The Dreaded Pull Up

After the Tough Mudder race I needed an incentive to return to the gym on a regular basis. After all, come October 9th (race day) what was going to keep me returning? I already have a few friends who dropped off the gym schedule. Not to name names, but Vince who originally guilted us in to participating in Tough Mudders to begin with hasn’t been seen at the gym since October 6th – “I need three days prior to the race to rest”. Apparently, he needed two months after the race to rest too. How are those Big Macs, muffin top?

I needed a reason to keep going - I couldn’t be motivated solely by inner peace, outer strength and an overarching need for physical maintenance. Sadly, knocking on 40’s door wasn’t enough to keep the ol’ gym attendance up. I needed something else.

As I pondered this dilemma out loud one day to no one in particular, my trainer politely stepped in.

“I noticed that you are having a hard time doing a pull up. Perhaps that can be your goal.”

Um, yes I can and eat my shorts.

After several embarrassing attempts at the pull up bar (think dead fish flopping on land), it was clear what my next goal would be. But before I get into the details that would help me achieve that goal, I want to pause for a moment and allow that reality to settle in: I cannot do one stinking pull up.

I vaguely remember the “President’s test” in junior high – the physical education test to gauge how fit American kids really are. Couldn’t I do at least three pull ups back then? I can’t remember. But due to my over inflated sense of physical self, I remember feeling damn good about my accomplishments back then. And since pull ups were a highlight, I recall doing them without struggle… or was that the sit up?

With this new goal in mind, my dear trainers at the gym have harassed me into submission. I distinctly recall a particularly difficult workout that zeroed in on all of those muscles in the upper body – the ones I don’t have – the pecs, the lats, the biceps, the shoulders. Instead I am the proud owner of two underarm sag bags. And proud – did I say that already?

The workout consisted of clean and jerks (this is apparently not an exercise to do while engaged in intimate relations with your partner), sandbag tosses (think mamed German Shepard over your shoulder), and kettle ball swings (these are old cast iron Russian weights that really have no place on American soil). Oh, and here’s the exercise that almost put me in an early grave – the burpies to pull ups. I will do my best at the description. Start with a pushup, but instead of ending with arms extended in the horizontal upright position, end with your legs in a squat position and leap through the air as if you are going to choke the person standing in front of you. Then, when you are fully extended with hands reaching for the sky, resembling a completely spaced out Shape magazine model who just found out her cereal is non-fat, you grab on to the pull up bar and spaz yourself upwards so that your chin clears the top. Now try doing that eight times.

Eat my shorts.

With all of the complaining I do (“less talky, more lifty” says my trainers), I am rather surprised to announce that two weeks ago, I did three pull ups. That’s right, not one but three. And today, I added a forth.

What’s next, you ask? Well, don’t ask me, ask my trainers. They say I can do ten pull ups by March. Actually, there’s some discrepancy. One trainer (who seems to be the more rational one – the one I like better) says I can do ten. While the other one (the Devil himself) says that I can probably accomplish 15-20.

Eat my shorts.

You may be wondering what my chest looks like right about now. (Or if you’re not, thank you for being polite). Either way, I will share. Let me just put it this way. I shop in the junior department for specific undergarments. And that weird line that goes down the middle of your upper chest? Apparently, that separates out the pectoral muscles that were once my breasts. Who knew?

Well, I know one thing – I may look a little odd (male) from the sternum up, but I could probably whip the behind of the perp who is following you down that dark ally. Do you need an escort madame?

It's About Time

(It took a night with my most long term and cherished girlfriends to jump start me into blogging blather once again).

I read a book a couple of years ago that stuck with me. It’s called Tripping the Prom Queen and the premise centers on how women are our own worst enemy, that the failure of your best girlfriend brings you secret pleasure and that the sexism and oppression a woman faces over her life in most part comes directly from her female colleagues, natural foes and yes, her girlfriends.

The book conjured up painful memories of my childhood where I was kicked, pinched, harassed, called boy hog, trollup (had to look this one up), all the while dodging rocks from the fifth grade she devils in my class. I remember a particularly excruciating moment where the Queen She Devil invited every girl in class to an ice cream shop during the lunch hour, except for me. I remember sitting at my desk surrounded by elementary school testosterone, and making a decision to survive. I adapted to the ten year old boy way of life. I played football, I wore vans and rags (remember those pants?) and didn’t pay too much attention to my hair - for those of you young Tomboys with long hair, the best way to keep it out of your way is the standard French braid, but get someone to do it well so you won’t have to wash it for up to a week.

High school was a little different but not much. I wasn’t being pelted with rocks, but I still felt like an outcast among the pubescent young women who had boobs and menstrual cycles, of which I had neither. Being fingered as the late bloomer, I acclimated by being semi funny and self deprecating. Still, being in the presence of my fellow female counterparts was always filled with giddy, nervous anxiety.

