“The greater the obstacle, the more glory in overcoming it.” Molière

Did Nearly Freeze...

Did Not Finish...

but

Did Not Fail.

“BEEEEEEFCAAAAAAAKE! BEEEEEEFCAAAAAAKE!”

Yes, I was yelling out Beefcake.

I was convinced that I looked like Mel Gibson in Bravehart, ready for battle. I probably looked and sounded more like Rocky yelling out to Adrian.

I sat in the warming hut that lay in the middle of the Killing Fields, calling out Beefcake as the medic beside me looked on with confusion. Drunk tank meets 19th century infirmary, a place where the shivering and slurring bodies, many close to drifting out of consciousness, sat next to coal stoves. We were stripped down and then bundled up in torn quilts, emergency blankets and any other dry fabrics laying around. Most attempts to drink warm tea or hot chocolate resulted in a 90 to 10 hit ratio, dry fabric to mouth.

My mind was perfectly functioning, so I thought, and I was "ready" to go back out into the Killing Fields. My friend and German Race Marshall, Chris (AKA Beefcake), knew it was not going to be my day.

My morning started off like any other race day. I slept surprisingly well, ate my usual pre-race breakfast, rolled out, completed my breathing exercises and made sure I was plenty hydrated. An 11am-ish start meant that I would not have to worry about jet-lag, being that I normally wake up around 4:30am to train at home. In fact, it was the perfect time to start the race. 

Another day, another death waiver.

I spent weeks testing out different gear, jumping into frozen bodies of water, usually accompanied by burpees. (If you didn't already see it on Instagram, enjoy!) The weather was great in comparison, with the exception of a constant wind, something that was common. In fact, it was a few degrees colder in NY most days when I was out playing in the water. My kit composed of two thin long-sleeved shirts, a 3mm neoprene vest, compression tights over a pair of nylons, sport socks, 3mm neoprene gloves, a fleece hat and a swim cap tucked in my sports bra in case I wanted extra warmth.

I held off going outside until the very last moment because I wanted to stay warm. Walking out to the start line with Rise of the Sufferfests' writer/director, Scott Keneally, was surreal. It was like I was cast in a motion picture – Gladiator to be specific – and I was stepping out into the Coliseum.

DNF sign #1: Comfortably warm at the start.

I was too caught up in the excitement to take notice that I was not even the slightest bit cold. Bad move. Tough Guy begins with an anything-but-leisurely country run. It's the longest section of the race in terms of distance, but by far nothing as intense as the Killing Fields that follow. There's a bit of slaloming up and down uneven terrain, crawling under nets, jumping over/under logs and through some water.

DNF sign #2: Overheating on the run.

I hit the first slalom feeling off, but the thought of being submerged in near-frozen water ahead calmed me. I threw off my hat, which was still secured to my pony tail so I could use it later, but it didn't do much to bring my temperature down. I was a little nauseous and lightheaded, so I grabbed some water at the next aid station and kept on running.

I entered the Killing Fields, relieved that the run was over and was looking forward to the fun that was about to start. The cliché “shit's about to get real” is an accurate description of what lied ahead. The Killing Fields are a series of 21 obstacles (K1-K21), built from nothing more than wood and rope, some of which you will find frayed, broken and tied back together. By the time you enter them you are already soaked to your waist and numb. I couldn't feel anything below my knees, but I was used to the feeling from training and wasn't bothered by it.

Killing Fields

  

DNF sign #3: Stumbling around like I drank a handle of moonshine. (Note: I have never tried this, but I imagine this is what it would feel like.)

My memory is a little hazy after K2 - Gallipoli, a 200 meter run through water and cement-like mud. I went from overheating to completely freezing in a moment.. Shortly after this photo was taken, I put on my swim cap for extra warmth. 

Appleton demoing proper K4 execution to the elites the day prior.

I recall climbing up the Behemoth (K4), a large structure with 3 rope sections to traverse at the top. I stumbled across the first platform to the first traverse, threw my legs up and stopped. In a split second, I forgot how to traverse a rope, but managed to drag myself across.

