It was wet and kept sliding down my arms, forcing me to use my forearms to support much of the weight. At one point, I stopped and put the rock in my pack. It seemed like the only way that I was going to be able to get to the reservoir without leaving it behind. Oddly, as I resumed hiking with the rock in my pack, a weird sensation overtook me that I could not ignore. I began to wonder: why am I here? If I am here to complete this race for me and me alone, why do I feel that I need to cut a corner to make this adversity easier? Who cares if no one else knows? I know. And that really is all that matters. I stopped and gathered the rock from my pack and put it back in my arms. 

Shortly after, we were caught by Dan and Brian from behind, and the 4 of use continued on through our second consecutive night through the darkness together. I knew the route to the reservoir would be at least 20 miles, so we determined that we would arrive at the reservoir with less than an hour or so to spare before sunlight. We hustled, hoping to catch some of the stragglers off the group in front of us. We hiked up a mountain, through grassy snowmobile trails and muddy never ending trails, but were not able to catch anyone. I started to wonder if we were going the right way....

The 4 of us continued to follow the pink flagging tape in the fog and darkness for hours, stopping for 2-3 minutes every hour for fuel and electrolytes. After about 15 miles, we did eventually arrive at the reservoir. It was a little before 2 am and there was no sign of anyone else. As we approached the camp at the end of a long driveway, it became clear to me that we we were in the right place, but not at the right time. We had not taken the trail over Bloodroot Mountain as the others all had. Robin and Melissa Crossman came out of their cabin and told us that other groups had also lost some hikers and had doubled back to move as one group.

Stacie and I looking bewildered about something.
This wouldn't be the frist time, nor the last. Photo Chad Weberg.

We must have made our wrong turn before the group doubled back and had gone undetected all of this time. I knew this was not good for us. Not good at all. While the Death Race is not designed to be fair.... no one gets away with finishing a Death Race while having missed 5 miles of extra hiking and Bloodroot Mountain. Worse yet, the next challenge was a swimming challenge, and we would never be allowed to leave without doing it first. Oh, and no swimming before sunrise. The earliest we would be allowed to start our swim would be after 6 am. So what for the next 4 hours? I asked Robin if we could just start doing our burpees now. I figured there would be thousands of them.

Unfortunately, they had a different plan for us. It would involve cold water submersion and lots of it.

While Brian decided to hang it up at this point salvage what was left of his feet at the fire, Dan, Stacie and I were sent to stand in the reservoir. We huddled together in silence for thirty minutes in the water, followed by 50 frozen-calf-wrenching burpees and a 5 minute break. Repeat. As we continued on this cycle, other racers slowly began to filter in.... those who presumably had also become lost and wound up on the same trail as us.

More racers arrive at Chittenden to learn of the burpee/soaking penalty.
Photo Valerie Moreno-Hardison

The group grew larger over time until eventually reaching 18 or so racers by 6 am. While it was utterly amusing to watch, one by one, as the guys fell asleep only to be jolted awake by their swaying bodies, it was also getting pretty chilly after multiple submersions into the water. By my 3rd hour, my lips were as blue as my little fleece hat, my hands and feet shriveled and punky, and my teeth chattered almost uncontrollably (I could stop them if I focused hard enough- which was the basis I used to convince myself that I was not hypothermic). The one saving grace for me was the the intervals seemed to be getting shorter- our last submersion lasted a mere 12 minutes.

One of the last water submersions at Chittenden before the sunrise.
Photo Valerie Moreno-Hardison.

We watched the headlamps of the larger group of racers as they descended towards the reservoir in the darkness. It was sometime around 6 or 7am that we were finally sent up the driveway to fill our backpacks full of stone to bring back to the cabin. We were relieved of our driveway duty and sent to finally move to the next task: the three mile swim.

2013 Death Race journey Part I (of 3): The Stairway to Heaven

"Hours slide by like minutes. The accumulated clutter of day-to-day existence- the lapses of conscience, the unpaid bills, the bungled opportunities, the dust under the couch, the inescapable prison of your genes- all temporarily forgotten, crowded from your thoughts by an overpowering clarity of purpose and by the seriousness of the task at hand..."- John Krakauer, Into the Wild

The finished stairway to heaven.... Photo Chad Weberg

The first 36 hours...