Then I went to college. It was there by the grace of good luck, and perhaps a little divine intervention, I ran into a handful of women (I call them girls) who not only taught me how to love my own sex, but they eventually became my family.

Oh, these girls, we have not towed the line of responsiblity, like the time X1 showed up to a formal gala in thermal underwear to give a piece of her mind - rather loudly - to a girl who owed her money, or when X2 thought that I wouldn't notice the change missing from my waitressing tip jar for months, or when yours truly got clocked in the eye at a bar in San Francisco when I was trying to stop some a-wipe from stealing X3's purse. They dragged me down to the underbelly of the 90's. For all intents and purposes, those girls should be fleeting memories.

But they are not.

And back to the book's theme, it’s not as if we spare each other from verbal pillage. Everyone has their faults and these girls will be the first to point it out. When X5 grew her hair long, we all protested and all but handed her a pair of scissors. When X2, in a moment of weakness, confessed that she didn’t like going out and meeting people, we told her that she would end up an old maid. In fact, just two days ago, we were all celebrating X3’s fortieth birthday (old maid) and I was promptly told that my hair was too light, too long and that the necklace I was wearing needed to be removed immediately. We also conducted a strategic dog pile on X4 who has spent, in our most judgmental opinion, way too much time pining over some foreign hothead who has his own challenges following the law.

But these verbal assaults are signs of our unfettered friendship. Is it due to our unconditional commitment towards sustaining our little “friends network”? (A coined nickname given to us in college by some boys who were engaged in physical relations with a few of us and didn’t want said relations discussed. Sorry, too late. And, by the way, she faked it).

Back to X3 turning forty. It’s incredibly odd to do the math on this one, not because she’s forty, which, sorry, X3, but is old. But it’s about how long we have been hanging around. If you’re counting, that’s twenty-two years, or over half our lives. It's surprising we still talk, let alone make concerted efforts to spend time together.

What I realized while spending this recent evening with these girls was that they along with other women in my life serve a purpose no man can. Sorry, Pants and my business partners and other dudes I call my closest friends. It’s true. Here are a couple of reasons why:

Details are required. A “hi, how are you?” means that you must answer with several anecdotes about how your partner completely screwed the pooch on your birthday or the specifics on why you are taking your landlord to court. “Fine, great or okay” are completely unacceptable responses and you will be verbally beaten down.

Downloading on the status of your private (as in parts) life is mandatory. We need to know how many times a week you’re getting it, and if you aren’t, what you plan to do to get it.

Psychology 101 is applied. Have a problem? We likely have five different solutions depending on who you consult. If you consult us all at once, don’t be surprised if a fight erupts over the varying differences with how to deal with your little quandary. Have a whiney kid? The women who don’t have kids in the group typically have the best ways to curb the behavior. Have trouble meeting eligible singles? Ask the divorcees in the group.

Insults show that you care. Hey, if they aren't going to tell you it's time to get yourself some Xanax or hit the gym more often, who will? Time to lay off the sauce? No surpises here. But, what if you're doing everything good and right in the world? Feeling fit? Feeling successful at work? Is the marriage good? Kid speaks six languages? Don't go thinking you're all that and a bag of chips. They politely remind you that you suck and you should shut up until your need to gloat subsides.

Loyalty is a given. If you go for months without connecting (or returning voice mails), you can be sure you won't be written off. You will, however, be publicly flogged next time everyone is together. Also, if by chance you find yourself in a Mexican prison, you have five numbers to call if you somehow can’t bring myself to tell your husband what happened. You will also be assured that the reasons that lead you to prison in the first place will be kept within the “friends network”. Now that’s not to say that after they bail/bribe you out, you won’t be reprimanded and ridiculed and never allowed to forget your ultimate stupidity, but you will be back on home soil.

I wonder why these catty bitches have meant so much to me. But they do. So I guess it’s safe to say that they paved the way for me to covet and foster other amazing female friendships that are as important to me. But really, should I be giving them that much credit? Should I be paying homage to X1 who said just last night after a great meal with wonderful friends, “I paid sixty-three bucks for Top Ramen and sand.” Should I respect X5 for making me return a $25 gift card and getting the $50 for X4’s birthday because she thought I was being too cheap? And this, after she bought X4 a flipping trash can? Should I really give credence to X2 when she told X5 that she used to be fun in college, but was now a downer?

At least I will have another twenty-two years to make up my mind.

Archiving The Dream

What do you get when you cross a masseuse, a trainer, a communications director, a college student, a state trooper, three lobbyists, and a political hack? The Archivers, of course…

The big day was upon us; we would soon see if the two months of training paid off or if we were going to be left up on the mountain side to rot, patiently awaiting the Donner Party to put an end to our misery. Incidentally, I had worked myself into such a frenzy that by the time Tough Mudder Eve approached, I was keeled over my carbo load pasta bowl with the worst gas pains known to human kind.

