After the gym and a long nap, we finished packing. Six bricks – check. Water, gels, bars and mini-potatoes for fuel – check. Salt pills, ibuprofen and duct tape (you never know when you will need duct tape) – check. The American flag was, of course, to be replaced with a Canadian flag, and someone on the team was bringing one. As it later turned out, on a hockey stick, instead of a pole. How fitting! Holy moly, the backpacks were heavy. It was hard to imagine that these babies will live on our backs for the next ten hours. The scale reported 36lb for my pack, and 41lb for Mike’s. Goruck was to begin at 1am on Saturday – so late Friday night. We set up a randevu with Boss, our unofficial photographer, and Captain C, who signed up for the challenge the night before. The meeting place was Nathan Phillips square downtown Toronto, and we spotted a couple of our future teammates as we were walking towards the reflective pool – they were geared up with backpacks. We start few minutes after 1am. Cadre Beaux, our training officer for tonight, gathers the group around in a circle. There are 14 of us, 2 women. Age ranges from early 20s to late 40s. From the plethora of body shapes and sizes, I guess that some are runners, some are CrossFitters, some lift heavy. Jokes and pokes are flying around, cadre tries to look away as he smiles, and the whole atmosphere resembles that of a locker room. I will fit in just fine… We sign the consent forms. I’m pretty sure they have the word “death” in them at least once. This seems to be a theme of my fitness events lately. Backpacks are on, and they are to stay on our back or someone else’s back for the rest of the night (morning, day). Cadre promises us 60-90 minutes of hell before we even leave Nathan Phillips square. The good news is that no one has ever quit on him AFTER the initial hour. Reassuring… We are in line. We are in plank. We are doing push-ups. Face down. Up. Face down. Up. On your feet. Get down. Push-ups. More push-ups. Flutter kicks. Face down. Cadre is calm as he showers us with profanities. I find the whole thing incredibly entertaining… [note the 25lb team weight that we had to lug around in addition to all the backpacks]. One of the team members made (!) it himself… Stony, you are so cool! The task for the next hour is to figure out how to do whatever he asks AS A TEAM. “This is not a race”, he keeps repeating. “As we begin, you are a group of 14 individuals. As the night goes on, I will make you into ONE team.” Face down. On your feet. No. Again. Eventually we catch on, and start glancing at each other in an effort to function a little bit more team like. Face down. We are lying face down on the pavement, backpacks pressing us further into the ground. “Guys,” I yell, “shoulder to shoulder”. We crawl towards each other and align the shoulders. Cadre seems pleased. For the next half an hour, we overthink every single thing that cadre asks us to do. “Take four steps.” “Wait!”, someone screams. “On a count of three, one, two, three – STEP!”. At this point, I’m pretty sure all the spectators are in psychological pain. As we are rolling around, my backpack starts to leak. I panic, thinking it’s my hydration bladder, but no – one of my water bottles filled with electrolytes bursts. Well, there goes 500ml of hydration… As one, we get up. As one, we get into the fountain. As one, we sit down… in fountain… Flutter kicks… Finally, cadre is content. Or at least, bored. “Form two lines”, he directs. And we are off… About 8.5 hours to go… Hugs, SOLO

Gather round, children… the tale continues. Last time I left you just as we were about to receive a life-changing lesson on getting out of zip tie handcuffs. For those interested, you may just have to suffer through S.E.R.E. to learn that (or you know… Google it), but as a hint – it does involve a shoelace. And a gag. No, wait… that’s something else. After the instruction, everyone was handcuffed, and left to find a way to escape. At least one person per team managed to hold their wrists just tight enough, so they could loosen the ties, and slip out, and then help the rest of the teammates. At this point we were presented with a box of random items (e.g. scissors, Sharpie market, wallet) that we had to memorize, and directions to a city block in Chinatown, which we had to examine in as much detail as possible (for possible testing later). This particular trek was actually quite pleasant. We were dodging runners as we made it across the Manhattan Bridge. “Where were you 8 hours ago?”, I catch myself thinking gloomily, as they prance past our group in their colorful outfits. It is now close to noon, and the sun is high up. In fact, now we are more in danger of sunburn than hypothermia. I insist that a couple of our teammates delayer at this point – we do this on foot, while I hold their backpack. After doing plenty of running in the sun, I know how quickly you can become overheated. I also randomly come up to people on our team, and start smearing sunscreen on their face. To my surprise, most are thankful, rather than resistant. Yay for preventing skin cancer. After gathering all intel we can on the city block in Chinatown, we make way towards Battery Park (the southern tip of Manhattan Island, facing New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty). We are the first team to make it to Battery Park, and are happy to finally sit down, while we wait for other teams. The instructors are not impressed with our rest break, so PT (physical training) for us. I perform planks and push-ups, while chewing a Cliff bar. As one of our team members walks away from the rest of the team to throw away some trash, we get more punishment. At this point, it definitely seems that instructors are picking on our seemingly still fresh team. When all the teams finally arrive, each team leader has to report on the intel they have collected as well as recall the list of items presented to us after the water drill. There are a few minutes of down time, when I try to stretch out my muscles, which are rapidly tightening up. I know we have to start moving again soon… Instead of taking off for another challenge, however, a fairly detailed first aid / emergency session follows. I am all for first aid, and our instructor is very knowledgeable, however, I find myself doubting the utility of this particular en devour. I have my basic first aid certification, and that takes two full days of classroom time (after eating and sleeping normally). Without physical movement, I am so sleepy, I can barely stand. I don’t know how much of the information relayed, I actually retain. The challenge is a relay where each of the team members had to describe treating a sucking chest wound and an amputation, and then buddy drag the team leader. For a severe case of bleeding, we were shown how to apply a tourniquet, using any object, like a utility tool or a stick nearby. Something new that I learned is that you HAVE to make sure to write down the time when the tourniquet was applied on person’s forehead, so when help finally arrives, they know how long it has been on. I think I would do ok with stopping the bleeding, but God help you if you actually have a sucking chest wound. I do remember that you have to use anything around you, like a ziplock bag to close the wound on three sides with tape, with the side close to the armpit open, so any blood can drain. I