Tough Mudder Video...Finally!

So after a long process filled with system updates, a fairly steep learning curve, and program purchases, I've finally finished the video. I love it. I still get a kick out of it and I've watched it probably 100 times. It's rock 'n' roll, it's dramatic, it's fucking rad. Who doesn't love a little heavy metal Jurassic Park? If you say you don't you're a goddamn liar. Sure, I took some dramatic liberties, but that's what I get to do by being the video editor and having you sweet viewers as my audience. (Keep in mind this is my first video and I had no idea what I was doing.) I should mention that the video is pretty shaky because I was wearing a GoPro on my head and I bounce around a lot when I'm happy, and that's the way it is. PUT A SMILE ON YOUR FACE AND BOUNCE AROUND,  PEOPLE.

Be sure to check out the highlights like us running through Electroshock Therapy at the 5:40 mark and the girl slamming her face into the half pipe at the 4:48 mark. And my tight clothing, featured intermittently.

You might be better off just watching it on the direct YouTube site though, because you can watch it in HD there and it's way prettier. We're all prettier in HD. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aD1q60WPDAs

What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Hurt Like Hell

I know this is long. Bear with me. To even accurately describe this event and the way it felt to finish would take me about 100,000 more words. I feel like I left so much out. Next week, maybe the video will give you a better perspective. And I apologize for the lack of photos, but those will go in the video, too.

I don't even know where to start. I can't remotely express how jacked up I still am about finishing the Tough Mudder. It was exactly everything I thought it would be, and more. I was muddy, I was wet, I was tired, I was cold, I was laughing, I was electrocuted, I was surrounded by guys with far superior athletic ability. It was like high school all over again.

But the most important thing is I made it out alive. I know some people that thought I'd only make it out in a body bag, but such was not the case. I'm bruised, I was bloody, and I've now hit a new level or soreness I never thought possible. This type of sore doesn't include cramped and tender muscles. My joints are fused, my tendons creak, and the pain resonates to my bones. But I can say I have never been happier to be so miserable.

The morning of the Tough Mudder I woke up at 7:00, strapped on my skivvies and ladies workout clothes. (Somehow, I end up in women's clothing for all sorts of public events.) I grabbed a coffee, a bagel, and a croissant in a feeble attempt to carbo-load. I hit the ATM for some cash and hit the road. I got to Vail Lake about two hours before our start time, which was plenty of time to prep. And by prep, I mean drink malt liquor. This wasn't smart, but it wasn't the worst idea. It definitely calmed our nerves. In addition, the mystery man from the preview blog ended up being two guys, and it was the two guys I so vehemently wished for it to be, so that pumped everyone up. We encouraged each other and hugged each other and taped our shoes on with hot pink duct tape. We made our way in, got our bib numbers written on our foreheads and arms, checked our bags and anxiously waited our fate.

The event, not race (more on that in about two minutes), was harder than I thought, in ways that didn't even cross my mind. In my estimation, it was about two-thirds up or down hill. My strength was adequate, my endurance strong, but when it came to going uphill, that's where I faltered. This gets hard on your feet, knees, hips...just your legs in general. The interesting thing is that my muscles, though burning for much of the hiking, didn't get sore. Now, the pain is in my bones, deep in my left foot and right hip. If I ever do this again, I'll be doing about 10,000 stair sets beforehand instead of running along the relatively flat streets of Santa Monica.

Before it all started, all the participants for our 11:40 wave time were corralled into a gated area and the hype man had everyone jumping and swaying and hyped up. I'm not big on hype men, but this guy really knew how to get his job done. The music was blaring and pumping through the speakers. We were screaming and moving and caged up like wild boar. He asked everyone to take a knee, and then asked those who served or are currently serving in the armed forces to stand up. We showed our appreciation for their sacrifice and hard work with handshakes, hugs and cheers. This was followed by the national anthem. Then Mr. Hype Man had everyone raise their right hands and repeat after him:

I understand that Tough Mudder is not a race but a challenge.

I put teamwork and camaraderie before my course time.

I do not whine - kids whine.

I help my fellow Mudders complete the course.

I overcome all fears.

Every line of the Tough Mudder pledge came true - though some whining did slip through. Ok, there was A LOT of whining. The course is designed to be grueling and mentally taxing. It remains in the back of your mind that some of these obstacles are there purposely to break you, or at least try to. And some obstacles cannot be completed without someone's help. It's all about helping each other and developing a sense of teamwork. Fuck your time. The Hype Man made it pretty clear that it's not about proving how much better you are than the person next to you; it's about proving how much better everyone can be than the course. It DOES NOT matter if you finish in two hours or eight hours. It doesn't matter if you finish first. The point is that you finish at all, and on your way you help others finish. Pick someone up when they fall; they'll pick you up when you need a hand.

Just before starting, Mr. Hype Man got everyone swaying their hands, jumping up and down while playing some sort of victorious music. Then there it is. Before you know it, you're off, headed up some dirt hill, coughing your way through some orange smoke and you have little to no clue as to how difficult the next four hours of your life will be.

It didn't help that the temperature never got above 50 degrees, the wind was gusting at some sort of MPH, and we were covered in either super cold water or super cold mud after the first obstacle, a half-mile into the course. It makes you stiff and numb, of course. But even parts of my torso were numb. Some of us couldn't unfurl our fingers. We had to cut the hands off of one guy's tuxedo morphsuit because he couldn't even use his hands. My sister had to use a space blanket to warm up between obstacles. I think I speak for everyone when I say I have never been as cold as I was that day. By the end I wasn't just shivering, I was uncontrollably quaking. After we finished the course, the beer was spilling from my cup because I was shaking so hard. A few of us won free beer tokens to be redeemed at the finish line, but we didn't bother cashing them in because we were so miserable. For anyone in this group to deny a free beer, it must have been a dire situation. It was THAT cold.

An aside: My throat did not handle the cold weather well. From about the third mile on I was coughing and wheezing, and the air stung with every inhale. Every exhale gurgled like a garbage disposal. This caused more problems than I'd imagined, and there were times I had to stop and the only physical discomfort was my sandpaper throat.

The camaraderie manifests itself pretty quickly. From the first obstacle to the last, words of encouragement are tossed about constantly, and there's a helping hand everywhere you look. There were times where I thought "What the fuck have I gotten myself into?"and "I can't believe I thought this was a good idea." But a supportive pat on the back or an extended hand were never on short supply.