I got off the first rope and the excitement around me began to muffle. I made my way across two more traverses with the encouragement of the race marshalls around me, who were probably watching out for my own safety rather than to see if I executed the obstacle according to protocol, and I jumped into another cold, muddy pool of water.

DNF sign #4: Wanting to take a nap.

Having lost all sense of time, I can guess that it was maybe 10 minutes until I reached the dreaded underwater tunnels. You may be familiar with them by now, thanks to this footage from Rise of the Sufferfests of my friend and fellow badass, James Appleton, who came in 3^rd place after developing hypothermia. Don't doubt his ability to come out on top; James won Tough Guy THREE times.

I was shaking too much for my own good at this point and all I really wanted to do was curl up by some shrubbery and take a nap in the sun. Part of me knew this feeling was a bad sign, but being the stubborn person I am, I simply told myself over and over,“Keep on moving forward. One step. One step. Let's go.” I entered the water and ducked under a separate log with surprising ease. Any cold water submersion had been a weakness of mine in the past, but I didn't even flinch here. I was so relieved.

The first log is just past the K11 sign. Enter from the hill on the right.

In a split second, time just kind of stopped. I recall being quite confused and I tried to get out of the water where I entered. I probably looked like death at this point because two male racers immediately grabbed my arms, turned me around and we moved across the water to the main underwater tunnels. They said we would to go through them together.

K11 - Underwater tunnels. My fate was sealed right where Scott's standing.

They went on, but I did not. I only remember being pushed and pulled out of the water right next to them. This is when the medics led me into the warming hut.

Stage 2 hypothermia.

There was no going back out at that point. I exited the course while I was in a spot in top 5 women. I cried, begging Beefcake to let me go back out. He told me that he would not only tackle me and drag me off the course, but he would DQ me if he saw me out there. He knew it was too dangerous for me to continue. Everybody knew that... except me. Another racer who was in the hut, shared that he went back out a previous year after being pulled off the course and ended up in the hospital with organ failure.

What seemed like 20 minutes was more like 90 minutes. I couldn't sit there anymore. As I walked back to the main house, passing racers still on the course, I felt like a failure.

So, how did this happen?

This is why Tough Guy is so damn tough. You can prep your heart out, test your clothes, jump in all the cold water you desire, but you can never simulate race day. Tough Guy is an all-out, balls-to-the-wall race, especially if you are vying for one of the top spots. Everybody has different needs and you should only focus on what works for you and only you. There's a good chance that you will find me half dressed next year.

Mr. Mouse created a race in the rawest and purest form. He has a desire to challenge people to better themselves. He nails it with this event. He is a legendary person, yet approachable and tells it like it is. Zero BS. His first words to me were not a hello, but "Are those teeth fake?” They partially are... great observation!

Thumbs up from the legend himself.

That being said, there are no secrets, surprises or gear lists. You can walk the course the day prior and memorize every little detail. You can be a veteran of the race, or even a previous champion, and still run into trouble. Last year's overall champion, Charles Franzke, was pulled off of the course this year, after falling into water from another rope traverse, only to wake up after being rescued.

K15 - Dragon Pool. A rope traverse you do not want to fall off of.

Welcome to Tough Guy.

Will I do it again? Oh, hell yea.

Besides the fact that I am dying to cross that finish line, I left Wolverhampton with one of the most positive and memorable experiences of my life. There is so much more to Tough Guy than just a race. You become part of history and discover an unparalleled energy. It doesn't matter if you carry Mr. Mouse's surname “Wilson” or not, you will quickly be considered family.

Every person I met added to my experience, whether they were racing, working, volunteering or spectating. Regarding the elite athletes, you would never guess how badass they are until seeing them in action because of their modesty and willingness to help. James Appleton gave me a detailed course tour the day before the race. During the race, shortly after exchanging high fives, I got a boost up a muddy hill by 2^nd place female and two-time Tough Guy champion, Friederike “Iki” Feil. Apparently overall champion Jon Albon stopped to fix a fence while racing, and let's not forget, help his friend James fight off hypothermia after the race. I'm sure all of these athletes want to win, but they are genuinely happy to see their friends succeed.

That moment of feeling like a failure was wiped away quickly because of the above, and so much more.