think… Most of the information given to us applied to having to deal with an emergency in battle field, and using anything you have on you and around you. The instructor also described how to prepare a Go-Bag, bag with items you may need in case of emergency, that you can keep ready to go. I really liked the idea of carrying an eye dropper with a little bit of chlorine in it, as in an emergency it can be used to purify water for drinking. Next challenge: we have to make our way over to the Times Square and make contact with one of the instructors via a land line. This is our longest trek yet – spanning over 50 blocks. We really push the pace. It is now middle of Saturday in New York City, and we have to dodge crowds of tourists. Numbers of streets flash, one after another. We arrive to Times Square – out of breath and tired. Part of the team heads out to McDonald’s to get some food for the rest – if I have to eat another gel, I will scream. As we make contact with the instructors, next mission is to trade the Rubik’s cube we received at the beginning of the event (which seems oh-so-long-ago now) for any New York related item. Few minutes later we secure a tuke with New York City logo, and are ready to keep going. Washington Park is the next destination. However, it is over 2 miles away and we have ten minutes until the deadline. the next challenge is to reach Washington Park, a distance of two miles. Right… subway it is… we head down, stuffing our faces with cheeseburgers and passing around a huge cup of Coke. About the only time when a McDonald’s cheeseburger tastes good in my mind is when I’ve been eating nothing but energy gels for ten hours. It’s nice to actually chew on something. We are the second team to reach Washington Park… It turns out the other team took the subway. Hmmm… well, that would definitely save us some time on trekking 50 blocks on foot. All other teams arrived on foot, and we protest whether the win was indeed legitimate, after which one point is taken away from the team that arrived first. At this point, I have long given up on watching the clock. I find the nature of the event itself somewhat frustrating… In a race, no matter how long, I know that if I go faster, and push harder, it will be over faster. This is a completely different animal. No matter what I do as an individual, does not contribute to the end approaching any sooner. We will keep going until… instructors decide that we are done. I find this lack of control challenging mentally. I have also given up on trying to figure out who wins in what challenge and how. The points are given and taken away with no seeming rhyme or reason. This is a survival trek. Put one foot in front of the other. The park is really busy – filled with teenagers, and parents with children. At one point, a young woman appears. Her hair is blonde and curly. Full make-up. Flowing clothes. She leaps and bounces through our mini-camp of backpacks and bodies. She has a tiny Dachshund on a leash. The dog is wearing a purple dress. “Come on, baby!”, the woman exclaims, prancing around. “Run, little one!” The whole sight is so mismatched with our dirty shirts, and exhausted faces, that I’m pretty sure I’m hallucinating. Finally, all groups arrive. We have to “climb mountain Subiachi”, another PT session. Yay. Not sure why we need a fancy name for more push-ups, but ok… Stacked buddy push-ups: Leg wrap sit-ups: At some point, two girls appear out of nowhere, and join the instructors at the front, screaming orders and insults at us. I’m usually quite friendly, I swear… but at this point, the very last pinch of Ghandi in me dies, and I embrace a deep burning desire to get up and punch them in the face. The girls continue to scream, completely oblivious to very real danger. Just a practical life suggestion – if you see 50 individuals covered in dirt, with heavy backpacks and hungry eyes, you may not want to piss them off. Just sayin’. Caterpillar plank/push-up: The words “Top Team competition” come up few times, but at this point, the tasks are simply too random for me to care. During one of the drills, we do a quick circuit, going from burpees to push-ups to ranger kicks. Once again, I realize how much more weight I have to put on my wrist every single time I have to get up from the ground, given the backpack. Few times, I feel stuck after ranger kicks – helplessly trying to kick up like a half-dead turtle. It’s a disheartening experience. The group challenge here including pairing up to drag a buddy across the wet grass, and then somersault back. We win this challenge. Another point for us. Yay? It’s actually starting to get dark. And cold. Again. Last mission: a two mile trek / death march to Fire House #10. We have to carry three “dead” teammates. Two of our team members are “killed” by instructors – the tallest, strongest, and therefore, heaviest men. And we get to pick another member to kill – thankfully, one of us, Angela is light as a feather. We have to carry 3 people and 11 backpacks among the eight of us for two miles. Freaking yay? I may not be very good with cold water, but this I can do all day. At some point, I piggyback one of my teammates who is well over 200 pounds – that is 1.5 times my body weight. I think my “dead” victim is shell-shocked, because he proceeds to ask me out. Speaking of unusual places to be asked on a date… ladies, beat that. In his defense, I think this is fairly typical for him, as he admits asking someone to marry him during the last year’s Spartan Ultra Beast. As we trudge along, my lower back is starting to protest. Unequal distribution of weight, constant stopping, and changing of backpacks is not helping. Most of the team suffers in silence. Some dispense marriage proposals. I sing. Joke. Strike up conversations with pedestrians. If I was any more obnoxious, I’d be arrested for public disturbance. Whatever helps. My sincere apologies to my team. Humour is my pain killer. The cohesiveness of the team deteriorates rapidly, as we are dead tired and hungry. One of instructors (Hi, Happy!) sticks with the team, and pushes the pace the whole time. We snap at each other. We roll our eyes. We purse our lips. Where the heck is this Fire House #10? Many torturous minutes and few blow-outs later, we finish at the FDNY (Fire Department New York) Ten House, across the street from the World Trade Center site. The memorial wall honors the 343 members of the New York City Fire department who died on September 11, 2001. Many are crying, as we crowd around the memorial. We take off the backpacks, and hug each other. When the last team finishes, we line up to receive our patches and dog tags. The tags are handmade by one of the instructors, Todd Sedlak, third-generation firefighter. They took hours to make. There are two tags on each chain – one for the finisher, and one for those fallen. This is probably my coolest medal yet… Over 16 hours, and over 18 miles covered on foot – rucking, running, walking, crawling, jumping, squatting, pushing, pulling… We have survived. *Correction: In my previous post, I mentioned that we lost two women who were struggling with the cold. In fact, one of those women came back, and finished with the support of her team. Here’s a note from Jenn: “I was one of the women who got hypothermic. Not only had I been shivering (and doing squats like a determined crazy person) but eventually I stopped shivering and lost consciousness. I was fortunate that my teammate Jeff was next to me trying to warm me up because he caught me as I fell. I made my way with one of the John’s to the cafe and had some hot chocolate and tried to warm up. I made it out for the last leg of the relay and completed that. After the hypothermic episode my blood sugar was completely out of whack and I never fully recovered and I was having an extremely hard time staying conscious, but my team (thankfully) helped me through since I didn’t want to quit. I even made it through the dive bomber push-ups in the east river. Team Delta battled through my hypothermia and another members bronchitis. We were slow, and didn’t “win” on many challenges, but all 12 of us eventually made it to the end.” Now THAT’S a true team spirit. Signing off, Solo