Heading back to Pittsfield for the Death Race a second time was very different from my trip last summer as a death race rookie. I can’t say that it was easier, or harder, just different. I knew a little better what to expect from Joe and Andy, from myself, and from the experience of being awake and pushing my body for about 3 days without rest. Some of this knowledge gave me solace while some gave me things to worry about that I was oblivious to last year. I came last year to prove something to myself. I wasn’t sure exactly what, but I knew that I needed to be pushed out of my comfort zone and that the Death Race was going to do that. Having now accomplished that and more, I felt I had nothing to prove this year. I came back simply to revisit some of the things I learned about myself and for a chance to reconnect with the death race community that I had grown to love so deeply. 

Michael Mills, the first ever paralyzed DR participant, gets a little help from Steve and Mark Webb. The DR wouldn't be what it is without people like this.

In the weeks leading up to this year’s event, I must have been asked 1,000 times whether or not I was hoping to win again this year. Those who know me or understand this race will believe me when I say that winning the race couldn’t have been further from my mind. In fact, winning the race last year was really an accident. Being the first woman to cross an imaginary finish line, while a nice honor, was never the intention or motivation to do this race. Returning in 2013, it was no more of a motivator than in 2012. I never came to this race to compare myself to anyone else. This one is for me, and I have always seen successful completion of each challenge as the goal. This year, meeting time cutoffs and the threat that only 40 finisher skulls would be available would add a new element of a competition to the challenges. However, the idea of sprinting past a competitor in the final minutes or hours to arrive at the finish first was still never really a motivator. 

Scenic Riverside farm- photo credit Chad Weberg

After taking care of family arrangements on Thursday before the race, Dave and I arrived at Riverside farm early Friday morning. I felt as ready as I could be for what was to come and looked forward to what was in store for the weekend. It was a beautiful sunny morning and the racers were anxious and excited to reconnect and get started. After some of the usual shenanigans of digging, lifting heavy things, chopping and other chores, we were broken into 10 separate teams and assigned a section of trail to move rocks into place to create a stone staircase to the summit of Joe’s mountain (which would make a path about 1 mile long). My team of 20, Team 6, quickly gelled into a fine working crew. Since some of the rocks were upwards of several hundred pounds, we used large metal poles as levers. The poles also served to allow up to 7 of us to share the weight of each stone as we moved them up he hill. The boys named each of the rocks, mostly after women. I worked primarily on digging detail- working to dig out flat surfaces to place the large stones in and help work them into position. The task was arduous and a bit mind numbing. I dug holes, dug them again, and moved rocks with the boys for about 20 hours straight. At one point late into the night, I was even elevated to the status of a “fatherf*cker” (as opposed to mutherf*cker due to my feminine nature). Needless to say, that was quite an honor. We hayed and seeded the entire trail and returned to the summit of Joe’s mountain shortly before sunrise to wait for our next assignment. The early morning sky was spectacular. All of the athletes were told to lay quietly with their headlamps out until given further instruction. While I know many took advantage of this opportunity for a cat nap, I chose remain awake and soak it all in, knowing I would likely never again have the opportunity to revisit this moment.

As the sun rose on Saturday morning, we moved on to more chores. Backpacks full of rocks were moved up bike paths and assembled into piles. Big rocks, crushed rocks, and all sizes in between. Eventually, other remaining athletes were moved down the hill to help move the remaining stone until the job was complete. 

Kelli preparing to take a full load of rocks up from Tweed Dr.

Next task, yep, more rocks. This time, just one. I chose a nice piece of shale from a nearby stream as mine. My rock had a nice shape that was relatively easy to grip without cutting my arms too badly, so I was satisfied. These rocks would stay with us for the next 12 hours or so. We were instructed to follow a path marked with pink and orange flagging tape that was mostly a bushwack hike back to Amee farm with our rock held in front of us. We were instructed not to put it down or carry it on our shoulders or we would face punishment. Those who did were sent to a labor intensive yard work session somewhere up on the mountain.

Upon arrival back to Amee, the next task was wood splitting. Thirty rounds were to be split & stacked and some carried up to a shed across the road. As usual, the farm was utter chaos.

Chaos woodsplitting at Amee. That's me in the orange shirt. Photo Chad Weberg.