With my fellow Mudder team members’ coaxing, I took regular trips to the bathroom and downed antacid pills like they were candy. And it wasn’t just me who was falling apart..

My buddy Vince, the crackpipe who got us all into this horrid race in the first place, was out due to a pulled groin (insert lame marriage joke here). My husband, Pants, was nowhere to be found during our debrief the night before, and most of our team was half bagged on homemade sangria and Negro Modelos before dinner was even served. I sensed trouble.

We had made a nice little plan to convene at my cabin up in Arnold (18 miles from the race sight) the night before to talk strategy, iron our Archivers decals onto our black shirts (see previous blog entry on team name origination), and load up on the requisite intake of strength and endurance food that inevitably lead to chocolate covered coffee beans, blocks of cheese and alcohol.

Pants and I drove separately because he was saving our household a few bucks by pouring cement into our now gutted hole in the ground we used to call a pool. By the way, let me publically thank you for all of the work you have done, Pants. You make an excellent assistant to cement pourer.

When 8 p.m. Friday rolled around, I began to get a little nervous when Pants was still nowhere to be found. Our team was coming apart at the seams, literally. (Apparently, when you iron white decals onto black wick-away shirts, they burn the material and can’t be seen on the black background). At approximately 8:27, Pants burst through the front door Cramer-style donning a shirt that read: I Make Good Babies, along with a tie died Speedo and his trail shoes.

When everyone settled down over the excitement, we went over our strategy: we didn’t have one. The only team members who seemed pretty well rounded and knew what they were doing was the State Trooper, the Trainer, and the Stunt Coordinator for Bring it On. That’s right, Jordan mentioned that she used to coordinate efforts on those cheesy B movie cheerleading commercials. This bit of information, evidently, made me feel a lot better and my gas pains began to dissipate, but only for a while. I imagined her talking us through how we brace one another to hoist over the 12 foot walls. She then poured me another Sangria as she explained this.

Meanwhile, Vince was getting the royal treatment from the Masseuse who was strategically rubbing out the weakness in his groin. Would he be joining us or not? The constant haranguing coupled with the rub down were just the ingredients needed to pull Vince out of Weaksauceville.

The next morning, I woke up to Pants yelling profanities in the dark. It just so happened that he forgot his shorts at home, and realizing that his only option was the Speedo put him into a little bit of a panic. (I truly believe, however that he wanted to wear said Speedo because he didn’t ask any of his fellow Archivers if they had any extra shorts in tow.. just my opinion. Just sayin’.)

We arrived on the mountain an hour and thirty minutes before our start time all taped up and ready to face our destiny. And some more than others. Vince was in all right, but he was wrapped up so tight, he looked like something out of a zombie flick. Apparently, wrapping up one’s entire body in athletic tape doesn’t allow for a lot of movement.

As I looked at each one of our team members, juxtaposed to the Tough Mudder demographic, I couldn’t help but think of the Lambda Lambda Lambda fraternity on the movie Revenge of the Nerds. I just hoped it ended the same way.

As we lined up at the start, Pants began to do downward dog stretches to the chagrin of fellow Mudders who apparently were appalled when asked to join in. We positioned ourselves in the back of the pack, knowing full well that we could get clobbered by the second wave of participants behind us.

We then raised our hands in the Tough Mudder salute and chanted the following:

As a Tough Mudder I pledge that…
I understand that Tough Mudders is not a race but a challenge. I put teamwork and camaraderie before my course time. I don’t whine. Kids whine. I help my fellow mudders complete the course. I overcome all fears.

Saying it is one thing, but doing it?

While waiting for the start gun, there was one more announcement: “mystery” obstacle number 18 involves doing a shot of hot sauce.

Then the gun went off and we began running like gazelles... wounded, tired gazelles. Scratch that. More like maimed gorillas.

Our first stop was called the Kiss of Mud where we were to army crawl our way under only eight inches of space below wire and above that barbed wire. The description in the Tough Mudder guide was a little misleading. It indicated that we would be wiggling our way through mud. Nowhere did it specify that the mud was actually tiny gravel which dug into our knees and found its way into our shoes.

It was after this obstacle that I began to think that I could do this, that I and my teammates were well, Tough Mudders.

The Death March was next and it was grueling. Our thighs began to catch fire as we attempted to robble (half hobble half run) our way to the top of the first ridge. Body builder types sans shirts were whizzing by us, running outside of our pathway. I hated them but only for a little while. Actual military officers were standing on either side of the Death March trail supporting us with their “thank you for supporting us” and “you’re almost to the top (this turned out to be a lie)” and “at least you don’t have bullets flying over your head”. This last bit of encouragement had the most influence on whether I was going to quit or not. They were right. These young men in uniform did what I am doing on a daily basis while the enemy was shooting at them. Get out of your own head, Brown. Come on and do this thing. (My words of encouragement were similar to soft drink slogans and cheesy H.R. team building mission statements). Nothing like the military.