We take off at a comfortable jogging pace, still trying to maintain two lines. It’s the prom weekend, and semi-drunk teenagers decked out in lilac dresses and cheap tuxedos are quite amused. We get a couple of “I-officially-declare-you-weird” honks. The theme of this mission is zombie apocalypse, and we are directed to not engage the drunk zombies, the homeless zombies or the excessively friendly zombies for the duration of the mission. Noted. Cadre artfully deals with all those creatures as the night unfolds. Two team leaders are designated. Our first task is to locate a certain individual in a certain garage on a certain intersection. The identifier is the red Fiat. I get lost in the details quickly. In fact, it takes me pretty much until the very end of the mission to clue in who we are supposed to be, and which characters we are looking for at what time. Once we finally reach our destination, this delightful wardrobe transformation occurs: Photo – compliments of Goss, who stuck with us FOR THE WHOLE NIGHT (go, team Trifecta!). I say that this photo alone was worth it, because if these shorts were not captured on film, it would be a tragedy. A TRAGEDY, I tell you. We reach the target individual, who magically turns out to be cadre, and learn about our next task. We are off to a building site. Something tells me we are not leaving that building site empty-handed. We are at the right place… Our watches were taken at some point, so the only thing I know is that it’s Saturday. And it’s late. New team leaders are chosen. We need to get a couple of sweet-looking logs from the dumpster – buried under more logs. Obviously. I get rid of my backpack (which is allowed as long as backpacks are held by someone else), and start digging out the first log. Couple of guys join me. We leave the building site with two new (and heavy) friends, as well as a bucket of rocks for good measure. The logs are not too heavy, but are incredibly uncomfortable. It almost becomes a mental challenge, as it is so frustrating to keep changing positions and grips, as we are trudging along… The festivities continue as cadre whips out a Sponge Bob Squarepants speakers (I almost wish I was joking), and puts on “Call On Me” video. Tights, headbands and glistening glutes are plentiful – cadre and his shorts fit right in. We press whatever weight we are carrying over our head for the duration of the song, as cadre and the Canadian flag are gyrating around with alarming proficiency. After another lengthy trek, we reach a soccer field. Cadre uses pieces of pretzel to give a little strategy lesson on how to surround the enemy. In groups of three, we crouch on wet grass, and run towards “the enemy”, widening the grip and eventually surrounding him completely. It’s getting lighter…

*MISSED PART OF THE STORY? Part 1 HERE. Part 2 HERE. Part 3 HERE. Saturday, June 22, 2013 0630 hours, 16 hours into the race Fourth Circle of Hell – GREED After a short hike, we stop. We are told to empty our backpacks, and fill it up with gravel. Greed is punished. Those more attached to material goods (read: those who are carrying larger packs) are suffering. I regret not showing up with a clutch. I am mildly anxious about the task, as I have no idea how long this particular adventure will last. It’s the Death Race. We could be carrying pounds upon pounds of gravel for an hour or for ten hours. Part of me does not expect to see any of my gear until the end of the race. I dump everything on the ground, and stuff my pockets with gels. Just in case. Joe, Andy and Peter are spearheading the fun. We carry gravel few hundred meters up the trail, and dump it on the ground in a seemingly random location. Talk about anti-climactic. This is doing nothing for my peaking boredom. I start entertaining thoughts of quitting. I heard there are really nice breweries in the area. It’s only Saturday – a whole weekend ahead. “How are you doing?”, a fellow racer asks, coming down the trail, as I drag myself up. “Bored”, I respond, staring at the ground. I’m a real delight to talk to. I want my damn coffee. The pile of gravel at the bottom is disappearing, as the corresponding pile is growing at the top. It’s now spilling over onto the trail. “Wouldn’t it be grand, if we had to bring it all back down next?”, I think to myself gloomily. I would kill for an audio book. Or an intelligent conversation. Next to the shrinking pile of gravel, I notice a sharp drop into the creek with barbed wire stretched across. Something tells me we will be back. Just a hunch… Someone mentions that we will have to do a mile barbed wire crawl. Five times. Again, I filter the information. A mile crawl. Ten mile crawl. Whatever. Take it as it comes. Justice of God! Who has amassed as many strange tortures and travails as I have seen? And he to me: “O unenlightened creatures, how deep-the ignorance that hampers you! In this case, deep ignorance helps, rather than hampers. Ignorance for the win. We are leaving. Destination – Amee Farm. I let out a sigh of relief, not because I’m looking forward to making it to the farm. Not because of what’s there. But simply because it presents a fairly clear and meaningful goal. Get from point A to point B. Meaningful goals have been severely lacking in my life in the past dozen hours or so. A little caveat before we leave. Obviously. Find a large rock (pre-approved by one of the race organizers). Hold the rock. Hug the rock. Fuck the rock. The rock comes with us, and is to be carried, using our hands only – no resting it on the shoulder, no putting it in the bag. Our free labour caravan takes off on a narrow trail, one racer after another, as we shuffle around, looking for the best way to carry our rocks. “I don’t know why you are all still dragging one after another. The race has started!”, shouts Andy. I’m pretty sure we heard these words at least five times at various points throughout the weekend. Best approach is probably to ignore most time/race references altogether. Most pick up the pace, however, and some are starting to pass the racers in front of them. My Joe-approved rock is actually reasonable in size, and does not create too much suffering. I pass Junyong Pak. On any other obstacle race course, not only I’d never see Pak, he’d be enjoying a beer at the finish line as I crawl up the first hill. But today, he is given a stone so large, he might as well be dragging a dead body. “Well, this is the first and only time I will ever pass you on the race course”, I say, smiling apologetically. As I overhear another racer behind me make a similar tongue-in-cheek