I never seriously considered giving up, even when we were chilled to the bone and cut and battered. Even when we ran past our warm waiting cars, I never had the desire to stop. Had I brought my keys, maybe it would have been a different story. But we ran by the cars around mile 10 and there was absolutely no giving up at that point. Because, mentally, the hardest part was the first half. The progress seems minimal as you run past mile markers 1, 2, and 3. However, I paid 150 bucks to torture myself, so (again) there was no way I'd let myself give up. After reaching mile marker 6, the progress felt real, and from then on we always had less to go than what we'd already ran. Eight miles sounds pretty daunting when you're looking at it, but when you're looking back, it wasn't that bad. With four miles left I thought "Well, I've already ran four miles twice, one more won't hurt." With three miles left: "I've ran three miles three times already, another probably won't kill me." And so on and so forth.

When it came to the obstacles, for the most part, I was golden. They were more crawling than climbing, and the only ones I didn't complete were Twinkle Toes and Funky Monkey. I made it halfway across the balance beam on Twinkle Toes before I biffed it. However, it wasn't as bad as the guy that nutted it on the wobbly 2x8. And Funky Monkey, well, I just couldn't hang on. My hands were covered in mud and by some grace of uncoordination, I managed to skip a rung, thus rendering myself useless and forward progress impossible. Into the water I went. I believe three people on our team of 10 made it across, which is not a good ratio.  

One of those was Thomas, who I had originally thought didn't train at all, but was apparently the most prepared. I would later find out that in the months before the Mudder, he would dump buckets of ice water on himself and go on 10-mile runs through the mountains behind his house. This was evident as we lugged ourselves along and he stood there with his long, blonde locks flowing in the wind, looking majestic as fuck.

BG, one of the guest stars, seemed to also have a fairly easy go at it. He plays soccer three times a week and skates 10 days a week, so he was in pretty good shape. The rest of us had varying levels of training and it showed. Jimmy, the other guest star, had the roughest time. Poor guy showed up in cargo shorts and Vans that fell off while he was merely walking. But he made it, and he looked like a rock star when he finished.

Lest we forget electrocution. After much deliberation through texts over the days before, and some apprehension the day of, we got everyone in our group to run headlong through the live wires. Not only did everyone participate, but we linked arms, which, according to one Tough Mudder staffer, makes you a true Tough Mudder. The only way to describe the feeling of the shock is like getting punched. But it's a punch concentrated in a very specific area, and instead of flinching away from the source of the pain, you flinch toward it. It's just as... shocking, as you might think but at the same time, it was hilarious.

Andy and I fell after the last bale of hay and once we were through the mud, but we quickly got up, laughing, and gave each other a muddy little hug. We joined up with the rest of our team, who managed to not fall, and headed toward the end. With little fanfare, flanked by friends and family, we crossed over the finish line, relieved, giddy (maybe a bit euphoric or delusional by this time), and accomplished. We picked up our orange headbands, which can never be bought, only earned by finishing a Tough Mudder course. We got a space blanket, which did almost nothing warm us or shield us from the elements. And we got our beers. Shortly after our triumph, we were on our way to the hotel, with little more than wet clothes, mud, and a shit ton of stories.

It might sound cheesy, but it really did give us a sense of accomplishment. The orange headband was a little badge of honor that we wore proudly. I realized how much mine meant to me when I managed to lose it a day later. Luckily, it had just ended up in Chavz's bag.

The ten of us completed it together, and we did it for fun. Most importantly we helped each other along the way. And for a few hours afterward we just celebrated. We drank, and limped, and gambled. Maybe our heads were held a little higher, our posture a little straighter. We were proud, and there was no reason not to be. It might sound like drama or hyperbole, but this race is a beast, and it isn't something to scoff at. It was brutal, and the most fit of the jocks who were out there with something to prove about how much of a man they were still had to drag their bodies across the finish. But for anyone who finishes Tough Mudder, it's a confidence boost.

Even now, more than a week later, I still walk down the street and feel superior to everyone because I completed the Tough Mudder and they didn't.

It's About That Time

The last pre-race blog, and the last daily blog. I woke up and took my morning doodie and I'm ready to do this.

I’m nervous. I have been for a couple days. The more I write about the Tough Mudder, the more I get scurred. I keep talking about it, and the more I talk about it, the more I doubt myself. That’s not a good sign.

The more I think about it, the more I - Oh, who am I kidding? I'm Austen Montero...

I rock the fuck out of everything I do.

Once I saw the course map and started mapping out my plan of attack for this morning, I got giddy. Nerves turned to excitement pretty quickly. As you're reading this, I'm either driving to the Tough Mudder, preparing for it, running it, or recovering from it.

The course map takes you through a winding and looping 12 miles that include 21 obstacles, most of which I expected because the website has ample description for them. Some of the harder ones are earlier in the race, hopefully making it easier to just get them out of the way. The Arctic Enema is the fourth obstacle, a little less than three miles in. It's just long enough to work up a good sweat climbing over the Berlin Walls and a couple of other obstacles before freezing our balls off.

The other obstacle that I was most worried about, the Mud Mile, comes as number six, and just past the third mile marker. This is perfect because I'm going to still be freezing from the ice-cold colon cleanse, and then I'll warm up while I slog through the trenches.

Three of the obstacles are not explained on the website: the WWP Carry, Just the Tip (which is followed by Hold Your Wood, and this makes me laugh uncontrollably), and Dark Lightening. I can only assume what these mean.

- WWP Carry is a wild wet pig carry - you'd have to nab a crazy, greased up hog and soothe him to sleep before continuing. Bottles of milk will be provided, but that's more for the contestants than the pigs.

- Just the Tip is where you have to take your pants off and crawl on all fours through murky water, and just the tip of your weenie has to stay in the water. If it comes out, you get electrocuted. If it submerges too far, little snapping turtles will get a snack.

- And I really, really hope Dark Lightening is exactly like the Tough Mudder mainstay Electroshock Therapy. Except Dark Lightening is in a tarp and it's pitch black and hot and dusty and the only light you see is the spark of electricity being transferred from a live wire to someone's body. And it smells like fart.

I can say that the only obstacles that are missing that I am disappointed about are The Gauntlet and Greased Lightening. These seemed like the most fun, rather than painful.

OH MY GOD. What if Dark Lightening is pitch black Greased Lightening?! Ohhhh I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up.

I have no way to transition to the next part, so lets meet the SoCal Wussbags, shall we?

First, there's me, but you already know me.

Elly Montero, my sister.
Strengths: Works out a lot. Eats healthy. Incredible cardio. Thinks she's a cat.
Weaknesses: Lemon drops. Vegetarian. Thinks too much about her cat.

