Run-a-muck!

My enthusiasm for new ventures continues beyond my fiftieth year, with the most recent being completing run-a-muck with Mary Corcoran and Ben Hammond.  A mere 5km on relatively flat land, taking in a few ditches and streams; it’ll be great craic we thought, and after all, how hard could it be? Really feckin hard, that’s how hard!

We arrive punctually, park in the field and head through the crowds who are ‘rocking the boat’ to the DJ who is perched somewhere above the bales of hay. We pick our way through the muddy field to register, observing the hundreds of toned and trim bodies kitted out in Lycra and proper looking running gear.

‘I thought there’d be more fat people’ mumbles Ben gloomily, as he takes in the tight bums and broad pecs. We all scan the crowd eagerly.

‘Look, there’s one!’ Mary shouts gleefully. Three sets of eyes pivot rapidly to take in the thundering thighs, the rolls of fat spilling over the tracksuit bottoms and bra straps, the wobbly bingo wings as she makes her way through the crowd.  We take a collective sigh of pleasure, and Ben visibly relaxes.

Within minutes it’s time for us to line up and so we bounce and stretch and twist as if we know what we’re doing, surreptitiously watching and emulating those around us, who clearly know more than we do.

And we’re off!  Straight through an incredibly mucky field, a slight incline, a stack of hay to climb and then more muddy fields. Mary and I could walk all day but five minutes into this heavy mud and my thighs are aching already. No major incidents in the first few fields other than my tumble and roll when my lace catches barbed wire in a hedge and pulls me down. It was kind of worth it though for the strong, freckled hand that helps me up, and the hazel eyes I look into from my slippery slope.  And on we go.

We hear screams ahead and sure enough, here is our first ditch, knee high with freezing water but we slip down the bank and trudge through the ten or so metres to the other side, feeling very proud and very fit. Within ten minutes, we have done three more of these , each of them longer, wider, deeper, with increasingly unpredictable peaks and troughs so that we are lulled into a false sense of security, until suddenly the earth disappears from beneath our feet and we are submerged in ice cold murky waters, coming up gasping for breath and clinging onto each other for balance, security and because we can.

For the next hour we jog and drag, pull and push, grunt and groan and laugh heartily and frequently. We come to our first wall of hay wrapped in those big black plastic rolls. I’m wasted and take no shame in walking around them but Ben and Mary fling themselves at this monstrous obstacle, legs akimbo, arms awry and they land triumphantly on the other side. A couple of fields on and we come to a similar barrier. I’m even clearer this time that I’m taking the easy route. Ben goes at the bales with huge energy and practically vaults it. Mary takes a good run, builds up speed, lifts off the ground and does a loud thumping belly flop on top of the hay. Her skinny arse is stuck in the air and her matchstick legs are flailing around but I’m doubled over laughing and in no position to help.  Not for the first time, one of the strong muscly gang comes to her rescue, gives her a helping hand over and she gets a round of applause for her efforts. The wagon.

 

We reckon we must be near the end when we hear music, shouting and voices over a loud speaker.  Thank god we mutter through breathless intakes, and are spurred on by the possibility of being close to the finish line.  We pass through another field, another ditch (it’s getting boring now) and see a van and sound system up ahead, next to a rope wall to be climbed.  We groan and slow as we hear the devastating news that we are now at the half-way point. We struggle on but our legs are tired and the mud is heavy. The banter and self imposed competition keeps us going and the regular guides along the trail are fantastic motivators.  Shoes are lost, t-shirts torn, legs scratched and heads dunked, until finally we see the finish line and the crowds waiting there. Inevitably there is a last surge of energy required to get through the final obstacles, which includes a high rope wall and a slide into a massive, deep pool of murky, mucky mud.  I reach the top and avoid looking too far down for fear of dizziness taking grip.  My way down is blocked by a woman who sits teetering on the edge, her friends beckoning her from below, but she is terrified.

‘I can’t” she says. ‘I can’t do it’. Her two pals, standing waist deep in the freezing cold water below encourage and cajole, but she’s not shifting. I’ve had enough.

‘You’ll be grand’ I say, giving her a good hard shove, and off she goes!  Her pals give me a thumbs up before reaching out to break her splash. Hah, and I’m supposed to be scared of heights? Mary is on a mission now, leaping and sprinting; jumping and ducking. She doesn’t allow anything to slow her or put her off.  She is singularly focused and keeps her eye on the finish line. Ben isn’t far behind her, and is equally determined to complete the course with a decent time and having proven his ability.  And there I am, lumbering along behind them, responding to their occasional shouts to keep up, and wishing I had friends with less conviction or pride. But here we are, crossing the line, and note our time: 1 hour and fifteen minutes.  We high five and hug, and then line up in front of the important looking people with clip boards so they can note our time.  They look at the numbers pinned to our chest which inform them what time we set off at, and they give us a pitying smile, as we slowly realise they’re only noting those times worth recognition, and ours most definitely don’t qualify!

But the hardest part of the run has not yet begun, and no I’m not talking about finding the car in the field which lacks any distinguishing marks.  No, it’s getting out of our cold, wet, muddy clothes with fingers that are numb and unable to move.  We grunt and groan as we attempt to pull our clothes over our heads; we regret the several layers we are wearing, and any sense of protecting our dignity is quickly forgotten as our feet sting with pain, our legs ache and throb and all we want is to get into the lovely warm clothes I have so lovingly wrapped around a hot water bottle.  It takes forever to get out of the wet gear, and bra hooks prove a total impossibility, but eventually we are dry, beginning to thaw and feeling extremely proud of ourselves.  We chuck the soppy, filthy gear into the boot of the car, and are getting into the car when the woman who I shoved off the slide walks by.

‘That’s her’ say her pal, (the turncoat). ‘That’s yer one who gave you the push’.  I look around trying to work out how quickly I can get behind the wheel and make it out of the field, but it’s going to take ages manoeuvring around all the people. Escape is not an option. She comes towards me, and I meet her eye defiantly.  She puts out her arms and gives me a big hug. ‘Thanks! It was such a laugh and I’d never have done it on my own!’  I don’t even mind that’s she muddied and dampened my snuggly warm sweatshirt.

In the car, Mary and I check out our blackened faces and mud thick hair and laugh gleefully at our achievement. ‘Would you do it again?’ she asks.  We look at each other.

‘Never!’ we scream in unison!