comment, I suddenly feel like a douche. Not really fair passing, is it? I’d rather be forever behind. Fifth Circle of Hell – ANGER The arbitrary nature of the event is starting to get to me. In fact, it’s starting to PISS ME OFF. I slip on a downhil, almost twist my ankle and catch myself almost with regret. “Now twisting my ankle would be a perfectly legitimate reason to quit”, I find myself thinking wistfully. That thought freaks me out. Thoughts of self-harm, and we are not even 24 hours in. What’s next? Suicidal ideation? Homicidal tendencies? [I do have an axe…] The course marker ribbons lead us straight into the bush. It’s a pain in the ass. But kind of fun. Yay for off-road! Some of my more heavily-weighted brothers and sisters are less than thrilled with all the bushwhacking. I later find out that Matthew the UltraBeast carried a 20ft pipe through the thick of the forest. Now that would have been a bitch. UltraBeast, indeed. For some reason, I think that we are quite close. Instead, the damn hike just wouldn’t end. I pass a lot of people on this section. Hiking with heavy shit – this I can do for hours, and do well. Don’t ask me to draw, sing or dance – good geisha I am not – but I’d make a great mule. Saturday, June 22, 2013 1030 hours, 20 hours into the race We ascend out of the darkness. Aimee Farm is crowded – mostly local spectators pointing fingers at the racers and laughing. Ok, maybe they are not. But they really should be. Support crews are also waiting for their husbands, girlfriends, daughters whom they have not seen for many hours to emerge from the woods. From the sequencing perspective, the rock carry immediately prior is quite brilliant, as it tires out the upper body nicely, right before you have to start (continue?) using it. Well played. I see Italian in the crowd, and head over to say hello. “You look good”, he says. He’s relieved to see my in one piece and is now searching my face for any further signs of distress. I’m still wearing my bored look. “I think I’m done”, I say. “Why?” He’s desperately trying not to show any excitement at these words. I complain as I stuff my face with a breakfast sandwich and coffee (finally!). Sixth Circle of Hell – HERESY Huge logs are strewn around the farm. I realize that I haven’t quite practiced my woodchopping enough, as these things look like they came from a magical sequoia forest and have been watered with steroids. I could easily use any of the logs as a dining table. For six. We have to chop thirty of these. With the sun beating down, the heat will be the biggest challenge. Still chewing, I take my shoes off to air out my feet, drag the smallest log I can find to the side, and take a swing. The axe drowns in fresh wood, and green juice oozes out. Well, that’s new… I might as well be chopping jell-o. Or pate. Or you know… other un-choppable things. This will be a long afternoon. Racers continue to arrive. Very quickly the farm turns into a bad Fiskars commercial, as two hundred racers are swinging axes around. Few inches closer and we are on the set for the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Vermont Chopping Axe Massacre? “Teams 1-4, drop your axes!”. I’m team four, so I reluctantly put down my axe, and make my way over. “500 penalty burpees!” Huh? Penalty for what? I look around, trying to locate a single familiar face, and realize that my whole team is still chopping away. I’m caught in the act of trying to slink away to resume the same. “What group are you?”, Matt barks. “Get back there!” “I need to put my shoes on!”, I proclaim defiantly. I feel like a four-year old. And she is about to throw a tantrum. I stomp away (as much as my bare feet would allow), sit down on the grass and reach for another breakfast sandwich (all compliments of Italian). Given the chaos, dispersing random punishment to thin out the crowd actually makes sense. [Ah, the joys of hindsight.] Right now though I’m just fucking pissed about the whole thing. When Matt finds me about five minutes later, still barefoot and chewing on bacon, he’s livid. I’m instructed to grab all of my gear and head over to Roger’s farm immediately as punishment. Instead, I grab my axe and head over to my chopping station. I am officially in bitch mode. I’m so done with this bullshit. Joshua Gustin Grant, may the Spartan gods bless him, is making his way through the crowd. His whole disposition so relaxed, he could be strolling along the boardwalk in Toronto, snacking on jujubes. “Solo, how are you?”, he says as I give him one of my signature bear hugs. “Josh, I think I’m done”, I say. The serene expression on his face does not change. “How come?” “I’m bored”, I explain, shrugging. “This whole thing is stupid. They have people doing burpees for no freaking reason. And now they are sending me away on some punishment hike.” “Solo, don’t fall for it. You realize this is exactly what they are trying to do, right? Get you bored. Get you angry. Get you confused. Get you to quit.” I feel hot tears welling up in my eyes. “Well, it’s working”, I think, still annoyed. “Was it Joe or Andy who told you to leave?”, Josh asks. “No? So go, chop wood.” It’s only a matter of time until Matt finds me waving my Fiskars with renewed fervor of a serial killer. This time Joe is here too. The official verdict: I disobeyed a direct order. I either hike up to Roger’s farm, or I’m out of the race. I’m not the only one falling apart. Chaos is getting to people. I overhear a racer quit. And another. And another. “Ah, you let the race get to you!”, states Joe calmly, shaking yet another fallen warrior’s hand. As I hear those words I know that Joshua is right. And I hate that. Fair or not, bored or not, if I quit, I still quit. Damn you, Joshua, the Yoda of the Death Race. Signing off, SOLO

*MISSED PART OF THE STORY? Part 1 HERE. Part 2 HERE. The comedy begins. Friday, June 21, 2013 1430 hours, 0 hours into the race INFERNO My Death Race has officially started. I work my way through the racers, who are already sweaty and dirty, until I finally find Team Four. We have few metal pipes to carry, so I jump in, assisting another girl in the group, and we start hiking up the mountain. Ten minutes in, I’m tired. I’m sweating profusely. “Uh-oh”, I think to myself. “That’s a little disconcerting”. Yet again, for me the first 500m of any race are always the hardest. Slow starter, this one. [If you don’t believe me, please refer to the photo of me below chopping wood 48 hours in. I look fresh as a cucumber.] 1530 hours, 1 hour into the race First Circle of Hell – Limbo We arrive at our destination – small flat area with a pile of huge rocks. I glance at the rocks tenderly. Something tells me we will have to become friends. Might as well. The hunch is correct. First task – we are building a massive staircase to the top of the hill. We drag rocks up the hill, again and again. Then we drag some more rocks. The freaking things are heavy (at least we think so at this point). We use four pipes, lined up, as makeshift rails, then push the rocks, one by one, onto the edges, and push, pull, drag the rock to the edges of rails. Then pull out two pipes, carry them uphill, re-align, keep pushing. Two or three guys are pushing the rock uphill, while another four or five are pulling onto a strap, wrapped around the rock. I partner up with one of my teammates to be on the pipe-carry detail. Dante Alighieri described it well: [quote] … I saw multitudes to every side of me; their howls were loud while, wheeling weights, they used their chests to push.