Sean Quinn, my sister's boyfriend.
Strengths: Freakishly strong. Looks like The Thing. Girlfriend makes him eat healthy.
Weaknesses: Low cardiovascular strength. Shitty rum and cokes. Ginger.

Sara Wilke (right), friend to everyone, bestie to my sister.
Strengths: Works out. Terrific hand hugger. Comedic relief.
Weaknesses: Cosmotinis. Men.

Eric "Yngwie" Chavez. Or just, Chavz, token shredder
Strengths: Gas man. Lays pipe for a living. Has multiple tattoos.
Weaknesses: Four Loko. Probably drunk. Lifts nothing but drumsticks.

Andy Halcom, the married guy.
Strengths: Built like a brick shithouse. Owns a cute dog. Also, shreds. Ridiculously charming.
Weaknesses: Unattended drinks at a bar. All brawn, no brains. Gets lost easily.

Thomas Catlin, aka TomCat. Lead singer extraordinaire
Strengths: Rocks out. Very much MAN. Scary growl.
Weaknesses: Bud Ice. Probably doesn't work out. Is pretty. Thinks he's James Hetfield. 

Will Lopez, aka Bill, the catalyst for every peak and trough of every trip.
Strengths: Beautiful beard. Athletic. Farts that propel him super fast.
Weaknesses: Every alcohol known to man. Jet fuel. Men. Vomits too easily.

Someone else is coming. I have my suspicions who it is. I know who I want it to be. Whoever it is, if he is coming with this group, his first weakness will be some sort of alcohol. Second is probably laziness. Hopefully his strength is counting cards.








And that's all folks. Stay tuned for a couple of videos later this week. As I said, I'll be filming the Tough Mudder with a Go Pro, and so too is Will. We are staying at Pechanga that night to celebrate. Videos for each instance to follow. Stay tuned! Wish us luck. God knows we'll need it.

Tough Mudder and an Oscar... Two Things I'll Never Win

In order to bring you the best, most up-close and personal coverage of the Tough Mudder on Saturday, I got a GoPro. It's one of those little cameras you strap to yourself, your helmet, or your motorized bicycle. I bought it off a nice man who posted on Craigslist, my first Craigslist transaction that didn't involve taking off my pants! He showed me how to use all the doohickeys and thingamabobbers. Let me tell you, I COULD NOT BE MORE PUMPED.

I got so jacked up about it, I made a video. I used my DSLR for one view, and the GoPro for my view. But I'm not cinematographer, director, or actor. I do not have a voice made to be recorded. I do not have a body that should be on film. I didn't write anything down and did not plan properly. That's why I filmed it all for you. I have to show off my lack of talent somewhere.

I tried to make a nice video with an introduction and then me getting in a (rather debilitating cold shower) with voice overs and smooth cuts. But it took me a bunch of takes to get the introduction right, and once I did, I tried to climb into my freezing shower. However, unbeknownst to me at the time, I had not turned the GoPro on to record. I merely switched it from video to pictures. Once I discovered this, I rerecorded the intro and got back into the shower. This time the DSLR didn't record. By then, I was burnt out. This is the result...

At least I got some experience using iMovie and importing/exporting videos.

In one of the lost takes of the video, it was clear just how big my belly still is. I don't like this. I didn't just look out of shape. I looked like I was going to get stuck in my tiny little shower. How. Depressing

Gyms: The Roided Out, Perfumed Discoteque

Part of my "training" for the Tough Mudder involved some weightlifting and resistance training.

Before I decided to do the race, I didn't run too often. I would mostly head to the gym, do some lifting, get a gnarly swoll on, and call it a night. But so much of the Mudder relies on cardiovascular endurance rather than brute strength. I don't mean to brag, but sometimes I don't even need to make two trips when I bring the groceries into the house. That's how much I teetered toward brute.

I started working out at a pretty early age...

(A buff baby is a tough baby.)

So you can imagine that I was more bulky than I was sleek, considering that, despite not actually working out since I was a toddler, I have always concentrated on size. Get bigger! Get buffer! Get stronger! BE A MAN!

I knew that I could complete most, if not all, of the obstacles in this race - some might be more cumbersome than others, but I could git 'er dun.

The solution was simple: I needed to run more, but we've already discussed that. But if that's all I did, wouldn't that end up counter productive to the obstacles and things that do require strength? I had to still mildly work out so I could still throw my body weight around. I created a workout circuit type thing that would concentrate on pushing and pulling while maintaining balance, all while concentrating on using my body weight, or something of similar mass to create resistance.

Here are the results...

(Photos are in no way altered in post production. 

Model has been not been retouched. 

Photos taken four months apart.*)

I didn't always follow the regimen I had set for myself, only because I realized where I needed to improve most was in running. And this is a good thing. I don't always have to be working out to be "buff."

I used to go to the gym because I wanted to be so yolked that I could take my shirt off at the beach, pool, or supermarket and have women flock to me to continue my disrobing, right there in the frozen food aisle. Shortly after graduating high school, I realized this was never going to happen. So, I stopped working out, got fat once I moved to college, and then I started lifting again.

Lifting weights is actually very therapeutic, for me, at least. I really enjoyed it when I first got back into it, and then I started working out just because it was one of the few things I liked that was healthy for me. It feels great to be sore, and the fatigue is indicative of being one step closer to a Greek God...or as life would turn out, a Costa Rican court jester. However, because I always tried to lift heavy, I never had that lean muscle this race requires. So I tried to get it in three short months, because that was feasible.

Before moving to Santa Monica, I went to the gym during off hours, so I didn't see all it had to offer in terms of eccentricity. While spending time at the LA Fitness in Santa Monica (the capital of narcissism, apparently), I grew to hate, or at least develop a strong distaste for, some people at the gym.

There's the guy pumping his ass full of steroids, HGH, and some sort of equine estrogen. The sort of mutant that spawned from the blood and semen of a locker room shower. After a nuclear spill. And eating paint chips. He flexes at his reflection constantly, only putting his Starbucks mochachino-soy-latte-nonfat-double-extra-shot-two-pumps-vanilla-with-whipped-cream trenta to curl 200 pounds about 19 times. Then he walks around for 30 minutes chatting with his simian homies before leg pressing a dump truck.

 (I wanted to censor him, and show a Starbucks cup. This is the 

best of both worlds. This man is scary. You could see his penis.)