Next up, the Boa Constrictor. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t bother me. I did a test run in the sewer pipes a couple of weeks prior to the race. But this was slightly different. First off, they put two long sewer pipes end to end and covered the entry and exit with black burlap sacks. And to add to the claustrophobic effect, they threw in a little dirt and told you to climb fast because there were people at your heels. Being in those tubes reminded me of the New York sewer system. I began scratching at the side, chewing my way out.

At this point, one may be wondering if our entire team was still intact. That can be answered in a number of ways. Yes, we were all still together, supporting one another, making the best of our surroundings. But were we of strong body and mind? Not really. Vince’s groin was starting to ache. The three women (present company included) were starting to feel the altitude creep into our brains, and the pep talks became less frequent.

One exception: The Trainer (of course) who was running around, slapping our hands, telling us how great we were doing. He would even run up and then back down the hill to make sure we were all together. Kind of like a Border Collie, and we were his sheep. Old, broken down sheep. Alas, only fifteen more obstacles to tackle. Fifteen. Fifteen. Fifteen.

We ran up the mountain side after the Boa Constrictor and ran into the Dragon Wheels. These things were not as bad as I originally thought, although, one could not attempt to get over these alone. This is where teamwork really started to kick in. One team member stood at the base of the large spool with his hands clasped while the rest were hoisted over. The strategy here was to turn over on the belly and slide down the other side. Some didn’t do that and ended up face first in the feebly placed hay below. We had to do this twice.

And then we got a photo op, because really, that’s the only reason why we were all doing this.. is to get good pictures. Wait, let me fix my hair..

After hoofing it down hill (I called this part of the race the knee wrecker), we were upon a small muddy lake, which we had to wade through before being soaked by a high pressure hose into the face and midsection. At least the mud was off. But let me just elaborate here: running straight up hill while getting pummeled by a hose was hard. We wanted to walk, but then the torture would last that much longer. So we ran as The Trainer yelled “Archivers” through the pelting.

The next obstacle had to be my favorite (insert sarcastic tone here). It was aptly named the Cliffhanger. We grabbed on to anything we can find – shrubs, plants, rocks – and bear crawled up the side of the mountain. This went on way too long and made me want to yell profanities into the air. But based on gym experience when I yell profanities, the Trainer just says that the energy it takes to yell is more than enough to do the exercise. And the last thing I wanted to hear come out of anyone’s mouth as I Spiderman’ed my way up the Cliffhanger was, “This mountain must be too easy for you.”

At the top of the Cliffhanger we were greeted with water and head rushes. No air at 8,000 feet. I felt buzzed and not in a two glass of Cab happy chit chatty way; rather a double vodka on an empty stomach way.

Next up was the Swamp Stomp. This was a waste-high mud pit that looked more like a sewage facility and smelled like one too. The mud was thick and clay like. In fact, one of our Archivers plunged in, fell over and lost both of his shoes. As I watched from the sidelines, I thought of the Trash Compactor scene in Star Wars.

Obstacle number ten was one of the most challenging for our team. The Kentucky Derby was crafted out of these eight feet high beams resting on pillars, and they were difficult to navigate. In fact, it took The Masseuse four times to finally make it over. This man is 220 pounds of pure muscle, so it took our entire team to hoist him over. And being completely caked with the smelly clay mud didn’t help. He kept sliding down backwards. He even yelled a few profanities. Must have been too easy for him.

I had heard later that the Stunt Coordinator broke her finger on this particular obstacle but I have yet to confirm this information, as she has a tendency to stray from the truth. More on this later.

Following the Kentucky Derby came the School of Tough Knocks. This appeared the easiest out of all the challenges, yet it didn’t turn out that way for me. Most of my fellow Archivers mastered this one. I, however, had some troubles. There in the middle of the forest was a parked school bus which was draped with cargo netting. We had to climb over the bus. Sounds easy, but when everyone is climbing on the cargo netting at the same time, keeping balance becomes a challenge. I almost lost my footing a couple of times so this one took me awhile. Meanwhile, my fellow Archivers were already racing to the next stop.

We were met by a long rolling downhill coming off the school bus, but after making a sharp left, we realized that we had to scale up another vertical climb. The Archivers collectively exhaled, ah, another hill.

About half way up, my head started pounding. I feared altitude sickness the most (aside from hypothermia, anxiety attacks, exhaustion), and I was now developing symptoms which included headaches, dizziness, fatigue. And trust me, I read up on what can happen: It can progress to high altitude pulmonary edema or high altitude cerebral edema which are potentially fatal. Alas, we trudged ahead and were met by the Berlin Wall – a pyramid of large tree trunks and a plastic and quite slippery board which was affixed to the side. Getting up to the top on one’s own proved difficult and impossible if you were under six feet tall. We had teammates at the top and bottom helping us scale the wall. Some fellow Mudders who were not a member of the Archivers took it upon themselves to help us.. pity? Perhaps. Nevertheless, we made it over. Thanks, orange team.