[/quote] It looks exactly like this: The work is mind-numbing (at least I think so at this point), but we are still in the honeymoon stages of both the Death Race and the team dynamics. Word on the street cross out!!!!!! in the woods is that a fist fight has already broken out in one of the other groups. Andy shows up, and dishes out praise to our team, seeing the pile of rocks slowly dissipating. Joe passes by without saying much. Don appears like a hurricane, screaming bloody murder, leaving a trail of burpees behind. They are like the alter egos of a comic book superhero – never seen together in the same room. I try to eat to hunger, rather than according to my regular fueling routine. The rocks are heavy, but it’s still not quite the same physical effort as a continuous run. Now that we are in the shade, I’m not even sweating. I sip water, and try to settle into a labor routine. We do as we are told. We are being good. We are even fed at one point in the evening – chicken and potato salad. I eat with my hands. I can’t shake the image of slave plantations. Maybe, lynchings will be next. 2130 hours, 7 hours into the race Change of location. Our group picks up and starts moving forward. We pass other groups, laboring away at their corresponding tasks. It’s dark, when we finally stop. Mission – continue dragging rocks up the hill, dig up the trail so individual large rocks can be placed in the middle to serve as steps, carry gravel and soil to the steps, to pack them down. Straightforward enough. Part of me is glad that we have not yet been asked to eat live snails, or hang upside down for three hours. However, we do have a problem. It’s way too crowded on the trail. Two hundred people are trying to work where 50 bodies would do nicely. Now it’s about carving out a spot for yourself where you can contribute and be useful for the next x number of hours. While some racers are laying it all out there, with the determination of working elephants, more experienced racers are clearly taking it easy. While all are working, the strategy of the latter group is apparent. The race has not really started yet. The first 24-hours serve as a prolonged hike designed to pre-tire you. I dig, and carry. Push, then pull. Chew on some food. Cut branches off a tree. It’s past my bedtime. And we are not pushing nearly hard enough to keep me awake. I’m starting to get bored. Saturday, June 22, 2013 0430 hours, 14 hours into the race Our night activities do not get any more exciting in hours to come. I gotta admit, if I’m gonna be awake past 11pm, I prefer a little more adrenaline in my bloodstream than landscaping can provide. Finally, at 4am we are instructed to get our gear, and to start lugging our butts up the mountain. Up, up and away. All the way to the summit. Once there, I’m not 100% sure what we are supposed to be doing – I’m still bored and really sleepy. Backpacks are off, and we lie on the ground. It seems that we are left alone for about twenty minutes. I strategically place myself on the backpack, so my butt is not touching the wet grass – I’m holding on to relative state of dryness for as long as it is possible. Without movement, we start getting cold – I put on a fleece (also still dry!) and get out an emergency blanket. Yes, I look like an incredible dork, unfolding the shiny parcel and making crackling noises, but once wrapped in its foil goodness, I’m as comfortable as the situation allows. I fall asleep for what will be my longest nap of the race – a whopping fifteen minutes or so. If you are caught sleeping during the Death Race, you are disqualified. Note the “caught” part… I think sleeping during our little siesta was actually legit, but I’m way too anxious. It’s like sneaking food from your own damn fridge. You look over your shoulder, hoping not to get caught, not sure why you are sneaking around in the first place. Soon we are on our feet. We are moving more rocks. These ones are three times the size of the rocks we had to move before. It takes ten, twenty, thirty people to roll one of these monsters towards the cabin on top of the mountain. We place rocks in a circle, creating seating. Then next task… The one item on our gear list that everyone is dying to get rid of – freaking hay and grass seed. Each person runs (walks, crawls) down the trail, spreading the grass seed alongside the stairs we created overnight, and mulching it with hay. Throwing handfuls of seed around, I momentarily regret, not mixing in some BC buds into the mix. Crossing the border would have been that much more difficult, but it’s a source of national pride, y’all. Joe would have a healthy grow op in few short months. Imagine the excitement! And just in time for the Team Death Race. You are welcome, people! As I return hayless and seedless, we get ready for a hike. Where off to next? Someone says we will have to complete a four mile swim. I just shrug. It’s the Death Race. No point in even wondering. Four mile swim. Ten mile swim. Carry fifty pounds. Carry hundred and fifty pounds. I either can do it, or I cannot. Whether it’s the former or the latter, only time will tell. Racers get their hiking poles out. I’m jealous. I’ve considered poles briefly, but having never used them before, decided against experimenting too close to the race. These iron shoulders and thunder thighs would have to do the job. Want to hear more? Read part 4 HERE! Signing off, Solo

Wednesday, June 19, 2013 Days until the Death Race: 2 Part of me wishes I could put on the backpack and start rucking through the night right now, to take the waiting out of it. Waiting is worth than Death (Race) itself. Tonight we had we-love-you-no-matter-what-please-don’t-die girls night out. It was an awesome distraction. Thursday, June 20, 2013 Days until the Death Race: 1 I don’t know if I truly believe in my ability to finish, my ability to not quit. This is not an Ultra Beast, where there’s an easy way out once between laps. Instead, you can quit whenever you want. Quitting is an option from the very beginning. It’s hanging over your head. It taps you on the shoulder. First, gently. Then, more insistently. Finally, it slaps you across the cheek, punches you in the face, hits you over the head, shoves you into the wall. Quit. Quit. QUIT! It’s way too loud in my head. I sit down with a latte and a muffin at one of my favorite coffeeshop/bookstores, and consider my options for various calming mechanisms. Sugar coma? Meditation? Chamomile tea? Anti-anxiety meds? Marijuana? Full anesthesia? I’m separated from the baristas with two large bookshelves and I skim the titles, pausing at the ones I’ve read. Robinson Crusoe. MacBeth. James Herriott’s Dog Stories. The Ultimate Weight Solution by Dr. Phil (seriously?). The usually quiet coffee shop is overrun by conference attendees. Despite the loud chatter, my mind quiets down. I’m surrounded by some of my most favorite things in the world – books, coffee, and writing. I get up and go searching for a poem. Not sure what poem. Not sure why. But I need a poem… Finally, I find it. * “Death Be Not Proud” was written by John Donne around 1610. Signing off, Solo ***************************************************************************** Read the Death Race 2013 chronicles – part 2 here.