Then there's the guy that works out in every bit of Ed Hardy gear he owns, sparkling like a sleeping limb, and overpowering everyone within a 20-foot radius because he used three cans of Axe. Please, sir, do not wear this. It looks like Ke$ha shit on you. And you'd probably smell better. If you insist on wearing this stuff, don't do it at the gym. Wear your shitty clothes... oh, YOU ARE (who didn't see that joke coming? So cheap). You paid for that? You paid upwards of $90 for that? And now you're sweating in it? STAAAAHHHP. I keep stepping on your stupid rhinestones. 

I guess I can see the point if they wear it now. Our buddy Eddie made some pretty expensive clothing, but now even some of the top-notch disco balls on his website are selling for less than 20 bucks. Including tax and shipping. That's cheaper than other workout clothes.

(You might think this is blood/semen mutant. You'd be on the 

right track, but the difference usually comes in the subtle form 

of blinding light radiating from his "Swarovski crystals." 

These guys also bulk up with Target-brand protein shakes 

and live chickens because they spent all their extra cash on 

visually offensive outerwear instead of high-quality steroids.)

Of course, there are the people that have NO clue what they are doing. I don't really hate these people. It's the wandering aimlessly that gets to me. If you know you're a bit lost, which you clearly are, and you clearly understand because you keep reading all of the directions, get out of the way or ask a question. Asking things: good. Spinning in circles and struggling so hard you fart and nearly blow out your o-ring: bad.

I will give them credit, though. Oft uncoordinated, lumpy, unfortunate looking, and definitely out of shape, they are doing something to benefit themselves and improve their quality of life. It's just so hard to watch them struggle and putter around the gym floor. The worst part seeing someone turn red, with veins popping out all over their neck and head, all while using the wrong form (which is, incidentally, why I can't work out in front of a mirror).

Ah, but after all the complaining, weightlifting will always be my favorite form of exercise. There's something so awesome about pushing hunks of metal around douche bags and geriatrics until you sweat and cramp and you smell like a sweatsock in an Armani Exchange. Gyms, a little slice of heaven.

*Total fuckin' lie.

Part One: Run For Your Life

“There is something magical about running; after a certain distance, it transcends the body. Then a bit further, it transcends the mind. A bit further yet, and what you have before you, laid bare, is the soul.”  
― Kristin Armstrong

No. After running a certain distance, your body cramps and contorts. "Fuck you!" scream your quads. "I'm going to turn into little rigor mortis ouch-balls!" say your calves. And then your hamstrings snap and you fall over and it hurts REAL bad.  

Then a bit further, your mind wanders and the more you try to corral it, the harder it becomes to focus. A little voice whispers "You don't need to keep going. Just stop. Your legs hurt. Your feet hurt. That cramp in your side isn't going to go away. You don't need to impress anyone, no one is watching. You don't need to impress yourself, you love yourself. Quit...Just. Quit. You suck and the Tough Mudder is going to murder you no matter how much harder you train. Quit."

And a bit further yet, what you have laid bare before you, is not in fact, your soul, but dinner with remnants of the day's lunch, and a hint of bile.

“Every day is a good day when you run.”
 ― Kevin Nelson

Nope, see above. But nothing compares to the day after a run, that's for damn sure. Crippling soreness, nausea, and shortness of breath is your day-after reward

“I don't run to add days to my life, I run to add life to my days.”
― Ronald Rook

When I run, I feel like death. I add death to my days.

"There is an itch in runners."
― Arnold Hano  

Jock itch.

This is more of what it's like:

My quads are burning, my calves quiver with every step, and my lungs feel like someone threw a molotov cocktail down my throat. Sweat pours down my forehead and drips off my nose. I wheeze with every inhale. My shirt is sticking to my chest, wet and sloppy. I can feel my ears and head throb every time my heart beats, which is often and quick. A pain constantly stabs me in the ribs. An Amish woman is using my gut as a butter churn. The seventh circle of hell is well within view.

I haven't finished a marathon, but I what I have done is finally made my way down the stairs to my sidewalk, and one of these days I'll make it all the way around the block.

So I exaggerated a little bit. But the first couple runs were something pretty similar to what I described. Naturally, it became easier as I ran more often, and I actually managed to get up to running a consistent 7 miles for my long runs each week. I was a regular success story. An average Joe turned Prefontaine.

(Seduction.)

Naturally, running has its hazards. When I first started, there was a lot of heavy breathing. Panting, if you will. It was an overcast, chilly morning, but I wanted to get in a quick jog before work. As I jogged and dragged my way toward home, my mouth was agape while I sucked wind. I happened to inhale while crossing paths with an ill-fated fly. It found itself plastered to the back of my throat, and as a woman pushed her stroller along the sidewalk next to me, I dry heaved harder than I ever have before. Nothing came out. I don't know what happened to that little guy, but he definitely didn't make it out of my head that morning.

Then, of course, running at night in Santa Monica is a death trap in itself. For some reason, the city has deemed it unnecessary to see at night, and therefore has sparingly installed streetlights. I spend more time tripping than I do running.

And what is a blog post without a fart joke? Seriously, running with one in the chamber is excruciating at best, especially when the matter of the beast is unknown. It's one thing to know when it's solely a gas pocket. Expulsion merely requires a quick look behind to be clear of innocent bystanders, and a bit of a longer stride. On the other hand, when the substance is unknown, or just plain liquid or solid, it ruins the entire endeavor. Running while clenching might work more muscles, but it adds an element of fear...fear of shitting your pants, making "the runs" quite a real thing.

These instances are generally few and far between, except for the farting. I'm a gassy man. But despite all of these obstacles, whether brought on by rogue insects or terrible eating habits, I managed to push through and turn myself into quite the running machine. It felt good, refreshing. Everything was looking up, and I probably wasn't going to die during the race.

However, due to an abundance of freelance work, a buttload of holiday parties, and an ill-timed New Years illness, I haven't been able to run as often as I'd like. This, I assume, will decrease my runnable distance by about 95 percent, thus rendering me a useless blob, and I now have two weeks to get myself back into enough shape to where the Tough Mudder doesn't turn into the Death Mudder.

(A note from the author regarding his absence: I'm a terrible blogger. I'm not so bad at training. But I'm definitely not good at either one. At more than six weeks since my last post and only running a few times the last couple of weeks, it's time I jump back on both bandwagons. I will hopefully blog more than once a week now that the holidays have settled down and I'm not as drunk as often and there's so much to tell and because you all love the shit out of me.)

Exercise Won This Round

For everyone who was looking forward to punting me in the dangler, I have bad news. I actually worked out last week. Not once, not twice, not three times, but FOUR! Of course, not all of it was supremely intense, but a guy has work his way back into shape. I can't just go out and do a Tough Mudder style workout without working up to it. The main thing is that I got a couple workouts under my belt and it's motivating. I'm pumped to run this week, I'm pumped to work out this week. I'm high on exercise!

