I survived a Tough Mudder

The light at the end of the tunnel was 35 feet ahead of me.

The panic was much closer.

I was on my hands and knees, crawling through a muddy trench covered with heavy sheets of plywood and some dirt. The trench was dark and dank, about a yard wide.

I'm not a big fan of enclosed spaces, and I had to pause at the entrance before finally getting down and crawling inside.

I had crawled a few feet when I felt the flutter of panic. I wanted to back out but couldn't. Someone had already entered the tunnel behind me, and I had no choice. I had to keep going.

I was scared — and that was the whole point. That was, after all, why I was in the middle of nowhere on a Saturday morning. Why I had awakened early and drove 112 miles from Philadelphia to the Poconos: to test myself. To challenge, to push myself further than I have in a long time. Now, in that tunnel, I was learning exactly how much of a challenge I had signed up for. And I wasn't at all sure I was up for it.

*****

I have run races before, a 5K here and there, but I don't consider myself a serious runner. And, technically, I wasn't doing a race. No, I was doing a Tough Mudder.

Billed as "probably the toughest event on the planet" and "the premiere adventure sport series in the world," Tough Mudder events — now held throughout the country — are basically gonzo obstacle courses with a series of challenges spread over 10 to 12 miles. Designed by British Special Forces, the courses are focused on testing all-around strength, stamina, mental grit and camaraderie. The Tough Mudder logo is telling: It's a guy running through fire.

The first hint of what I was in for came shortly after I arrived in the Poconos for the race, when I wandered past a 9-foot-tall wall of wooden planks, painted with the words "No quit in here." I was looking for the starting point. Turns out, the wall was the starting point. To begin a Tough Mudder, you have to scale the wall.

Once over the wall, you drop into a pen where Mudders start in heats every 20 minutes for six hours. I was scheduled for the 11 a.m. heat.

As I waited with the rest of my heat, a high-energy guy who served as emcee, disc jockey and motivational speaker lead everyone in two pledges. The first was the pledge of allegiance. Everyone in this crowd, thick with military members and police officers, knows that one. (Another reason for the event's popularity among military types, besides its general badassness, is that a portion of registration fees goes to the Wounded Warrior project.) But the second was less familiar. It's the Tough Mudder creed, which goes: "We are not in a race but in a challenge, teamwork and camaraderie are more important than speed, we won't whine about the tough stuff ahead, we will help each other along." And finally, we pledged to "overcome all fears."

*****

If you're wondering why a 45-year-old guy in half-assed shape would put himself through this, it might help to know that the Tough Mudder, since its inception, has defied logic.

Will Dean, now the CEO for the company that runs the events, pitched it in a competition while he was a student at Harvard Business School. It was rejected, with the professors doubting that people would actually pay for the privilege of an endurance race that didn't even time participants.

Undeterred, Dean and his fledgling company held the first Tough Mudder at the Bear Creek Mountain Resort outside Allentown on May 2, 2010. Tickets sold out in 35 days. Two more Tough Mudders were held that year, 14 were run in 2011 and there will be 35 this year, with 27 in the United States and others in Australia, the United Kingdom and Canada. More countries are expected to be added in 2013.

Although there are a variety of "mud runs" that appeal to adventure racers, the Tough Mudder is different, in both its length and its rejection of competition — the emphasis on camaraderie and mutual misery of pounding out the course together (and the euphoric party thrown at the finish line).

Since their inception, the events have been popular with people who practice CrossFit, an exercise regimen that uses Olympic weightlifting, gymnastics, cardio training and other exercises in a constant rotation to challenge the body and mind. And that's how I came to it; I learned about the Mudder from my fellow CrossFitters at Fearless Athletics in South Philly, where I've been working out for the past two years.

My long, still-very-much-in-progress path toward physical fitness started when I wanted to play in a rugby match. I had played the sport for Temple University and then for more than a decade after I graduated. When a local team scheduled an "old boy" match — a game for middle-aged guys who missed the sport — I figured I needed to tune up if I was going to take the field.

But I soon learned that I need more than just a tune-up. I was a mess; the kid who had lifeguarded on the North Wildwood Beach Patrol for three summers when he wasn't playing rugby had grown fat and slow.

CrossFit has a way of pushing you to set goals, though, even if it means a few failures before success. And four days before the Tough Mudder, my CrossFit trainer, Wil Vicinus, declared me ready to go.

I can't say I shared his confidence.

*****

Even before I started the race, I made a critical mistake that could have jeopardized my chances of finishing. I signed up to run the Tough Mudder alone.

Participants are willing, even eager, to help each other overcome the obstacles along the course. But having a team push, pull and prod you along makes all the difference.