The weather on Friday turned out to be bad enough for a number of participants to drop from the event at the last minute, because the drive was simply not realistic. Many flights were delayed, or even cancelled. After crushing CrossFit Open 13.1 workout, Mike and I were en route to the airport to pick up the next badass on our team, Leyla Di Cori. Her flight was delayed as well, but that gave Mike and I an opportunity to load up on some food, and drive around the Queens, looking for the damn airport, periodically swearing at the GPS chick. Mike and I definitely stood out at the airport, among the shy Asian business men, and quiet cab drivers with white board signs. The wait included running up and down the stairs, and even a dare to see how long it would take security to come up to us, if we were waiting for Leyla in a handstand with our feet against the wall. As the other Canadian appeared, there was no doubt, she belonged to our party. I think people deliberately moved out of the way, as we were hunting down Leyla’s tiger print luggage, and then finally heading towards the hotel. At the hotel, all kinds of silliness ensued… {note the t-shirts… Di Cori = CrossFit O-Town, Solo = Ultra Beast… awesome}. Then it was time to gear up. From all the random items strewn on the bed, multi-purpose tools, rope, sand bags, duct tape, head lamps, and garbage bags, it looked like we were about to rob a bank. Canadian pride was promptly displayed. We finally headed out from our hotel towards the meet-up point. David, our team leader, had my backpack prepared, so I threw all of my gear into a cloth shopping bag, and off we went. I gotta say, I looked hilarious with that bag. Team Bravo, aka Sparta, consisted of 10 members, and an additional member that was adopted from another team. We met in the lobby of Conrad hotel. As the cab dropped the three of us off, we had to do a double take. It was a fancy hotel. In fact, we were a little worried about getting in – after all, in running tights, Gortex jackets, and tukes, the look did not exactly meet the black tie standards. Most of our team members were already there waiting, and so the first round of introductions took place. We were missing three members from our team, including the leader, as they signed up for an optional early start, and were running around the city since 7.30pm (read: they were that much crazier than us, and I have no idea how they did it). Finally, just before 2am, it was time to head down to the starting point. Rockefeller Park, just off the water. By this point, I was way too warm from sitting in the lobby, and sleepy. The wind is freezing. I cannot even fathom going near that water. Normally, I’d be in bed hours ago. This was only the beginning of a very very long night. We walk around the park, up and down the path. Other members are nowhere to be found. The local park ranger informs us that the park is closed, and we are not supposed to be here. She does not look impressed. I’m sure we look suspicious. We finally find the rest of the group around the corner. As we line up, there are about 50 people with backpacks. And yours truly, with a cloth shopping bag. We are still missing our team members, but S.E.R.E. has started. The first 45 minutes is spent in some basic PT (physical training). We run around the block, we do some squats, we form lines. I’m sure I look clinically insane (even more so than others), doing all that with a shopping bag, bouncing against my shoulder. Finally, David and others join us, and we line up for the gear check. I have a backpack – yay! We hold up the sand pills, the rope, the sharpie, white t-shirt – all from required list of gear. All food is to be packed into ziplock bags with your name on it, and handed to the instructors. Dear Cliff bars, how will I miss thee. White t-shirts are laid out on the asphalt and spray painted. The t-shirts spell out S.E.R.E., and are to remain visible on our persons at all times. The first mission involves finding a yellow envelope in the vicinity – we run around the block, turning over garbage baskets, and looking into flower pots. Finally, there is an envelope under an orange cone. The envelope contains a stupid Rubik’s cube. Stupid, because I have no idea how to solve it (note to self – learn how to solve a stupid Rubik’s cube). We have to remain in plank, with each member only able to do two moves, before passing it on to the next person. The next ten minutes are spent in plank with the heavy backpacks, randomly rotating the cube… Joy. Rubik’s cube – 1. Team Sparta – 0. Next mission – relocate to the start of the Brooklyn Bridge. As Todd Sedlak, one of the instructors, will mention multiple times throughout the night, our team is “stacked”. Awesome bunch of endurance athletes and obstacle racers, we make it to the bridge first! Team Sparta – 1. We get back the ziplock bags with food. To be honest, I haven’t even had a chance to get hungry yet. However, I am still cold and miserable. I set out a personal mission to just make it to sunrise. The sun makes all the difference. Mission: low crawl + Indian sprints the entire (freaking) length of the Brooklyn Bridge. At 1,825m or 1.134mi, this bridge was the longest suspension bridge in the world until 1903. When you are not crawling the bridge in the middle of the night, but rather checking out the pretty pictures of said bridge, it looks this way: In Indian sprints, a group of people runs in a straight line. The last person in the line runs to the top of the line. This is repeated until the run is finished. In S.E.R.E. Indian sprints, a group of people is splayed out on the wet salty pavement with heavy rucks on their back. They drag themselves across the asphalt in something resembling a line, all while screaming at each other about pace and technique, until instructed to get the hell up, and start over. Take two – no talking. One line. Low crawl forward. The last team runs to the top of the line, drops to the floor, and continues to crawl. Rinse, repeat. This. Was. A. Bitch. In all honesty, this would have been a bitch of a task to do with two good wrists. I realize early on how much more pressure I have to put on my wrist in order to drag my body in any direction, when I have a heavy backpack on me. Eventually, I figure out a side body drag by resting on one forearm, and then pulling the torso forward, until I awkwardly land on the front of the shoulder. Again. Again. I look about as graceful as a beluga whale. You know… if a beluga whale had to drag itself across a Brooklyn Bridge. After being shot. Couple of times, I stop to ponder the meaning of life, with my cheek on the asphalt. Did I mention that this bridge used to be the longest suspension bridge in the world? On an average day, over 100,000 people cross this bridge. However, it seems that these people are mostly crossing the bridge during office hours. We did not encounter too many of these individuals between 4am and 5.30am, apart from two groups of cyclists (now there is a crazy bunch!). When we are about half way there, the surface changes from concrete to wood. Sliding becomes marginally easier, and my spirits lift. In fact, at some point, I find myself questioning Todd Sedlak about his views on differences between Greek and Roman mythology. Yes. Seriously. Half way through the bridge, the sun is rising. We pretend to be deliriously happy in this picture: At some point, we even get the luxury of lunging forward (upright!). The. Most. Epic. Picture. Joseph is doing an impression of Frankenstein. Kevin is ready for action in a sumo stance. All three look like we just spotted Godzilla. I mean, can you actually imagine crossing the bridge and witnessing this? I swear I would turn around and run in opposite direction… I pass the time by reading out the graffiti on the side of the bridge. Out loud, obviously. And with commentary. The messages mostly represent an eclectic blend of political campaigns, love notes and racial slurs. A favorite: “We can’t hold hands, someone may see. Why don’t you hold your toes with me?”