On the other hand, there were some difficult moments, which mostly revolve around excessively eating or drinking We will spell those out first. Wednesday, Halloween. I went to Wurstkuche, a popular restaurant that serves gourmet meats in phallic casings (i.e. exotic sausage, not to be confused with what women are hunting for when they want vacation sex). That wasn't too bad, because I only got one sausage, with sauerkraut and onions (vegetables!). But afterward, I was cajoled into going out. That resulted in mild drinking at Cabo Cantina. It was definitely not the worst night out, but it wasn't exactly a calm night in. I also ate pizza for five meals last week. Maybe six. I lost track. somewhere around the third and fourth pizza meal. On Saturday I ate more runzas!

(I swear, it's fucking impossible to find a picture that make runzas look appetizing. The 

homemade ones almost always come out all wonky, and the promotional photos for the 

Runza restaurant chain look so fake and processed. This is the best I could do. I'm going

to photoshoot the hell out my mom's next batch of these heavenly little meat pockets.)

And then I had dinner with the fam. It was super tasty. I managed to put down a full hen, and then some. I don't know what my father did to these damn hens, but it was off the charts. This was the moistest fully cooked fowl I've ever had. But I probably could have survived with only half. Sunday consisted of In n Out for lunch and more savory dinner with the parent that included tri-tip, potato, zucchini (MOAR VEGETABLES!) and garlic bread. Lots of garlic bread. SO much tasty bread. I have overcome my general laziness, but, man, eating a nutritional or remotely balanced meal is difficult.

On the positive note, I played soccer on Thursday, and seeing at it ended up being a 3-on-2 game, with me being on the smaller of the lopsided teams, I ran A LOT. Friday, I went for a run, and according to Google Maps, it was just longer than four miles. And I didn't die! Saturday, I worked out, mostly upper body stuff, but nothing too intense because, you know? I didn't want to strain myself and end up setting back my training a mere week into it. This was capped off with a solid hike near Mentryville, a supposed haunted ghost town in Santa Clarita. Of course, three of these four workouts were negated by some combination of the aforementioned vices.

It feels good to make progress, get outside and exercise, and start actually working toward the goal. I just wish energy wasn't so fleeting. One minute I'm bursting to get out, exercise and be productive and the next I'm like THBHTBTBTBTBT (you know, that deflating balloon fart noise). Maybe I can explain better with some photos.

I'll be at work and I get antsy and all I wish I could do is hop out of my cubicle and go flying out the door. I feel like I could just rocket out of there. Like this...

(I am a professional stunt astronaut. Do not try this at home.)

I always figure I can hang onto that energy and use it later. I mean, there's only 20 minutes left in the work day, how hard can it be to just delay that energy? Very hard. I'll get home and start to change to exercise and the next thing I know, I'm passed out on the couch looking vaguely homeless. I can't even pick up a guitar.

(This is a Photo illustration. This never happened. But, again, even 

if it did, I am a professional guitar-sleeper, do not try this at home.)

This doesn't just happen when it comes to waiting an hour or so to exercise. If I have the inkling to do anything active, but I don't act on it withing a couple minutes, it's gone, and who knows when it's coming back!?

Clearly, it's about getting in a routine. I want my body to be used to doing something active around the same time each day, that way I'm not missing out on a workout because I'm already obligated to work or play video games. This week, more running, and for longer! More working out! Eating the same shitty foods! Last, I haven't posted a photo of a cute animal lately, but I don't have a segue. So here it is. 

Wait for it, wait for it...OK, I do have a segue. When I try to exercise, I end up falling asleep in my food bowl.

Punt Me in the Dangler

Since the time I started this blog and trying to train for the Tough Mudder, I've learned a lot about myself. This has been a time of reflection and self-revelation. I have found strengths and weaknesses. I know what I need to do to make myself into the machine that will dominate this race. If only I could bring myself to execute. Sigh.

People joke about getting old. That shit is NOT funny. The aches, the pain, the creaks, the pops. It's all real. It's all too damn real. And it's not my body, it's my attitude too. I went to a concert last week. It was a Taking Back Sunday show; part of their tour to commemorate a decade of Tell All Your Friends. For the most part, it was a pretty cool concert. But the opening band, Man Overboard, made me realize how far removed I am from this scene. I hauled my walker to the balcony level of Club Nokia to watch a this band punk-jump all over the stage. They were energetic! exciting! ...stuck in 2002! However, their Wikipedia page says they formed in 2008, right around the time I got my first hip replacement.

I was beginning to think it was a bad idea until Bayside came on and shat all over the previous band. Then TBS came on and I actually found myself enjoying the show. It was nice to reminisce. It actually took me back to high school for a while. The band sounded great, and Adam Lazzara can still swing the microphone around his neck three times a song like nobody's business!

Once my hearing-aids gave out, though, I listened to the dull warble of being so last summer. I noticed a few things. Some people were really reliving their youth and it was awesome; other are still living at 16 years old and never moved on. Mr. Lazzara has put on a few pounds. I've put on a few pounds, or somewhere closer to 30. I really wanted to be at home with a snifter of brandy, smoking a cigar and listening to Engelbert Humperdinck on my phonograph. (He says as he turns into his grandfather).

 *Photo Illustration by Austen Montero

Moving right along.

I worked a catering event on Friday night for almost nine hours. It was a Halloween party. It was fun! See, I'm not that old, I still like holidays and dressing up. I was a zombie. RAWR. Or GRRRRR. GURGLE? GRRRRRRRGLE!

Yes, that's Instagrammed. Don't judge, you know you have one, too. The event was actually a great time, and despite working nearly nine hours without a break, I had a blast. I would tell you all about it, but I've already bitched a bunch about irrelevant non-fitness stuff, and the non-disclosure contract I signed says I'm not allowed discuss the party. It was THAT exclusive. What I can do, is name drop and tell you that if you've ever thought that Dave Grohl might be the coolest fucking dude on the planet, you're totally correct. I've said too much!

The point here is that I didn't get a break, so I drank no water for roughly 11 hours while I was driving to and from the event, and while working it. I walked a ton (exercise?) and hardly ate. Once I got home, I got a cramp in my left hamstring. It still hurts. Four days later! I would have bounced back from that in minutes when I was 16. I would give anything to be that...age.....again....... Oh my god. I'm one of them. I want to be a teenager again. Time to buy my tickets to The Starting Line's show.