Congratulations to the winners, all of the finishers and to anybody brave enough to toe the starting line!

Tough Guy is well worth the trip. Don't even worry about a medal. I will guarantee you that you walk away with something much more priceless.

Stay warm and rock on...

S

"Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time." Thomas A. Edison

March 2014

Oops... I signed up for another Death Race.

It was four years since my last DR. Four years since Mark Jenkins described me in this article for Outside Magazine as the gal “practically skipping behind her wheelbarrow, turd-flecked blond hair bouncing.” He even continued to go on to refer to me as “some kind of superhero.” Flattered is an understatement.

In 2010, I set the bar high. I entered a new world of racing that made me test all limits of physical strength and mental toughness. The DR took me to the outer limits of exhaustion, to hell and back if you will. Maybe some called me “crazy” – but it made me feel more like me than ever before, and I saw a new potential in myself.

And then shortly after this article published, I disappeared from the endurance world, and from myself.

Four years later. Four years, and that indescribable intensity swelled to where I could no longer ignore it.

This is my story.

March 2010

I was gearing up for the Peak Snowshoe Half Marathon in Pittsfield, Vermont; I never did anything like it before and a snowshoe race sounded pretty freaking awesome. My main objective was not the race actually. I wanted to scope out the location and terrain of the area with the intention of attempting my first DR that June, after having a friend recommend that I go for it. A week out from the event, I received an email from the Peak Race directors – Joe DeSena and Andy Weinberg – asking for 10 volunteers to compete in the Snowshoe Death Division – a mini Death Race.

Interesting...

It all seemed so serendipitous. But was I really ready for this? My plan was to train over the next 3 months; could I be ready in 7 days to do this Snowshoe Death Division – the beta version of the Winter Death Race? I went back and forth, but just a few emails later, I accepted the challenge.

Friday rolled around and I found myself speeding up I-87, trying to make it to the WDR beta on time. I arrived in Pittsfield within 15 minutes of the start, as a mix of my usual bubbly blonde self and a frazzled mess from my journey. (I only heard after the race was over, there was talk among the racers at my entrance that I would last 2, maybe 3 hours.) 18 hours later, after seemingly endless tasks of splitting wood, shooting a 9mm, wrestling an Olympian, memorizing a sequence of 21 numbers – 409 67 89 804 72 167 198 616 – and more, only 3 racers completed the event. I was one of them.

(**As a side note, in true DR fashion, we never used our snowshoes.)

I'm in blue, hanging out and chatting with new friends over a gallon... 

We put together wheelbarrows to cart wood up the mountain. I'm kneeling on the right side, in the red hat, working on mine. The wresting ring is in the foreground.  

No skulls this time around. Just a customized maul.

Regardless of a hypothermia stint after having to drink a gallon of milk in the Amee Farm Lodge pond and trying to self-induce vomiting in front of a horrified group of snowshoers, I was hooked. The adrenaline high was like nothing I ever experienced. It was just the beginning of how life would change drastically in the upcoming weeks.

May 2010

I accepted an out-of-the-blue job offer from somebody I connected with at the WDR beta. It was a great opportunity and I will always be thankful to that person for the offer. Shortly after I began this job, I completed my first summer Death Race, tied for 6^th place overall and was the first female finisher.

Contemplating manure & hay filled wheelbarrow time trials over chopping wood.

Better choice even though I was covered in it, and for a very good reason. It was more efficient to scoop it up with your arms than to use a pitchfork.

Push-ups in exchange for the skull.

My life was progressing in a great direction... And then I lost myself.

Not even a few months after the summer race, I found myself training sporadically, staying out late and not dedicating myself to something that was always one of the most important things to me, as well as something that defined me. I continued to enter races; I picked races of interest and completed them within a decent time (great to most), but never anything close to what reflected my actual abilities if I applied even a little focus. I allowed NYC to infect my life in a negative way. I like to tell people to imagine me putting the energy I now put into training and racing into my social life. Scary. It was all my choice... and a big lesson. I accumulated and re-aggravated injuries with every athletic feat I managed to pull through. (I finally got over a gnarly bout of plantar fasciitis that developed in 2012 mostly because I winged... yes, winged... an Ironman.) My mood was all over the place; there was zero consistency in what I did in life in general, yet I had the fear that if I redirected my lifestyle towards focusing on athletics that I would lose friends and miss out on life... Yup, a life that didn't make me happy anyway.

