2013 Summer Death Race By the Numbers

(for comparison, refer back here)

Wood chopped: less than usual

Participants registered: 390
Participants that started the race: 206
Finishers: 41
Finishers that received all 8 chips as of 6am Monday morning ("first wave finishers"): 21
Female finishers: 4

World's Toughest Mudder 2013: and it won't change a thing?

Found this the other day
cleaning out my office. I should
really clean my office more often.

World's Toughest Mudder registration went live two weeks ago, and judging from the Facebook and social media reaction, you would have thought TMHQ had punched a baby. 

"NO qualification process?!?" seemed to be the resounding outcry. Hundreds (read, in reality: dozens) of
affronted people, worried that the race wouldn't be "elite" enough, or that the out-of-shape masses would crowd Raceway Park in New Jersey, leaving the finishers to step over frozen bodies littered around the course after 24 hours. I skimmed the new changes, and the only thing that came to mind was "meh".

The Trouble with Chicking

As I passed a group of guys at the sandbag carry during the Indiana Spartan Sprint this past weekend, I heard "Are you kidding? She's passing us. A girl. Fuuuuuuuuuck."

Yay me, right? Woo women! Go chicks! How empowering and badass and wonderful!

So why did it feel so horrible? And why did it bother me throughout the race, and still bothers me, almost a week later?

Because "chicking" shouldn't be a big deal.

Meels on Wheels

During P.E. class in fifth grade, we timed our 100m dash in the parking lot of good ol' Palisades School.

I finished last in my class of 30.

Dead last.

Which I couldn't understand. I was an athletic kid. I played club level traveling soccer and ASA softball. I ran the hell out of the soccer field for 90 minutes at a time; I was the all-star pitcher on our champion little league team.

But for the life of me, I could not sprint. I was sloooooooow.*

Walking a Tightrope

A conversation that happened with a couple in my apartment building the other day:

Man: "Excuse me, but I have to ask, are you a trainer? My wife and I always see you in work out gear, and you are in great shape."

Me: "ha, no - I'm an attorney."

Man [unnecessarily flummoxed]: "Really? Oh, we were going to ask you to train us."

My reaction to this was initially to be flattered, but then I though, HOLD UP - does that mean that I always look like a slob in warm ups and headbands? This thought was then followed by "shit, maybe I missed my calling."

The First DNF

Two years ago, the letters "DNF" meant nothing to me. Nor did the letters "DNS." Despite running some road races, I'd never really heard the terms thrown around. I'd never known the stigma attached to them, or the feelings that come with it.

And I continued to not know, until this weekend.

Coming Back as a Veteran

The racing season hasn't exactly started off with a bang. After missing the Spartan SoCal due to weather and air traffic control (thanks Philly!), I'm now faced with an unpleasantly cold Winter Death Race.

Well, that's what I signed up for, right? Fair point. Last year the Winter Death Race was held a month later--beginning of March, and it was a particularly balmy weekend (need I remind you of the sports bra burpee pics? No. Thank God. Because I can't get over those either). I went in scared out of my mind, with no idea what to expect.