The most difficult challenge was by far the Underwater Tunnels. We had to hoist ourselves down by a rope into a 40 degree lake and then bob underneath the floating tubes. My fellow Archivers and I lost our breath as we acclimated to the temp. In fact, the college student and I stood frozen gasping for air. The sweet Tough Mudder staff who was beside us in a canoe told us that this loss of breath (and mind and bodily function) happens to most people and to just wait it out before going underneath the tunnels. Great advice, but the 40 degree water was not pleasant and hanging around while my body adapted was counterintuitive.

As I came up from out of the water, all I hear is Pants’ proclaiming to the rather attractive Tough Mudder female staff, “I have shrinkage here. This isn’t me normally.” And after watching him and the Masseuse and Stunt Coordinator do a head first plunge into the water, I followed.. swallowing a mouth full of murky pee water, we swam around a buoy and again, lifted ourselves out by a rope.

Obstacle number fifteen (four more to go, four more to go, four more to go) Grab Your Wood involved lugging a log down and back up a hill. The Stunt Coordinator and I decided to do a two person – big log, either shoulder. This proved difficult due to the required strategy and communication. I was so spent, that when I was going too slow or she was going too fast, I couldn’t tell her. Or when I needed to switch sides, I just did it, causing some imbalance.

Obstacle number sixteen Fenced Off was down a rolling hill (another knee wrecker) and involved crossing back and forth over a 12 foot high fence. The Tough Mudder map indicated that we would only be doing this four times. Well, that wasn’t quite accurate. We did it eight times. Dear Tough Mudder team, please correct that error.

Between obstacles sixteen and seventeen the Stunt Coordinator let me in on a clarification. She was never a Stunt Coordinator nor did she ever work on those cheesy cheerleading movies but, she will have me know, she used to be a cheerleader.

Why the lie, I asked? She said that I was so freaked out the night before that she thought that it would calm me a little to know that various team members had the requisite skill set to handle most obstacles. And she was right. I didn’t mind that she lied, I did mind that I came across as such a lame wimpy chick.

Obstacle number seventeen, the Devils Beard. I felt like a damn fly caught in a spiders web in this one, ready to be torn apart. We had to yet again, get on our bellies and navigate our way through knotty rope that was secured on either side of a sand pit. My head kept getting caught up in the rope so I strategically lodged my booty up in the air to catch any free falling rope – it worked. The woman next to me started doing the same and whispered, “nice call.” I knew what she meant. We both wanted out of there.

As we made our decent to the finish line, my fellow college student Archiver rolled her ankle. What luck to have this happen during the last half mile. Just like any Tough Mudder, she unquestionably hobbled her way to the eighteenth obstacle where we were gulping down a horrid mix of Tabasco and lemon. All of us winced, but seeing the finish line made us forget that we were shooting future heart burn. It was the burning ring of fire. We hopped over the two sets of flaming crates and threw our hands up as we crossed the finish. Cameras were to our right, a table full of bananas were on our left. We were done, finished, toast, cooked.

I had heard later that a woman did a face plant in the fire and had burned most of the front part of her body. I also heard that she had to be helicoptered to the ER. But I cannot verify this information as hearing it made me feel like a complete bad mamma jamma. So, I will go with the fact that this did happen, and she is okay.

One would think I would be on a cloud after said torrid event. Truth is, after my beer and the Stunt Coordinator’s medicinal aid, I was rather numb. I performed the token jig with my teammates, my Speedo wearin’ Pants. But the euphoria just wasn’t there. Perhaps I was too exhausted to relish in what we had just accomplished. Who knows? There are a couple of things I do know, however.

One, we will be doing this again next year. We had too much fun bonding and hoofing and plotting for us not to do it again.

And two, the workout I did today at the Torture Chamber two days after the blessed event was more difficult, more strenuous and tiresome than anything thrown my way during the Tough Mudders event. Perhaps I will stick with the gym and find my next challenge. Anyone want to join me…?

The Archivers

Our Tough Mudder team name is the Archivers. At first read, it’s rather confusing. What does an archiver have anything to do with a group of idiots planning to meet a fate worse than death on a mountain that is 8,000 feet in elevation? Is “archiver” even a word? According to Wikipedia, a sound and trustworthy source of information on the Internet, a “file archiver” is a computer program that combines a number of files together into one archive file. According to Webster’s, there’s no such word. Archive, yes. But Archivers?