How can you give anything or anybody your all, when you're giving yourself nothing?

I felt an obligation to the people around me and to their interests rather than to myself first and foremost. I was blind to the fact that in any healthy and successful friendship or relationship, there is mutual support of each other's passions, and that my true friends would always be there for me. I have a wonderful group of friends who have and continue to support me and all of my endeavors.

2011... 2012... 2013

Every spring I received an invite from Andy to come back to Pittsfield. I would look at it, strongly think about it, and politely decline. Usually there was some underlying injury that made my response easier to form into words... “in PT again for a torn meniscus”... “plantar faciitis”... All in all, it was my mind that was my greatest obstacle. Kind of ironic, considering the mental aspect of the DR, and that I enjoy that part of it greatly.

I would read race reports and look at photos... my heart would sink... time would move on and I would eventually forget the pain.

Spring 2014

Over it.

A culmination of negative events over the years and feeling like a caged animal, I reached my breaking point of city life... and the overall empty “life” I led. I left my NYC downtown apartment, moved 20 miles away to surrounded myself with a little more nature, and focused on beginning the transition into doing what I truly love. It's just a matter of time before I venture off into the mountains.

Once again, I was blessed to receive the annual invite to the Death Race, and after reading some Facebook posts, especially the words of Ray Morvan, who I bonded with during the WDR beta, I pulled the trigger. I missed racing and I wanted to yet again be part of this wonderful community that expanded over the years.

June 2014

Going back to a race I once knew so well was quite frightening. My mind was on overdrive, nervous excitement filled me more than calmness. Four years passed. Was I going to make it through as strong as the last 2 times? How would I explain where I disappeared to all of these years? I put a lot of pressure on myself. The magic of Pittsfield prevailed and it didn't take long to go from what felt like being a stranger in a strange land to being welcomed back into this community. I reunited with old friends and made many new ones. The energy of these people was, and continues to be infectious, in a positively invigorating way.

Cue to the actual race... I was horribly sick for the majority of the race, but only let a handful of people know. I think it was heat exhaustion, but I'll spare the details. I was one step from turning around on the mountain on day 2 and calling it quits. Credit goes to two new friends, who became more like teammates – Mark Jones & Dallas D'Aoust - who kept me moving and hydrated, and to my “race mom” – Jane Boudreau Coffey – for hooking it up some delicious medicine. With their help, combined with the overall vibe of everybody racing and supporting, I passed the point of defeat and convinced myself that the only way I was going to quit was if I was dragged off the course.

65 hours later, it was over. Or was it just the beginning? It was a culmination of the past 4 years of my life. I was in shock, it was surreal and most importantly... my soul was awakened.

Quite happy going into the 60th hour. 1.5qts of ice cream? Don't mind if I do!

2015

Over the years, I noticed people continuously tell me I inspire them. I cannot say it enough; it is the most sincere form of flattery I can imagine. I love every opportunity to guide and watch people work towards athletic success, like my best friend, nervous about her first triathlon, be there to witness her not only rock her race, but cross the finish line with a smile on her face (Go Mel!)... or hearing that my coworker signed up for his first 50km because sitting next to me for a few months influenced him to do so.

Inspiration travels in a full circle. Helping inspire others inspires me. And it is why I am writing this today.

Challenges come on all levels. They are relative to who we are and what goals we want to achieve. You set attainable goals (it doesn't even have to be a race), step or leap out of your comfort zone to tackle them, boost your confidence and then you move onto higher ones. You conquer and then you strive for more greatness. You discover how the physical and mental aspects are closely intertwined and then take your experience and apply it to everyday life.

Most importantly... YOU HAVE FUN DOING IT.

I hope that by sharing my journey, my successes and my struggles, the fun and the misery... and the fun misery too... that you find the motivation to go after your ambitions. 2015 is lining up to be one extraordinary adventure...

rock on...

S