Clearly, I still need to step up my game. I ate enough Flame Broiler on Thursday to feed about four people. I didn't even eat dinner on Friday. I ate burritos, tacos, pulled pork sandwiches and pizza (twice) on Saturday. I ate one hamburger on Sunday, followed by a bunch of cheddar cheese and pepperoni. This meat and cheese party pack thing is going to be a tough reputation to kick.

My shopping habits are declining, too. I bought two loaves of bread tonight. I already had one at home. I followed that up with two pounds of shredded cheddar cheese. I didn't need it. I already have another two-pound bag of cheese in my fridge.

To top it off, I ate a school of Swedish Fish once I got home from grocery shopping. Roughly 35 pink, little fishies. I'll probably shit straight Red 5. It looked like this.

(*Photo Illustration. Not real life.)

Something's gotta give, and hopefully it's not a my waistband. If my next post says nothing about exercising, someone please punt me in the dangler. If that doesn't motivate me, I don't know what will.

The Meat and Cheese Party Pack

I haven't even started exercising properly. This crazy train went off the rails before it got on track, and my growing midsection is Exhibit A. My diminishing endurance is Exhibit B. There is no Exhibit C. I don't need an Exhibit C. I can hardly walk up to my front door without getting winded anymore.

So, here it comes, the inevitable reflection and analysis. My self-loathing and regret.

That's over dramatic. I'm not loathing anything, especially myself, and there isn't anything I've done in the time since the RockNRun that I regret. Though I'm not full of regret, I am full of various cheeses and meats, generally in the form of pizza and sandwiches. Just this past Friday, I accidentally got hammered before I went to my parents house, then proceeded to drink with (and slur at) my lovely mother and father while slamming down piece after piece after piece of cheese and meat. My blurred vision during that time gave way to a smorgasbord that looked something this...

The title of that image is "meat and cheese party pack," which is, incidentally, one of my nicknames.

This is probably also one of the reasons for my 1:13.22 time on the RockNRun. That's one hour, thirteen minutes and 22 seconds, the equivalent to a 23:41 mile. This time was good enough to come in at 596th place of 1625 5K runners. Which means I finished before 63.3% of the field, two of which were Elly and Sean. This percentage is roughly equivalent to every grade I received

Now, to lament. I haven't really exercised in the two weeks since the RockNRun. For a while, it's because I was too sore; already a sign I need to get back on track. Then, it was because I had too many plans to get out and run. On top of that, I've been stingy about going to the gym, because I have to drive there and I need to be frugal with cash until the next paycheck because I decided that since it was my birthday last month, I would spend beyond my means. Hashtag: oopsie. But really, who can afford to drive with gas prices like this?! (He says as he slowly turns into his father.)

However, there have been points of exercise lately. I played soccer twice, and that's a lot of hard work. So what if it's a mere 4-on-4 pick-up game? I was sprinting like a cheetah!

(My friends and I. Ferocious. Fast.)

That is the obligatory cute animal photo. I could have used a photo of a cheetah running in the Serengeti, but they look so menacing with blood on their jowls and whatnot. If there's one thing I'm not, it's menacing.

During soccer, I ran so much that I could wring the sweat out of my shirt. It was mesmerizing and disgusting at the same time. I did it twice, and got another half-squeeze of sweat afterward. I am disgustingly awesome.

On top of that, I celebrated a bit by drinking on a balcony overlooking the lovely Manhattan Beach, and then I walked a bunch. I broke up a fight betwixt a 6'2" brute and a 6'0" somewhat twiggy man. That takes effort. It takes gall. It takes strength. It was almost exercise.

This past Saturday, I partied and drank on a rooftop in Venice Beach to celebrate a dear friend's birthday. It was perfectly bourgeoisie, and I finally got to do what I've always longed to do when I saw groups of friends schmoozing it up, four stories high in a beach city. I got to schmooze it up with friends, in a beach city, on the rooftop balcony of a four-story house. And then I walked the four miles home at 3 in the morning. This was fucking excruciating. I generally walk everywhere, only using my car for longer distances. However, this pair of shoes were not built for long-distance, brisk walking. My feet were killing me, and I was huffing and puffing like a beast.

(I swear, this shit is real. I'm not even embarrassed. You can see 

where the strap trapped sweat on my left shoulder. Impressive.)

I don't know how I started sweating that much. I'm not sure why. It wasn't even a warm night. It was actually somewhat chilly. My backpack must have trapped all of the heat my body was producing, concentrated it in a Frosty the Snowman-shaped area and made me perspire. I can try to attribute this to the meat sweats but that's a bit flimsy because I only ate six pulled-pork sandwiches. On second thought... it might have been meat sweats.

And then I worked my second job all day on Sunday, and walked all over the place. By the end of the day, my feet felt like ground beef, and I think I somehow got fatter.

There's a term for this, when someone partakes in anything excessively and then exercises. It actually works when they happen separately, like a lifestyle. I present to you, Excessercise. This is what this blog is about. It took me a whole three posts and three weeks to find a term (really credit should go to one Josh McBee) that adequately describes exactly what it is I'm attempting to do here. I drink in excess. I party and play in excess. I lazy in excess. I try to exercise. Excessercise.

So now that I've been successfully excessing, I need to start exercising. Realistically, this will happen after the Halloween weekend and when I receive my next paycheck. For starters, I will attempt to eat healthier, and in portions.*

JESUS CHRIST. That looks like a daunting task. How boring will eating all those green things be? Maybe exercising will be easier. For now, I'm shooting to run Wednesday and Saturday. Why the delay? Well, because I'm feeling a bit under the weather as of late, and would like to be fully healthy before I set myself back. Thursday, I'd normally play soccer, but this week I will be at a concert. And Friday, I will be dressed as a zombie in a lab coat, catering from 6 p.m. to 4 a.m. That's a bonus, because I will be walking all over the place for hours on end. Then I will ruin all that by eating rich and indulgent foods at all hours of the night.

Next week, I will be back to running and attending the gym, because that's what I need to do. I also, at some point the the near future, will be working out at the jungle gym/monkey bars/rings/ropes just south of the Santa Monica pier, because they will simulate the tasks needed for the Tough Mudder. Look at me fly!

(Dramatization. This graceful woman is not me. Photo Credit: Zachary Cole)

Given my primate tendencies, this should not be a problem. My focus should be on running. By February 9th, 2013, I'll need to be able to run 12 miles. Considering there are plenty of obstacles and my wardrobe will be weighed down by 20 pounds of mud...I should try to hit a goal of running about 15 miles without ending up in the hospital or a morgue. Seeing as I can run about 4 miles right now without being chauffeured home by emergency services, I really need to step up my game, and each week, add about 1 mile to my total runable distance. This is gonna hurt, and require a lot more motivation and discipline than I have been utilizing.