Many brave souls on our team are accepting this identity in blind faith; most have never even asked where that name came from or who came up with it. Most are probably more preoccupied about whether they will make it through the “Ball Shrinker” obstacle course, which entails traversing across a river in waste deep ice water while holding on to a rope. They have little time to ponder the origins of such a… well, stupid team name.

The Archivers originated circa 2000 when I was fortunate enough to win a fitness magazine contest where I was shipped to a fat farm in Utah for a week to endure the pain of eating flax seed pancakes and performing circus routines which are now commonly known as Pilates. They picked me because I penned a sob story about my club foot (true, I have one), my horrible eating habits (kind of true) and the fact that I run, but have never lifted a weight or taken a yoga class in my life (not true).

I didn’t consume alcohol during the entire week at the fat farm – complete torture on its own – and learned to eat slowly and breathe deeply. I came home refreshed and five pounds lighter. At the time I was dating an ER resident who picked me up at the airport upon my return. Said boyfriend had no interest in listening to my enlightened sense of self, but his father did, who was also in the car.

So, the boyfriend's father, “Bob” and I headed back to our house for a little wine and debriefing while tired and overworked and uninterested boyfriend headed back home for “an early shift” at the hospital.

My roommate at the time joined in the conversation and the three of us talked about my magazine trip and how inspired I was upon my return. The conversation turned to our goals and dreams for the coming year. We put together an implementation plan and found that our fate was sealed. Bob wanted to learn to stain glass. Litha wanted to take a pottery class. I wanted to keep up with my new way of eating and also learn to be nicer to people.

I suggested that we meet once a month to check in on how we are doing with our goals and came up with a name, just to inspire ourselves. We were to offer constructive feedback, assistance and encouragement.”

I also suggested naming our group the Willow Tree. In the material that I brought home from the hippie fat farm, there was an old Chinese story about how a Willow tree that does not bend in the wind, will not last in the storm. I don’t remember where it originated, but it sounded good at the time.

We finalized our next meeting and departed for the evening.

The next day I received the following email from Bob:

Amy – I am very excited about our motivational group. We should expand it to others. I have to say, I don’t like our name. It sounds too girly, and as you know, I am not a girl. How about the Archivers?

Bob.

I read the email twice, not really understanding what he meant so I called him and asked for an explanation, as I didn’t really agree with his assessment of the term Willow Tree and what the new team name meant.

“What do you mean, Achievers seems to be a perfect name. We are attempting to ‘achieve’ our goals.”

Bob should have added “improve spelling” to his goal list.

I forwarded the email to as many people as I know as making fun of people’s mistakes and shortcomings is a satanic pastime of mine. I incorporated an epilogue to detail intent, and background.

After reading my email, my buddy Vince, the crazed friend who got us involved in the Tough Mudders race and (still) friends with my ex, facilitated a meeting of the Archivers immediately. It was held at a brewpub. I was the self proclaimed President. We were to grade the difficulty of our goals and progress.

After two meetings, I was overturned in what could only be described as a secret coup. Apparently, I was “too hard” on my fellow Archivers, using terms like “lethargic” and “lame” to describe reasons behind the F’s I gave across the board. For example, Vince’s goal was to learn to swing dance before our next meeting – a laudable goal in my opinion. He not only neglected to practice one time, he didn’t even take the “How to Swing in Five Easy Steps” video tape out of its plastic cover. His fellow Archivers gave him an A for effort for actually buying the video. This was a clear illustration of what is wrong with Generation X – pure laziness is rewarded.

After I was overthrown as President, a new “softer” President was elected. She happened to be my old roommate who helped to originate the group back in the day. This seemed like an appropriate replacement for a couple of reasons: first, she had the institutional knowledge of the origins of the group, and secondly, she was so soft on effort and didn’t want to offend anyone, that it appeared as though people ceased to feel pressure. Note: an Archivers meeting has yet to be convened since my departure. That was 7 years ago.

So here we are, the Archivers back in action attempting the feat of our lifetime. I imagine that if history is the dictator of our success, we will likely form a group of pathetic quitters at mile point five, and archive ourselves in the “first team to need an oxygen mask” or “Most frequenters of the First Aid stations” categories.

The Counterintuitive Advantages to Hurting Myself

I was strolling down the street heading back to my office after running a few errands on a regular workday when I was stopped by two acquaintances, two separate times who happened to compliment me on my hair. One even went so far as to say, “what are you doing differently? It looks so healthy.” Now, normally I wouldn’t blog about something so superficial and vain, (yes I would), but I thought it a bit satirical as to why my hair was so “different” lately.

Had I garnered the nerve, this is the way I would have answered that woman’s question:

“Oh, this bouncy tress (hair toss, giggle). Well, lean in because this here is a beauty secret that landed in my lap about two months ago. I plan to market it somehow and make millions, so keep it between the two of us for now, okay? (hand on woman’s shoulder, wink).

