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.

The Age Old Question: Bacon or Bench Press?

The fact that the L.A. Bacon Festival falls on the same day as the Tough Mudder race I've so aptly almost trained for is a most appropriate metaphor for the battle I've participated in since birth. Or, sometime around when my metabolism slowed down and my drinking and eating notched up to excessive.

Whenever I have free time, there is a war that take wages inside my head. Do I eat? Do I exercise? If I eat, how much bacon do I have? Do I have enough? Do I even have any?

I tell you what won't run out of bacon. The Bacon Fest! The best thing about that little nugget of heaven? The VIP admission includes cocktail tastings. And you just KNOW that one of them will serve whiskey...

THIS IS MY HEAVEN!

(Look at that. This was in March of last year, or something 

like that. I was the Bacon Festival before the Bacon 

Festival was the Bacon Festival. I am the bacon hipster.)

(Not actually me. I can't grow that nice of a beard.)

And this is my newest pairs of sunglasses...

(Sadly I never wore them because I ate them.)

And had I not been signed up for the damn death race, I would have been wearing those sunglasses while enjoying my pig belly and cocktail pairings under the beautiful L.A. sun...or the stuffy confines of the Petersen Automotive Museum where our greasy, drunk little fingers will not be allowed to touch anything shiny and fun.

Bacon, the sweet, salty, sometimes maple-y giver of life, smiles, and nutrition. I can't say anything about bacon that hasn't been said before. Everyone loves bacon, and bacon deserves that love. Bacon has been made into all sorts of things: bacon vodka, bacon ice cream, bacon lip balm. (Yes, I've tried all three. Yes, all three were worth the money.)

I even saw this week how to make a bacon candle. Out of bacon fat. CAN YOU IMAGINE HOW GOOD THIS SMELLS? Your house can always smell like bacon is cooking. That's probably exactly what it smells like when Bigfoot farts.

God, it just makes me want to do just terrible, awful, sexual things to pigs bacon.

And at this festival I could put my mouth all over all sorts of bacon and other assorted swine products. Because a pig is more than just the cured, fatty underbelly, theres PIGG, which uses almost every part of the pig, so as to create not waste, but happiness.

There's Slaters 50/50, which makes its patties with half ground beef, HALF BACON! How no one ever thought of this before is beyond me. Look at this fucking brownie. Look at it. If you aren't aroused, you are not human. This is Stephen-Hawking-of-food level genius. This restaurant speaks to me in about 20 different languages. Except Hebrew, of course.

And there are others, naturally, like The Sticky Pig, which might actually be the new No. 1 destination on my pig list.

This is where I want to be, and I will be sure that next year, I will be greased up and ready to bacon myself up. It would be an educational experience. The bacon you're likely thinking of is the bacon we eat in the U.S. and Canada. The rest of the world eats bacon from other parts of the pig. 

THE WHOLE PIG CAN BE MADE INTO BACON.

(Pig, simplified.)

Do you comprehend what I'm saying? There are varietals of bacon! Bacon is to obesity what wine is to alcoholism. You can try different cuts. Different styles of curing. Different ages. You can pair it with other sides and alcohols. You can eat it plain. You know those e-cards that always have some woman talking about only drinking wine for dinner. Now you can make one that says you're only having bacon for dinner.

"Excuse me, while I dip into my bacon cellar for another cut. Anyone have a preference? Perhaps a Broiled 18-year Fatback? I think I have a 12-year Unsmoked Loin...What's that? Why, yes, I do have a '96 Sliced Jowl! I'll be right back. Butler Jeeves! Please pour everyone else another glass of the Franzia. It will pair nicely."

Gah! I'm about to faint, and I didn't once mention exercising. I could probably write about bacon for days without even remembering to get off the couch. I'd just stew in my own feces while daydreaming of skillets and fat.

I guess we know how today's battle went. I'll let the artery clogging commence.

And just because this is about the funniest fucking thing I've seen all day...

(HAHAHAHAHA lolololol)

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.

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.