Axes flying, latecomers stealing wood from athletes who arrived earlier to avoid splitting the large, knotted rounds left in the pile and mass confusion. Joe and Andy thrive on confusion and I fully expected this to be part of the race. Some were rattled by the confusion, uncertainty and apparent unfairness of it all. I actually made good time on the rounds and found the splitting task a nice break from carrying rocks. Carrying the rounds to the shed in the heat was a challenge, but not unmanageable. 

Bringing loads of wood up to the shed at Amee farm.

Barbed wire- working together with Will and Stacie.

Although it took hours, eventually the wood task was complete and we were sent back up to the top of Tweed Dr. (4 miles maybe). We hiked with our rocks to the barbed wire challenge. The sun was still blazing and I hoped for rain. In retrospect, that was probably a bad idea. Each racer would crawl under a barbed wire maze through a ravine for about 200 yards where they would retrieve a playing card and return back through the barbed wire for a game of hi-lo with the dealer. If you won, you were done. If you lost, back for another card. Of course, I lost every time. Five laps total through the barbed wire, the first two dragging gear and the final three without. While the first two laps were harder because we had to drag our cumbersome packs (we were permitted to put the rock in our packs), the final 3 presented their own challenge because the barbed wire course was now completely jammed with racers. Many would pull the barbed wire over their heads and packs and then release the string of wire to snap back like a tree branch oblivious to the others near them. I have always struggled a tad with claustrophobia when in close quarters with too many people, adding barbed wire certainly heightened that anxiety for me. I tried where I could to be helpful to other racers entering the challenge with their packs, but I also felt a need to hustle through this part of the course to avoid being a barbed wire casualty.

Barbed wire with our inevitably losing playing cards in our teeth.

After the 5 laps were complete, we headed to Riverside farm. There would be an 8 pm cutoff and any time that remained could be used in any way we wanted for those who arrived early. It was 5:30 when we arrived, so I used the time to change and clean and dry out my pack that was completely soaked from the barbed wire fun. While some of the contents of the pack were also soaked (some of my food... boo), most stayed quite dry in ziplocks inside the pack. Sadly, my lovely rock was pulverized inside the pack from being dropped multiple times in the barbed wire ravine. Unfortunately, I would not be smart enough to search for a new one until it was nearly too late...

Training Weaknesses

Today's brief post is about training weaknesses.  As we prepare Shelley for the Fuego y Agua Survival Run, we have taken a look at where we can make improvements in Shelley's overall fitness and athleticism.

We know what her strengths are, Long Slow Distance.  Shelley can go forever, both physically and mentally, as she clearly demonstrated in her Spartan Death Race win.  It is important to continue to train to your strengths, after all, that is what is going to continue to bring you success.  Additionally, it is probably what you like to do, your strength.  It is much harder to get out of bed in morning to go do the workout you are not good at.

While Shelley has good balance and above average athleticism, she could use improvement in these areas.  When racing in variable conditions, it is VERY important to have sure footing.  In these races, every step is expended energy.  If a racer can limit the number of times they slip, loose balance, or have to slow or stop due to unsure footing, they will expend less energy and maintain a better pace.

With this in mind, we perform various foot work, agility, and balance drills such as using a agility ladder, lateral shuttle runs, karaoke, and balance drills such as this one:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cqlUJgPC-eQ&feature=youtu.be

This drill starts with a lateral bound, working lateral power.  The landing builds lateral stability and balance.  The airplane builds posterior strength and the pistol squat builds quad and glute strength, all while improving balance.

Stay tuned for more on how to train for obstacle course races and improve your athleticism.

Fun with Turkish get-ups

Aaron Solomon NASM-CPT

Little Spartans @ Fenway Park

Mom always says....

It is 5:30AM on Sunday, November 19 when the alarm sounds at our bedside in a hotel in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Immediately, I remember that I have to wrangle two sleepyhead children out of their slumber, get them dressed and fed and be out the door in less than 30 minutes. Let the shenanigans begin. I open my eyes to find every light in the hotel room is already on and my 6 year old daughter is peering under my nice warm blankets waiting. "You awake mommy?" Our 8 year old son Noah is already dressed and having breakfast.

Fenway Park all to ourselves? Woah.