“You see, I go to this gym called Midtown Strength and Conditioning right there off of T and 3rd Street. You could walk from here but I drive. I go to their “Puking is Okay, Quitting is Not” noon class. It’s an hour and it involves a whole host of exercises that muscles you never knew you had start screaming profanities at you. (begin to whisper, make eye contact with said woman).

“By the time the hour is up, I am usually late for a meeting or a fundraiser or some conference call, so even though Midtown has showers, I figure that a little baby powder, water splashed on the face and a towel will suit me just fine. I then head for my car with crackberry in hand, and I know that I have a handful of “crisis” emails from my staff who I have left in a lurch because the workout always comes first these days. (making my hair the focus, I give it one more toss).

“When I get in my car, I blast the air conditioning to the highest level, which is number four in my Ford Escape 2005, and I tilt the air vents so they are aimed at my face and hair. And I sit there for a minute, responding to the email crises as I tap tap away at the crackberry. Then, I tilt the rearview mirror so my reflection is looking back at me and I fix the blurred eyeliner, the sagging mascara, add a little lipstick.”

“And here’s the big secret (now the woman and I would be nose to nose): I begin styling my hair with my hands – it’s like I have built in hair gel so it will pretty much stay in the shape that my hands demand. It’s like art. I become a sculptor. Obviously, today I chose the wind swept look, but tomorrow I might go for the slicked back sides. And perhaps next week, I may do a little 80’s action and poof up the bangs. You never know, but it doesn’t matter, because I can do anything with this mop under those circumstances. Anything.”

I will then wait to see if the woman has any other questions regarding my beauty tip. Likely not. I imagine she would do an about face and run away from me as fast as she can for obvious reasons. And I would probably regret ever having told this woman about my beauty secret. But I am on to something here. I know an entrepreneurial opportunity when I see one.

Don’t be too surprised when you see my product on shelves in hair salons across the country.

Where's the Air?

I may be smiling on the outside, but I am crumbling with fear on the inside. Last weekend, the brood and I decided to scope out the terrain and the course of the dreaded Tough Mudder run. This turned out to be a very bad idea. It sounded good at the time, though.

We had two friends up at our cabin for a little hiking, a lot of food and some libations. During our wine soaked discussion on Saturday night, our committed friends decided that they were going to come up to the mountain that weekend and help cheer us on, and assist with watching Yack as he would surely want to follow his parents through the mud and tunnel courses. Being two, this race would probably appear to him to be nothing but preschool on crack. We needed some dedicated souls to hold him back as mommy and daddy plunged into oblivion.

Since our cabin is exactly 18 miles from the ski resort, (or death march as it were), we decided to hike it the next day. Having downed a couple of bottles of wine between us, it sounded like a good idea at the time, but when we woke up, it was the last thing we wanted to do.

The base of the mountain is at about 7,000 feet. Simply getting out of the car gave me a nose bleed. I realized at this moment as I struggled to pick Yack up out of the car seat that this was going to be ugly. And as of that moment, I had 42 days to psyche myself up for the hell that will become my reality.

As I hoisted my little man into his backpack (this child’s back breaker is typically made for a 2 year old who doesn’t weigh 100 pounds), I peered up into the sun and atop the mountain where heaven was shining brightly whispering to me, “return to the car and get the heck out of dodge”. Alas, I have been known to ignore the whispers from Heaven.

Our group approached the base of the mountain and noticed that the Tough Mudder staff had already begun assembling the various torture contraptions throughout the course. There were several narrow PVC pipes – likely for sewer lines – that were lying together side by side. My guess on width would be about 2 and a half feet wide which would be an overstatement. I put Yack down and climbed through, just to see. Just to test the waters. As I army crawled my way through the tube and over the pipe’s divots (ouch, they hurt my forearms, not to mention my knees, shins, and tops of my toes), I began to feel a sense of claustrophobia. Crawling backwards would prove my weakness. I put my head down, closed my eyes and crawled to the light.

Yack was right behind me, making a mockery of my Achilles heal. “Mommy, that was fun. Let’s do it again.”

No thanks. I’ll wait until there are 50 people behind me with mud caked on to their bodies, yelling at me to go faster.

Next, we decided to climb to the top of the mountain as we followed the map we pulled off the Internet. According to the description, we were supposed to be running up the mountain. I, however, walked. Let me rephrase. I stumbled, digging at any hole or sturdy terrain that I could find with my climbing boots to reach the top. (According to the Tough Mudder preparation manual, one should wear tennis shoes). I had to stop about five times to catch my breath and curse the clouds above for more air. I figured we were now at about 8,000 feet – not enough air in the world to help my dizzying state of affairs.

Reaching to the top was euphoric until Pants showed me the map. “During the race, we have to crawl up that face,” pointing to a mountain that looked to be at a 90 degree angle from where I was standing, “and we have to do that four times. The last time includes us carrying a tree log on our shoulder.”