Signed,

The Meat and Cheese Party Pack

----------

*These are relative terms. For me, healthy is eating fewer than three fried things each week, and portions will vary depending on food rations. Basically, every goal I've set in this post is a complete crock of shit considering none of this is going to happen. I ate a baloney and cheese sandwich today, after eating bacon-wrapped jalapeno poppers. I am a champion of setting goals. I am a failure at reaching them.

It's not a mudrun, it's a mudFUN

I feel good. For all you grammar Nazis out there, it's not that I feel well and I'm using improper grammar; I mean, I FEEL good. For more than an hour on Saturday at the Rock'N Run, I was covered in mud from the neck-down. What does mud do? It exfoliates. I feel great. Go ahead, touch me. You can run your fingers along my arms – my skin makes puppies' ears feel like splintered lumber. I make babies' butts feel like sandpaper.

That's right, baby with future obesity problems and dog in need of a good ironing. You have nothing on me!

Look at me, talking shit to these two adorable creatures. That's what happens when you run 3.1 miles, some of it through mud, all while completing 14 mildly difficult obstacles. It makes you hard. Yeah, my skin is soft, but it's disguising my hardened exterior. I'm a man, I'm 27! If completing a 5K run doesn't make me Maximus Decimus Meridius, I don't know what does.

Really though, I'm five days removed from the race and the crippling soreness has finally subsided. And, I've come to some conclusions.

1. I am really good at climbing things; however, event photogs shit the bed and didn't get any photos of me climbing through mud, across monkey bars, over walls and cargo nets, or climbing a rope to ring a pathetic, plastic little bell (if an angel got his wings with that ring, he probably had some severe deformity). So, I have no proof, you'll just have to take my word for it.

2. I am not good at running. And I'm really not good at running up stairs, which we had to do three times. Up and down, up and down, up and down the bleachers in the Rose Bowl. This was my unraveling. I made it three-quarters up the first set before I had to slow my pace. The next two, I trudged up, hands on knees, sucking air, sweat dripping from my nose and chin. We were barely a quarter-mile in. So that's what I need to do: I need to run, a lot. I will also continue to climb shit, because it's fun.

But my pain and exhaustion quickly gave way to joy. I was like a pig in shit because I got to play in the mud. When I started the race, I was beautiful, pristine. Like a diamond in an Icelandic sunset. By the end I was covered in mud. I must have lost 10 pounds in water weight, but my clothes weighed 20. Photos, to illustrate...

That adorable little thing in the middle, that's my sister, Elly. And the Shrek on the right is her boyfriend, Sean. More on his biceps later.

I digress...The first obstacle was a belly crawl through mud with barbed wire looming dangerously above. At first I was like "EEEWWWW," but then I was like "WHEEEEE!!!!!"

(Please don't mind the watermarks, I can't afford to buy these photos. At least I got to 

them before they upped their watermark game and plastered it all over the damn things.)

Now, I said I was like a pig in shit, but that's only a half-smile. You ask "Why, Austen? Why only a smile?" Well I was waiting for Sean to make his way out of the mud pit and he had found some things that people lost. Here he is.

(Censored for your viewing pleasure)

Oopsie...

There he is! He was trying to give some bibs back to people who lost them. We should have kept them for possibility of free beer, but I don't think the beer tickets were still attached. And if I know my sister as well as I think I do, she's laughing at the rhino reference, but she's not entirely pleased that her mudbath didn't make it. So here's the obligatory shout out.

Cute, muddy, blah blah blah, she's happy now. Anyway, these pictures actually came from the second mud pit, and you can see how covered we are. The first wasn't quite as watery, but the gentleman in front of me decided he would kick through it, much like a swimming pool and splash all sorts of mud into my eyes, which stayed for the remainder of the race.

Speaking of eyes, I can't do shit if I can't see. One of the obstacles was crawling through dirt and hay underneath a black tarp, roughly 60 feet long. Elly did this with ease. I was sloth-like in my endeavors, taking more than twice as long as her, and was left with a mouthful of dust as punishment. No joke, I just spit dirt out. If you think you get dry mouth when you're hungover, try licking a sandbox.

Additionally, we had to jump into super cold water. This was just water, no ice, like in the Tough mudder. We still froze. It literally takes your breath away when you go underwater. Just jumping in is no problem. But you take a deep breath, go underwater and your chest compresses. You know there is air in your lungs, but it shocks you so hard that your body stops processing it. The blood flows from your limbs and into your core, but it's not enough. And when you're ducking underwater four times in a row, it's really quite awful. We came up gasping each time, slowly making our way to the end. I was lucky enough to be stuck behind one man who decided that urgency was not in anyone's best interest and he paused atop the ladder to get out. He took in the view. He snapped a photo. He picked his nose, analyzed his findings, balled it up, and flicked it to the side. He took his sweet fucking time and I was not happy. One quick shove and the problem was solved. He wasn't happy, but I wasn't in freezing water anymore. WHAT NOW?! Every man for himself, you dick.

Then I warmed up and I wasn't so mad anymore.

What I learned from the event was: running sucks and I suck at running; I'm good at climbing things and climbing things is fun; I need to talk to my cat about improving my eyesight in the dark; I need to take a lot of cold showers.

After the event, Elly, Sean, and I went to the Pasadena Yard House to drink another beer and reminisce. There were a few people there who had also completed the run and we would cheer and fist-pump and congratulate each other when we crossed paths. It was awesome! Teamwork! Camaraderie! Generally being badasses!

And then it all went to shit. This is where my "training" falls off course. The one free beer at the race and the half-yard beer afterward aren't a big deal. It's what follows...

I went to my parents' house to watch the Nebraska at Ohio State game. We drank beer and ate runzas during the game. Then Nebraska lost and instead of sitting around and bitching about it, we just drank. Some friends came over and drank beers with my dad. Then he busted out the expensive stuff. Then we kept drinking the cheap stuff. Then I went to a friend's house and drank more.

The next day, hungover and balled up with cramped abdominals, I watched RedZone, drank a bunch of wine and beer, and ate a bunch of meat and cheese. Therein lies the problem. A beer, or two, or three isn't so much a problem. But when that one beer brings a bunch of uninvited friends, my whole "eat healthy, be fitness savvy, run and work out" mantra derails. Any and all exercise was completely negated.

