The day opened dark with torrential rain, but the distant sky offered a glimmer of hope that change was coming, a change that, hopefully, would bring with it the warming embrace of the morning star. There was apprehension and nervous energy in the air as we 300 gathered at the gates and listened to tales of past heroism, of successes and failures, and battles won and lost... and of burpees. A collective groan brought me from my thoughts as we watched with horror while the Master explained that, YES, there would be push-ups with the burpees, no exceptions, for every challenge failed, for every obstacle left undefeated. If ever there was a time to pray to the gods, now was that time.... burpees suck.
The Master completed his rousing speech with many an "AROO!" from the warriors who, clad in their finest battle spandex, were ready to be unleashed, ready to be unchained, ready for what lay ahead. The trumpets blared and, as smoke rose from the very pits of Hell itself (or from those smoke bombs they just threw), we 300 began our journey, to live or to die, to come back with our shields or on them.... or, on a medical gurney, or maybe on crutches, and possibly with an ice pack, or some band-aids for boo-boos.
The beginning of the battle took its toll on seasoned and virgin warriors alike as we mounted the first steep, slick hill. Many courageous souls had already fallen away from the phalanx as their muscles seized and their lungs burned, or they had fallen down because it was very, very slippery in some spots and they should be more careful. We, who did not bow to the hill, soldiered on with a roar and entered the fields of obstacle glory. From our vantage point we had an unobstructed view of the carnage that lay ahead. Warriors young and old, male and female, fully clothed and half naked, were engaged in battle with walls and ropes and mud and fire and spears and other stuff.
We entered the valley and quickly made our way in and out of the watery mud pits. We were not deterred as we courageously approached and scaled the 5 - 7 foot walls or dove beneath or through the gaps in the other wooden barricades. We were warriors and nothing faced would fell us this day.
Leaving the valley for the single track trails lead us to the hopping logs. Logs no more than 3 - 4 inches in width were standing upright in the ground. I watched as others ran across without touching the ground, or fell in mid flight to the pain waiting below. I would not fall this day. I would be victorious. I would.... fall off the third log and, with, the command "Burpees" bellowed from behind, hit the ground for a annoying, painstaking 30... maybe 30... I think 30, crap now I lost count... and 30.
Let's hope there'll be no more of those, thank you very much.
Back into the trails and our enemies assailed us with all manner of fiendish torment, but it did not stop our attack, our momentum, our... our... god, I'm tired... our desire to succeed where others have failed. Monkey bars. Beaten. Muddy trails. Defeated. Weighted pulley, uh... pulled. Steep climbs. Laughter rose up from within us. It's either laughter or tears and there's no crying in Sparta. Whimpering, bitching, and complaining, but no crying.
Across hills slick with the sweat and blood from Spartans before us, we fought. Through waters befouled with pain and torment and mud, we endured. In and out of harrowing, steep, root and stone strewn trails which grabbed at our feet and sought to pull us down deep into a cold, dark death, or off into the forest with sticks and branches and thorns that cause ouchies on your skin and leave holes in your spandex-clad behind, we strode. Over cargo nets meant to ensnare weary warriors, we climbed, and, atop the mighty precipice, we witnessed the masses below heralding their brave warriors with chants of "cold beer waiting." Off the nets and down the hill we charged to be met with another wall. Across this wall we clawed, like Spartan Spiders. Those who waited for the failing chanted "Burpees, burpees!" but their apetite for pain would not be satiated today. We did not fall.
Up and down the hills we went again, burdened like Sisyphus, but with sand and bags, not rock; but, unlike he who fell time and again, we remained unfazed, unrelenting, untiring, unfallen. We scaled the hill once more and re-entered the trails to make our final assault on the Field of Obstacles.
Burpees littered the battlefield. Spartan Warriors lay sprawled throughout. Today's battle was taking its toll. With fire in our eyes and smoke in our lungs and a burning in our loins, we assailed the field with energy anew. Hand over hand we climbed the ropes to its pinnacle. The bell was rung, a death knell not for us but for the course. Back into the mud pits we went, but its grasp could not detain us. Over the hay bales and walls we scaled, and they did not lessen our stride... made us fall on our Spartan arses, but our stride was regained. Many cast weapons that missed its mark, but this was not for us, as we grasped the javelin and, like Peltasts of old, hurled true. Die vile hay bale! Your pointy itchiness shall never bother us again as you feel the wrath of Spartan fury!
Our contingent marched on undaunted by the remaining tasks ahead. The scent of victory lingered in the air as we came closer and closer to the finish line. Although beset by the final obstacles, we made it this far and would not die this day. With prowess the 8 - 10 foot walls were hurdled. With fleetness of foot the stone and chain were dragged o'er the dirt. With might Herculean the tractor tire was flipped! Twice! Diving under the barbed wire we rolled and crawled and climbed and bled through the final sticky, muddy obstacle in the field.