That’s when the air left my head, my heart, my lungs and my feet. The air was on to something. The air was right. “Get out now!”

As we plunged down the side of the mountain back to our car, my thighs, knees and lower half of my body screamed in pain. My dear friends giggled in delight as they knew what we were headed for – watching me panic is something that brings them pure joy. What great friends.

And to make matters all the better, as we put Yack back into the car and headed for the brewery for a nice liquid lunch, Pants proclaimed in earnest, “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

A Straight Up Bad Decision Leads to More Bad Decisions

I am back in action, as it were. Work has become a little less hectic and in turn, my new little mission is taking over my life. Let me be clear about something: my number one priority is my family, but because of my overly efficient and controlling ways, my sweet family members are running on autopilot. (Thank sweet Jesus for Jack’s preschool and Pant’s willingness to join me in this physically daunting crusade). I now have time to abandon all other duties and put myself through physical and mental torture in a weak attempt to survive the feat that is Tough Mudder. I have come to the pathetic conclusion that the only reason why I have committed myself to this task is due to the pride factor plain and simple. My ego is too big to back down.

I began working out at a new gym about five weeks before I actually signed up for the Tough Mudder event – set for October 9th. It was early August and I was panicking about verbally committing to compete, but not physically committing to survive. I was complaining to a friend about my utter stupidity when she suggested I try the torture chamber that is Midtown Strength and Conditioning. I had only heard of it a few times -once during a rubdown from my sweet masseur (“you know, if you just use a kettle ball every once in awhile, this shoulder knot will disappear, in fact, I belong to this gym where you push tractor tires down a long path”). Not quite the relaxing massage I had paid for – the workout sounded dreadful. The second time this gym was brought up was by a friend who said that she attends the 6 a.m. morning anguish class where they throw sandbags and do Russian twists with medicine balls. No thanks.

Once something is brought up twice by two different people who don’t know each other, it’s destiny. I had to join. So when this friend, sick of listening to me complain, said that joining this gym is the only chance that I had of surviving the race, I arrived, checkbook in hand that very same day.

To describe that I was intimidated would be a huge understatement. Try petrified. I heard the gym before I walked in the front door. Grunts, yells and huffs were heard through the rollup garage door before I entered. I hadn’t heard sounds like this since.. well, let’s move on.

The place smells of metal and steal and sweat. It’s wrought with gymnastic rings, sandbags, kettleballs, football sleds and a hell of a lot of jump ropes, which I hate with a passion. It’s also crammed with burly men, and some kick ass women. I tiptoed in, looking for the manager.

“You must be Amy. We have been waiting for you.” A message from God, or Goddess in this case. Her name was Tara. Her smile was inviting. My fear dissipated but only a little. I explained what I was doing there. She knew the story. Jeez, this town of 400,000 people is sure small.

“Tough Mudders’, huh? Well go change, we have work to do.”

I was immediately relieved to know that a woman would be training me. Who else knows my body but a woman, and maybe my husband but that’s not appropriate blogging etiquette. I changed into my spin bike outfit – so not conducive to what I was about to do – and was greeted by a muscle of a man named Camilo. Wait, where’s Tara? Apparently, she ran the morning classes and tricked me with her sweet inviting ways.

Camilo was on me in seconds, even before I headed for the door. Just as we started our routine, my buddy Vince joined us. I use the term buddy lightly because he is the one who got me into this blasted race in the first place. I was happy to have misery join me in what would undoubtedly be the most painful experience of recent history. The following is our first day’s workout. (It has since increased in reps, weight and pain as I hit week #6):

Scrawled across the dry erase board at the mechanics garage turned torture chamber:

Tough Mudders Do Three Sets of Each:
Russian Twists – 20x
Jump rope – 100x
Burpees – 20x (for those who don’t know what these are, ask a retired high school football player)
Mountain climbers – 30x
S Street Run – this is where you run, not jog, two blocks down the street
Alligators – this is where you hold ten pound dumb bells in your hands in the push up position while your toes are in the curves of a twelve pound plate. You must drag the plate while moving your weights across the floor. These are the epitome of hell.

Don’t forget to rest for 30 seconds in between reps.

When Camilo is feeling nice, he will have us also do dead lifts, pull ups with rubber bands, and sled pushes with 50 pound weights on them. What a sweet guy.

I started off going to this gym twice a week. I now go four. You must be wondering what I look like after working out like I am competing in a body building championship. I am about to tell you: I have gained six pounds – yeah yeah yeah, muscle weighs more than fat. Put a cork in it. I eat twice as much. That’s why I have gained weight.

And, as icing on that delicious cake, my mother told me this weekend that if my arms get any bigger, she is going to start getting the hots for me because I will cease to look like the woman that I am and cross over into dude land.