On the other hand, I still have a bunch of time to get my ass into gear and get in shape for the Tough Mudder. So I will gleefully procrastinate while you look at more pictures of the run, because lets not let them go to waste.

Seriously. Look at that bicep. Look at his arm as a whole. It's like my head. It's bigger than my head. It's a good thing I like him because there is no way in hell I could kick his ass. 

And there's my sister and I. Next, her climbing. I looked similar, except I was at the top and going all hunchback on the cheap-ass bell.

And here's the rest. One of the three of us. One of Elly because she's photogenic. One of Sean and me lifting her because we had to assert our dominance and show her who still makes us sandwiches. I'm lumping these all together because I am tired and I had to rewrite more than half of this because it was deleted somehow. LOOK AT US ALL MUDDY AND CUTE!!

 

This Could End Badly...

I'll cut to the chase.

Somehow, William Glenn Lopez convinced me that signing up for a Tough Mudder race to commence February 9, 2013, would be a good idea. However, I was not blessed with the speed of Usain Bolt, the agility of Arian Foster, or the mental fortitude of Lance Armstrong (say what you will about cheating, that man shat right on cancer's face). I don't have half of what these guys do, yet I've decided that I can somehow muster up the ability to finish this race. This could be a terrible idea. Hell, this is what I look like on a daily basis...

Clearly, not a portait of health, athleticism, or grace. I do love the U.S.A., though. Before I explain the lifestyle habits that will derail my "training," you should know more about the course.

The self-proclaimed toughest race on the planet, a Tough Mudder is 10- to 12-miles ran primarily through mud, with obstacles ranging from the simple to the downright stupid (read: deadly). These aren't just obstacles. I swear, some are designed to fucking kill you. The brainchild of Will Dean and Guy Livingstone, obstacles were designed by British Special Forces and designed to test your "strength, stamina, mental grit, and camaraderie." Wonderful. All of the things I listed that I don't have. Scratch that; I've got the camaraderie. I'm doing it with the best group of people I know, but, lets face it, their lifestyles are probably worse than mine.

Take for instance, the Arctic Enema. It's not as bad as having a gallon of near-freezing water forcibly pumped into your colon, but it's still no dip in the ocean. Over the course of a weekend, event organizers use 70,000 to 80,000 pounds of ice to keep a dumpster full of 34-35 degree water. That's COLD. Most people don't even want their beer that cold. Remember when Jack told Rose that she shouldn't jump because she wouldn't die and she would just freeze to death and it would be even more agonizing? This water is that cold, but what really happens is...well, "it's like eating ice cream and getting punched in the balls at the same time," according to Nolan Kombol, Tough Mudder's head of course design. Your already-dehydrated muscles contract, you get brainfreeze, you become disoriented, and your testicles curl into your body so quickly they pop right out your nostrils. Will you look at this man's face? He is terrified. He's disoriented. And he had no idea where his testes ended up, but he can still smell them.

What about the Funky Monkey? That can't be too hard, monkeys are cute and I love climbing shit! Oh, are those bars go up at an incline and then descend back down? Above another icy pond? Lubed up with mud and butter? Guess I'm going for another dip. Hang on while I shrink-wrap my junk now.

AHHHH some warmth. The Fire Walker. With flames at least four feet tall, it will be a welcome alternative to the primarily frigid obstacles. What's that you say? Kerosene-soaked hay? Well that will probably quite smokey. I guess having lungs akin to a baby otter will not benefit my cause. Pause here for awwwuhhz...

Maybe they should be called awwwters?

I digress, back to my slow, agonizing death. As I defrost through the flames, I'll be sucking down carcinogens. Thanks guys, if you don't kill me by the end of this thing, at least I have emphysema to look forward to.

And last, but definitely not least, Electroshock Therapy. Alright, what the actual fuck? YOU ARE REALLY TRYING TO KILL ME. One thousand ...dramatic pause before momentary freakout... ONE THOUSAND live wires of varying length dangle over bales of hay, mud, and water. Some of these wires have 10,000 volts of electricity running...

Hang on, this is where the freakout goes. You've got to be fucking kidding me.

Some of these wires have 10,000 VOLTS OF ELECTRICITY RUNNING through them, with nowhere to go but your body. Think about it. Put a 9-volt batter on your tongue. It's weird, and kind of uncomfortable, but not unbearable in the least. Multiply that more than 1,000 times and do it again. Don't worry, I'll wait. I'll call emergency services. And besides, since when do electricity and water mix? Everyone, our whole lives, has told us that this is one of the worst combinations on the planet. Who are you sick people?

Look at THIS guy. He's far more a physical specimen than I am. And he's not happy. It almost looks like he's yelling to pump himself up. But no, look at his left hand. That's agony. Look at his left leg. No man with this physique would pop his leg like that on purpose. I bet if he could, he'd go back and punch those wires, but he knows better. Just get to the finish line bro, leave the wires alone. Don't worry, it's close...

Because this is always the last obstacle. The Tough Mudders never have the same obstacles at each race, but this one is a never-fail death trap. It's always last, right before the finish line, because that puts you close to the paramedics. When one of the live wires zaps you in the jugular and knocks you out, they can whisk your unconscious ass to a medical center.

Some obstacles aren't as bad. There's Walk The Plank, where you just jump of a large platform into a lake. There's Greased Lightning, which will prove to be the most exciting and easiest obstacle. Basically, Mudders (slang for race participants) go flying down a slicked-up mountainside on their asses, knees, or faces. I'm particularly excited about the Turd's Nest, mainly for the name because poop is funny. On the other hand, I'm not excited about crawling on cargo rope over barbed wire because it seems counter-intuitive to my health.

So now you know. Apparently I have just about 130 days to get my body and mind ready for this. I will need to run and hit the gym. I can't just run, I need to push myself. I can't just go to the gym, I need to change my work outs...and push myself. But all sorts of things distract me. I live within a 10 minute walk of four delicious pizza joints, a Mexican restaurant and a Krispy Kreme. Within 5 minutes are three Italian restaurants, four miscellaneous restaurants, a Panda Express and a cheese shop. It's a shop dedicated to cheese, dammit. The amount of bars that are walking distance...I can't even count them. I have video games. I have TV. I have a DVR. I have a couch and bed. I have sports to watch. I have every reason to distract myself, so here, I blog my successes and failures. Come along with me.

I start by doing the Rock'N Run this Saturday, October 6, at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena. It's a 5K obstacle course and mud run. I haven't seriously trained. I haven't jokingly trained. I've ran four times. I've lifted just about the same. This will not end well.