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.

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.