Then I got lucky. As I was parking before the event, Jimmy Tran, my next-door neighbor's 27-year-old son, pulled up beside my car. Tran and seven friends, all in their 20s, were running the Tough Mudder together. They quickly added me to their team. If they hadn't, I might still be out there in the muddy woods up in the Poconos.

Several of Tran's friends had already run a Tough Mudder. They understood the ethos of the event. In the first few miles, I jogged along with them and urged them to leave me behind if I could not keep up. They laughed and refused. It was clear they were going to drag me along. Together we would fling ourselves off a 15-foot platform into a murky pond; together we would crawl over 10-foot-tall nets; and together we would slog through the knee-deep "Mud Mile."

The first obstacle was called "The Kiss of Mud," a long belly-crawl through mud under a low canopy of razor wire. Sprinklers sprayed participants, which kept the mud soggy — and us soaked.

That dousing was no problem. The "Arctic Enema" was. We climbed up to the edge of a 10-foot long Dumpster filled with ice and water, with a forklift standing by with a load of more ice. We then plunged into the water and ducked under the surface to clear a wooden plank in the middle of the Dumpster before climbing out.

Even in the 70-degree weather, the freezing water was heart-stopping.

*****

Along with CrossFit, I did some roadwork to prepare for the Tough Mudder, using an iPhone app designed to build endurance for jogging. It wasn't enough.

A series of early obstacles had my calves aching, including a long march up a steep hill, a run through the woods and the first of two sets of "Berlin Walls."

These 12-foot walls were impossible to scale alone. At the base, Tran and I clasped our hands together to provide a foothold for our teammates as we helped heave them to the top. Once there, they straddled the wall and pulled us up to make our way over. Exhausted, I landed with a jolt, only to turn and see yet another wall.

Tough Mudders have the option of walking around an obstacle. I didn't want to be that guy. So I went at the second wall, which took several tries to get over.

The chance of injury seemed to loom over the course. During what should have been an easy obstacle called the "log bog jog" — climbing over and under a series of logs — my right calf seized in a painful spasm.

Tran and his buddy, Kong Ngo, helped me clear the obstacle and then stretched out my calf so I could continue. Later, my left calf would have the same problem. When I tried to complete the "Funky Monkey" — a set of monkey bars that arch over a pool of cold water, I lost my grip and took the plunge. As I landed, both calves seized up. Tran and Ngo had to pull me from the pool.

And still I felt lucky. "Everest," is an obstacle that looks a lot like a skateboarding half-pipe. To clear it, Mudders need to get a running start and launch themselves to the top, where other participants are waiting to grab hold and haul over the people who can't clear it alone.

While waiting my turn, and working up my courage, I saw a guy much younger and fitter than I take his chances. He landed at the bottom with a thud — and what looked to be a dislocated shoulder.

On my first try, I missed getting a hold and skidded back down the half-pipe, the surface of the obstacle tearing the skin from both knees.

*****

You see a lot of character along the Tough Mudder course. And you meet more than a few characters.

I saw runners dressed as Batman, Batgirl, Superman, the Green Lantern and a few caped superheros I didn't recognize. I saw one group of guys dressed only in Speedo swimsuits designed with the stars and stripes of the American flag. Another group ran wearing just underwear.

Jane di Leo, a spokeswoman for Tough Mudder, told me that 80 percent of Tough Mudder participants are male, which probably isn't a surprise. The average age is 29 years old, though in the course I ran, the oldest participant was 79.

Yet the most inspiring thing I saw was a guy who ran the course on crutches, his right foot in a black protective boot. As one participant after another passed him, they slowed down to express their admiration.

*****

Everyone who had heard of the Tough Mudder asked the same question: Did I get shocked?

Among the obstacles faced by Tough Mudder participants, it turns out, are two that include dangling wires, some of which have just enough electric current to give Mudders a jolt if they come in contact.

I was at the midpoint of the "Electric Eel" obstacle, where Mudders crawl on their hands and knees through muddy water under dangling wires, when I started wondering if the story wasn't just a myth, a head game. I had felt no shocks. But just then, a woman crawling near me brushed up against a wire, snagging it on her clothes. She let out a little yelp — followed by a long low scream.

After that, I lowered myself as far as possible into the muck.

The second electric obstacle, "Electroshock Therapy," turned out to be the last one on the course, the final test before reaching the finish line.

But as I ran through the muddy, shin-deep water, amid bales of hay and the wires overhead, I didn't worry about getting shocked. With the end so close, the journey so far, I had stopped thinking about it. As the creed said, I had left my fear behind.