A final frenzied dash through a burning maelstrom, down a hill, over a barricade, and through the jousters, we weekend warriors crossed the finish line. The taste of victory was muddy and salty and a little gritty... but sweet!
Now bring us our free beer, our accolades, and our bitches. Bitches love Spartans!
The Master completed his rousing speech with many an "AROO!" from the warriors who, clad in their finest battle spandex, were ready to be unleashed, ready to be unchained, ready for what lay ahead. The trumpets blared and, as smoke rose from the very pits of Hell itself (or from those smoke bombs they just threw), we 300 began our journey, to live or to die, to come back with our shields or on them.... or, on a medical gurney, or maybe on crutches, and possibly with an ice pack, or some band-aids for boo-boos.
The beginning of the battle took its toll on seasoned and virgin warriors alike as we mounted the first steep, slick hill. Many courageous souls had already fallen away from the phalanx as their muscles seized and their lungs burned, or they had fallen down because it was very, very slippery in some spots and they should be more careful. We, who did not bow to the hill, soldiered on with a roar and entered the fields of obstacle glory. From our vantage point we had an unobstructed view of the carnage that lay ahead. Warriors young and old, male and female, fully clothed and half naked, were engaged in battle with walls and ropes and mud and fire and spears and other stuff.
We entered the valley and quickly made our way in and out of the watery mud pits. We were not deterred as we courageously approached and scaled the 5 - 7 foot walls or dove beneath or through the gaps in the other wooden barricades. We were warriors and nothing faced would fell us this day.
Leaving the valley for the single track trails lead us to the hopping logs. Logs no more than 3 - 4 inches in width were standing upright in the ground. I watched as others ran across without touching the ground, or fell in mid flight to the pain waiting below. I would not fall this day. I would be victorious. I would.... fall off the third log and, with, the command "Burpees" bellowed from behind, hit the ground for a annoying, painstaking 30... maybe 30... I think 30, crap now I lost count... and 30.
Let's hope there'll be no more of those, thank you very much.
Back into the trails and our enemies assailed us with all manner of fiendish torment, but it did not stop our attack, our momentum, our... our... god, I'm tired... our desire to succeed where others have failed. Monkey bars. Beaten. Muddy trails. Defeated. Weighted pulley, uh... pulled. Steep climbs. Laughter rose up from within us. It's either laughter or tears and there's no crying in Sparta. Whimpering, bitching, and complaining, but no crying.
Across hills slick with the sweat and blood from Spartans before us, we fought. Through waters befouled with pain and torment and mud, we endured. In and out of harrowing, steep, root and stone strewn trails which grabbed at our feet and sought to pull us down deep into a cold, dark death, or off into the forest with sticks and branches and thorns that cause ouchies on your skin and leave holes in your spandex-clad behind, we strode. Over cargo nets meant to ensnare weary warriors, we climbed, and, atop the mighty precipice, we witnessed the masses below heralding their brave warriors with chants of "cold beer waiting." Off the nets and down the hill we charged to be met with another wall. Across this wall we clawed, like Spartan Spiders. Those who waited for the failing chanted "Burpees, burpees!" but their apetite for pain would not be satiated today. We did not fall.
Up and down the hills we went again, burdened like Sisyphus, but with sand and bags, not rock; but, unlike he who fell time and again, we remained unfazed, unrelenting, untiring, unfallen. We scaled the hill once more and re-entered the trails to make our final assault on the Field of Obstacles.
Burpees littered the battlefield. Spartan Warriors lay sprawled throughout. Today's battle was taking its toll. With fire in our eyes and smoke in our lungs and a burning in our loins, we assailed the field with energy anew. Hand over hand we climbed the ropes to its pinnacle. The bell was rung, a death knell not for us but for the course. Back into the mud pits we went, but its grasp could not detain us. Over the hay bales and walls we scaled, and they did not lessen our stride... made us fall on our Spartan arses, but our stride was regained. Many cast weapons that missed its mark, but this was not for us, as we grasped the javelin and, like Peltasts of old, hurled true. Die vile hay bale! Your pointy itchiness shall never bother us again as you feel the wrath of Spartan fury!
Our contingent marched on undaunted by the remaining tasks ahead. The scent of victory lingered in the air as we came closer and closer to the finish line. Although beset by the final obstacles, we made it this far and would not die this day. With prowess the 8 - 10 foot walls were hurdled. With fleetness of foot the stone and chain were dragged o'er the dirt. With might Herculean the tractor tire was flipped! Twice! Diving under the barbed wire we rolled and crawled and climbed and bled through the final sticky, muddy obstacle in the field.A final frenzied dash through a burning maelstrom, down a hill, over a barricade, and through the jousters, we weekend warriors crossed the finish line. The taste of victory was muddy and salty and a little gritty... but sweet!
Now bring us our free beer, our accolades, and our bitches. Bitches love Spartans!
Final standing for the Sunday Sprint - Total Racers = 3644