. Don’t judge. At this point, my personal mission is accomplished. The sun is rising. I am not even a little bit warmer. In retrospect, I underdressed, showing up as I would to a road race – ready to run. Gortex pants over my running tights and another layer would be incredibly helpful. Crawling across the bridge, while all kinds of miserable, does not really raise your heart rate. And pressing my belly button against ice and salt for the past two hours did nothing to preserve my core temperature. The endless bridge of hell ends, and we make our way to the Brooklyn War Memorial. First opportunity to take off our backpacks. And pee. Joy. to be continued…

It’s getting lighter. We are marching around the sleepy city, and the logs are getting heavier. The occasional people zombies we encounter either look perplexed or completely oblivious – the latter tends to be the function of the big city, I think. Try surprising someone downtown Toronto… chances are they will pretend they cannot see you and forge ahead. So much for causing a scene. We enter a spiffy-looking neighborhood. The cars are expensive, and the fences are white. Little do the residents know that they are in for some Sponge Bob action. Now watch carefully for the dark red house in the background. At the first sounds of our serenade which was punctuated with heavy breathing of 14 people lifting heavy things, a pissed woman in a sleeping gown made an appearance on the balcony… Cadre forgot his lines at this point… He was supposed to say loudly: “It is the east and Juliet is the sun! Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou her maid art far more fair than she.” In this case, however, it was the Juliette herself who was sick and pale with grief. Grief of being waken up at 5am on a Saturday… We wished her good morning and removed ourselves from the scene. As (original) Juliette pointed out wisely, “If they do see thee, they will murder thee”. We head over to yet another green field, and finally put the logs down. I kind of miss the feeling of sharp pain on my shoulder… It just ain’t right. Some refueling… The drawback of an endurance event – stupid gels. They taste amazing for the first two hours. Mmmmmm, chocolatey goodness… Then you just want to bite into a steak. We are all in one line, while cadre quizzes us one-on-one on the details of yet another character that we were supposed to encounter. “Don’t give out all the facts right away,” he coaches. “You do that, you get killed, and then the enemy knows exactly what to say to your buddy who comes next. Play the game.” The logs stay behind. Cadre, being the kind soul that he is, gives our shoulders a break… as in… we now cannot carry the backpacks on our shoulders. Carry it in front of you, carry it on your head, on the back of the neck, farmer carry style, or in your teeth. I have tried all five… Mike and I alternate carrying both of each others’ bags for a while, as it helps to even out the load. operation mud – full camouflage before we head out again. Dirt! That I can do!!! Carrying backpacks is now the whole new level of awkward. I use a photo opportunity to rest my arm. Beaux + Solo Pit stop at Starbucks. No warm liquids to be ingested. Only expelled. Sigh… The smell of coffee is killing me – I am sure this is part of the mental torture. Can I buy a latte with burpees? Destination – Queen’s Park…

*MISSED PART 1? Read it here. After much commotion, we finally leave. Mission - reach Kearns’ (my racing partner and teammate) house, crash for the night, and continue on early in the morning towards Vermont. With all the evening traffic, the drive can hardly be called relaxing. As we approach the border, I learn that Leyla Di Cori will not be able to make it to the race, after all, staying home to tend to a sick cat (hugs to Brownie). Our little team is down to two. “Stick together with Kearns!”, Leyla instructs. “As long as you stick together, you two will be fine.” It’s late as we finally arrive. Mike still has to work in the morning (more like really late at night). It’s not ideal, but when you work at a nuclear power plant, work comes before hiking in the woods. :) Fuelled by coffee, we are up early for the final gear checks, as we wait for our host to return from work. Mike is all packed up, and his stuff fits into a small backpack and a sports bag. I don’t even know if I should laugh or cry. My car looks like we are actually moving to Vermont. I packed three pairs of shoes, then added another one right before leaving. I have four different kinds of shovels of varying degree of usefulness: 1) plastic snow shovel, 2) metal garden shovel, 3) foldable camping shovel, 4) a toy shovel from Walmart, complete with a little bucket. I also have two life jackets - one full size, one children’s. And a first aid kit, so complete, I may actually have stuff for epilepsy and post-partum depression. Did I mention that we also have a cooler the size of my fridge, the kind you’d see a family of ten bring to a picnic? I officially feel like a moron. “I packed all wrong!”, I freak out. “There is no way everything will fit into my pack”, I exclaim, trying to shove 5 pounds of hay into the pack, using both of my feet. Italian is pretty used to my last-minute panic mode, so he gently shoves me aside, and rearranges gear neatly. It all fits. 6am. 7am. 8am. I start getting antsy. The official registration is taking place between 6am and 9am, and we are still hours away from Vermont. I call Mike. He’s stuck at work. How long? Not sure. “You have to take off without me”, he says heartbroken. My team loses another member. I am doing this... solo. Leyla will not be there. Mike will not be there. And I’m late for registration. Great. Not a single race has ever gone the way it was supposed to. “Embrace the chaos”, I tell to myself. It’s a half-joking, half-serious mantra I invoke whenever things get completely out of hand. “Embrace the chaos.” On the drive over, it’s warm. It’s really warm, bordering on hot. “People will drop because of the heat”, I think. Maybe I’ll be a little better off with all of my India travelling and all of my hot yoga teaching. I recall what I tell my students who struggle with the heated room. “It’s hot. So, it’s hot. Be hot, then.” Deep, right? While in India, I’d call back home, and my mom would ask: “Isn’t it hot over there?” It’s June and I’m in New Delhi, with temperatures straddling 50 Celsius. ‘Yes, mom. It’s hot”. “How do you stand it?” Well, there isn’t an alternative. So... you just do. When we finally arrive to Riverside Farm, it’s 2pm. Some say the race has just “officially begun”. Racers are divided into teams, and sent up the mountain. I spot Andy, and make my way through the crowd. “Did you just get here?”, he’s incredulous. “What the hell happened?”. “You know how they say Canadians are friendly?”, I respond. “It’s a lie”. He looks confused. I continue. “Have you ever tried crossing the border with an axe, some hay, some grass seed, and a baggie of vanilla protein powder that looks indistinguishable from cocaine? No? Well, I have. Arrested at the border. Held over night. Tortured. Made it here anyway.” This year is the year of the gambler. I have to gamble before I even start. Andy laughs. I breathe out a sigh of relief - thank you, parents (mine and Andy’s), for a sense of humour. I get a bib, and my first chip. Team Four. Want to hear more? Read part 3 HERE! Signing off, SOLO