This is a morning my kids have been looking forward to for quite a long time: the morning of their first Spartan Jr. Race. For weeks, they have insisted that I provide them with WOD's consisting of burpees, rope climbs, squats, lunges, pushups and whatever I can think of to occupy them. The morning has finally arrived and they are ready to go. Now.

While the kids' race is not scheduled until noon, I have signed myself up for the 8:30 time trial so we hit the road and search what seems like all of Boston for an attended lot where we can safely leave our dog in the car with the windows cracked. My husband Dave has somehow agreed to play gear and snack sherpa for the day while the kids and I indulge in a morning of play. Arriving at Fenway is immediately like a high school reunion of friends from earlier races colliding with memories of Red Sox games. An eclectic mix of emotions and memories. Realizing that I don't have the privilege to chat and soak up the moment as we are already running late for my heat, I quickly move through the 4 different registration lines we need to get us all set up. Waiting until the last minute to do this stuff = bad call. Bibs, numbers, t-shirts, snacks, photos, water, more photos...check... finally we head into the park, chatting and catching up wherever I can (and probably driving my husband nuts).

A stow away child in the starting corral.

And back over the barriers you go, kid.

The kids are warmed up and ready to race. But it is my turn first, so Dave psyches them up as my personal cheering squad, which seems to be a welcome distraction. Daddy= 1. Kids = 0. As I line up for my 8:30 heat, the kids are beside themselves with excitement. Charlie even decides to try to stow away into the adult heat multiple times while I continually lift her back over the barriers back to the spectator viewing area. Was I supposed to be doing something? Oh yeah, I never warmed up. At all. Crap.
Do child raises count?

My time trial begins and I am off for a Fenway adventure of burpees, stairs, walls, ball and spear throws, burpees, carrying heavy things up and down bleachers, box jumps, etc.

View of Fenway from the pavilion.

Being New England Red Sox fans, Dave and the kids had little trouble entertaining themselves climbing into and on top of the dugouts (did someone say they couldn't do that??), taking in the sun behind home plate and making friends with other Little Spartan families getting ready for their turn. As I snake through the stadium I periodically get kisses and hugs from the kids while they jump up and down wildly cheering. Yeah, I am that important. I brought my own fan club.

Having way too much fun while mommy runs. Mom didn't say we couldn't stand on the dugout.

Somehow I always seem to take a good gladiator pit.

Notable moments on my Fenway race: spear toss failed. Row 500m in 2 minutes. Good one Spartan. With just 15m to go, the darn computer sent me for burpees. Fail. And the sandbag carry up and down bleachers 5X: nice touch Spartan.

My fan club was waiting for me at the finish with snacks and warm hugs. We snacked on our Simple Granola and Fuel bars (like the kids needed MORE energy?) and enjoyed the warm November sun.

Snacking on some healthy Simple Brandz snacks between races.

Dave quickly recognized that I hadn't had enough and offered to hold down the troops while I played another round. I am so grateful that he embraces (tolerates) me and my idiosyncrasies. Within 10 minutes I had secured another timing chip (thank you season's pass) and slipped into the last grouping of the 10:30AM heat with plenty of time to change before the kids' race.

And then it was time. Within minutes, the infield was filled with over 150 miniature Spartans, mostly decked out with their signature orange Spartan t shirts. The parent's were spread out throughout a half mile course that weaved in and out of the field and over and under the adult course that the bigger kids would conquer twice. There were little kids. There were big kids. As the kids charged toward us, it was like the running of the bulls with a single rabbit out front in orange running for his life. There were giggles. There were smiles. There were crashes. Charlie stopped as she passed me, rolled up her pants and said "look mom, I have scratches on my legs like you". Spartan scratches. Charlie and Noah fearlessly mantled up and sailed over 3 1/2 foot walls, crawled through tunnels and raced the bleachers in a blur of little bodies and ponytails.

Charlie racing through the bleachers in the kids' race.

Noah with the characteristic tongue-out-of-the-mouth look.

After our own round at cheering, lifting the really small kids over the walls, and directing traffic, we realized that the only action photos we have of our kids were a blur. I guess this is a good analogy to raising kids anyway.

Koenig kids proudly displaying the fruits of their labor.