Few weeks ago, Spartan Race made a big announcement at the Time Square – it’s joining forces with Reebok. According to the letter, Joe De Sena, Spartan Race Founder and CEO, sent out to the Spartan community, Spartan and Reebok share the same ideals about the future of fitness. Joe promised that the partnership would not change the essence of Spartan Races, but rather allow the Spartan movement and lifestyle to grow. Of course, given Reebok’s partnership with CrossFit, the connection between CrossFit and Spartan races is now even more real. Reebok seems to be really on the ball, when it comes to scooping up emerging fitness trends with cult-like following. While many were excited, I couldn’t help but feel that something has been lost… [All the Spartan logos were immediately updated to include the word Reebok, and to be honest… to my eye, it still looks a little awkward.] A certain feel of underground sub-culture can be undermined by public recognition. And now yet another big announcement went out today in the world of obstacle racing – Hobie Call left Spartan Race and signed an exclusive deal with Extreme Nation. [Listen to the interview here.] It’s not new that Hobie Call is passionate about obstacle racing becoming an official sport. He has been long promoting shorter distance races with more obstacles. According to Call, both Spartan and Tough Mudder tend to think that longer is better. Indeed, short distance obstacle races like Warrior Dash are considered to be great for beginners. Many racers would start with a Spartan Sprint, then graduate to Super, and then, eventually Beast and Ultra Beast. Meanwhile, the World’s Toughest Mudder is essentially an ultra marathon with some obstacles thrown in. Right now, says Call, success in obstacle racing is 80% running and 20% obstacles. He wants to change that ratio to 50-50, and partnering with Extreme Nation is the way he is going to do that. Extreme Nation promises a 2-mile course with 20+ obstacles on a piece of land over 300 acres somewhere in Michigan. The first event will take place in June 2013, with one event per month after that. Call says they also plan to offer training camps there, as well as getaways and corporate retreats. For this particular event, team racing is where it’s at, as male or female teams of four will compete for a sizable cashpot. At the end of the event, 56 people will walk out with cash. Another angle that Extreme Nation is pushing – televising the races. Clearly, watching a 2-mile obstacle race where you can see all the obstacles from the bleachers will be more exciting than watching the Spartan Beast, where an average participant takes 5 hours to complete. I’ve had friends and family come out to some obstacle races, and apart from the first five minutes and the last ten, the event is about as exciting to watch as a road marathon. However, it seems that this view really shifts the focus from the racer to the observer. And, that, my friends, is a shift in the wrong direction. As if, it was not enough that wrestling, one of the oldest competitive sports, has been dropped from the Olympics, as the committee is trying to “appease to sports fans of all generations”. When did the sport become about those watching it? Traci Martin from the Extreme Nation, laments that her sister and children could not see her during the Texas Beast. “We couldn’t find you, we couldn’t see you, we don’t know what you experienced…”, they told her. Of course, you don’t. You have to race in order to experience the race. And even then, your experience will be different from mine. I, for one, do not give a rat’s gluteus maximus (do rats have those?), if someone sees me get across the monkey bars. It is MY racing experience, not my mom’s, my brother’s, or my best friend’s. Clearly, lots of things are happening. And many wondered what the heck do these changes mean? For the sport? For racers? Well, for an average participant, probably not much. However, the recent developments all point to a couple of things: Obstacle racing has been noticed in the athletic world. Reebok is coming out with a whole line of obstacle racing specific apparel in 2013. Obstacle racing has been mentioned in Men’s Fitness, Maxim, Runner’s World and other mainstream(ish) publications. There is definitely a market. Obstacle racing is starting to pay. In 2012, the cash prizes for major Spartan races were measured in thousands of dollars. Few top athletes received cheques with quite a respectable number of zeros. In 2013, the Extreme Nation promises $150,000 in prizes at their first event alone. Obstacle racing will attract more athletes from other disciplines. If you pay them, they will come. That, of course, means that the field will become increasingly more competitive. 2012 was a big year for obstacle racing, as the interest in the sport has exploded, and hundreds of thousands showed up to the start line. 2013 will be a big year as well. So far, it seems that the changes center around standardization and commercialization of the sport. Who knows what 2014 will bring? With Reebok in, and Call out, the face of the Spartan Race definitely seems to be changing. Let’s hope we do not end up with the picture of Dorian Gray. I’m staying tuned… SOLO

Thank you, 2012, for… strong healthy body dopamine receptors mud and barb wire duct tape Spartan family burpees and deadlifts hot yoga first shower after a race oversized bathrobes quiet mornings shared silence perfect latte all things Italian deep fried turkey smell of the baby’s head big dogs standard transmission small Ontario towns roadtrips with no destination theme songs microbreweries bear hugs (and beer hugs) inquisitive students blank notebooks used bookstores cozy coffee shops accidental friends and encounters making right choices barefoot photoshoots Hugs, SOLO

This is literally something I threw on this morning… Not bad, huh? This is the second time when I dressed up for Halloween, mostly for the shock value. Never underestimate the number of smiles you can put on people’s faces with an unexpected costume. The truth is Halloween turned into a holiday for kids roaming for candy, and the 18-25 crowd roaming for… well, other things. Nobody expects a college professor to dress up. When I was in first year of university, on Halloween my Calculus professor showed up wearing pajamas with flying pigs on them that glowed in the dark. She had huge freckles and carried a teddy bear for the whole lecture. I obviously do not remember what the lecture was about. But I never forgot the lecture. Fellow scary creatures: And now the whole class: I also went to the gym as a… I don’t know… physically active pirate? It was fun, but oh my god, I have never worked out in this much make-up… Blech. Once a year seems about right. The funniest thing is that sometimes I see women working out, literally wearing their face. How do they do it? Happy Halloween, everyone! Signing off, SOLO