Upon crossing the finish line, the kids each received their finisher medals from Wally the Green Monster. Sadly, at that point I was nearly a quarter of a mile back and missed it. It was impossible, however, to miss the smiles on their faces since they are still there. We bid Fenway adieu and headed back to the car for annual Thanksgiving pilgrimage to Pennsylvania. As the kids snoozed in the back, we could hear the occasional clang of their medals that hung around their necks.

As for me, I finished both of my races within 30 seconds of one other and earned a 7th place overall finish for women (out of 1,124 women). Being the first female finisher over 30, I am happy to say us old moms still have a little fight in us too.

Next time, the whole Koenig family takes on the adult race.

Another one in the books- this time family style.

Marketing, dignity and all things EPIC

A few weeks ago I decided to throw my hat in the ring for another ridiculously fun racing adventure called EPIC Racing Arena. Epic is an event that will take place in December 2013 that will put competitors in a large stadium and have them face off in front of a large audience. The obstacles will be huge and will require strength, agility, speed and problem solving and the winner’s purse will be enormous. There will be bands. There will be festivities. The competition will no doubt include the best obstacle racers in the world rendering the event unlike any other that has yet to be organized. I have met many of the founders and coordinators of this event and I genuinely believe it will be EPIC like no other.

After submitting my application, I received notice that applicants were encouraged to have a facebook athlete page as well as a blog to help market themselves for sponsorship. Working with Simple Brandz already, I understood how important it is for sponsors to gain visibility through their athletes’ blogs and athlete pages. They are, after all, businesses willing to give us athletes product and funding in exchange for some additional exposure. I enjoy sharing my racing experiences with fellow racers post-mortem as well as giving my family and non-racing friends a glimpse into my motivation for being part of a culture that they might otherwise think is crazy. This made creating the blog easy. I might even go so far as to say that the blog has given me an outlet I have been looking for.

The facebook “athlete” page, on the other hand, has been a little more painful for me. Promoting myself as an “athlete” hardly seems right. I am not a professional athlete: I am a mom and high school teacher. I do not ooze talent, strength or other athleticism that can justify such a title. I am determined, a little stubborn, OK at lots of different things, and I have found a niche out there for people who just simply aren’t good at quitting. Hardly worthy of a facebook “athlete” page, if you ask me. I did, however, set one up last week with the idea that this would be a way that I could separate my regular life from my obstacle/adventure running life. I hate blog-spamming my friends and family trying to determine who is genuinely interested in this crap and who isn’t. So I set up the page, invited my friends and from here on out I will phase out the inundation of all things muddy on my regular facebook page (unless it is really awesome, that is).

So this leads me back to EPIC. Shortly after starting my blog, I received my first challenge. The challenge was in the form of a short workout which was to be posted and shared on the EPIC website. The winner of this challenge will be the first athlete selected for the EPIC racing area event. The catch: you have to promote your own video to gain votes to win the challenge through shameless self-promotion.

Since the challenge was released, my inbox, notifications and facebook newsfeed have been slammed with “vote for me” pleas from my friends also aiming to be part of EPIC history. From a marketing perspective, this is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Aspiring competitors are providing free advertising for an event that they haven’t even been selected for. I get it. Business is business and these guys have found their way into the obstacle racing private groups, onto the personal pages of well-decorated athletes, and in places they have never imagined. Unfortunately, for me, this is where I have to draw the line. Self-promotion is something I have never been fond of and allowing a marketing plan to dominate my personal facebook page, my “athlete” page, or even a casual conversation with a friend for a vote is unimaginable. I want to gain entry to an elite event based on my abilities, my race resume and my accomplishments, not my ability to promote and plead for votes. To me, applying for entry to a race should not make me feel like I am running for prom queen.

So, I sit this one out. Don’t get me wrong, I really want to do this event. I know I can be a fierce competitor, and I have no doubts that this will be EPIC. However, I don’t feel that it should be up to me to convince anyone of that. If you see me at this event, it is because I am qualified to participate. Period. If I don’t make it, then I never deserved to be there in the first place.

I mean no disrespect to the founders of this new event. In truth, your marketing plan is genius. I also want my friends who are going head to head in this challenge (and future ones) the best of luck. You are all brave to put yourselves out there and I respect every one of you for taking the risks that you have. Please understand that I couldn’t choose between you, as I have never met another athlete at one of these races who wasn’t EPIC in their own way.