Tough Mudderfuckers!

Fierce look of determination before entering the starting gates.
Militant father taking picture and dispensing Ranger pep talk.

Two weeks ago, I took a jester's fall down a rocky hill while doing my 10-mile trail run and BAM!...busted my foot so badly I landed myself on a pair of crutches for a week and was still rehabbing my foot in the hotel pool less than 12 hours before my Tough Mudder start time. I had no idea if I would be able to run on it or if I would even make it through the first mile much less the entire race. However, there was absolutely no way I was going to pussy out on the one race I've been dying to do all year, and damn it, I was determined to earn my orange headband even if it meant hopping across the finish line on one foot. And, of course, my Army Ranger father was there to cheer me on in his own special way. Thirty seconds before I entered the start gates, he dropped this fatherly piece of encouragement, "Shit, Babe, either you finish this race in victory, or you don't come back at all."

I may look five years older after
running the Mudder,
but I got my headband, bitches!


No pressure, right?

But, all that drama doesn't even matter because as of Sunday, I am officially a Tough Mudder finisher. Hoo-ah! (And, as a bonus, I still have both my feet, in tact, that is.)

For those of you who are Mudder Virgins, the Tough Mudder Virginia is a 9+-mile race with 27 obstacles all strategically placed throughout a Hellish course at the Wintergreen Ski Resort. Truly, you couldn't have had a more scenic race...I mean the views from those mountains were spectacular. Sadly, though, after you've death marched up six or so ski slopes, there was a whole lot more taking your breath away than the scenery below. The Tough Mudder claims to be the toughest event on the planet, and I would wager it makes most races look like a pussy walk. The most I can say is it's the most physically challenging course I've run yet, which in my book, makes it the most awesome. I mean, seriously, how many races require you to purchase life insurance before you can complete registration. Really?!? That's a bit bad ass, I would say.

Soooo pretty. Until you climb them for three hours. : )

I've run just about all the adventure races they've had here in the DC area, but this one, by far, gave me the biggest ass kicking of them all. Literally. I have the cuts, scratches and soft-ball sized black and blue bruises to prove it, and I'm not entirely sure I've regained the full use of my muscles yet. God knows it feels like I got beat down by a wayward throng of man boys in assless hot pink jockstraps. (Much love to that team! Definitely the hottest things out there next to my husband...who rocked the Mudder in 2 hrs and 15 minutes, by the way, and then spent the next two hours helping fellow mudders scale Everest.)

Lots of balls here. Lots of balls.

I can tell you this...I grossly underestimated this race. There is absolutely nothing you can physically do to prepare for it except maybe bathing in a tub of ice and piss water and then finding the tallest, steepest ski slope in the area and running up and down the damn thing at least six times every morning. Then...just maybe...then you might be prepared for the pain you'll feel after you've run this race.

The thing about the Tough Mudder that truly makes it the craziest frickin' race on Earth is my story is just one of thousands. Tough Mudders push on no matter what stands in their way. They don't cower in the face of adversity; they overcome it. They don't leave a fellow mudder drowning in their own vomit; they pick them up and run with them on their backs. They don't whine about their pain; they sing about it and ask for more. They don't spit sweat; they swallow fear and breathe the very fire that propels them forward. They are fighters. And, mentally, they bring it---that is, the fierce determination to challenge themselves to finish.



INCOMING!!!!!
I slide like I drive apparently...

The Tough Mudder taught me many things Sunday. I learned the difference between an expert slope and a bunny slope and that by the end of the race, even the smallest slope starts to resemble something straight out of the gates of Hell (and seriously, you stop counting after the first three Death Marches anyway). I learned even though my foot was throbbing by mile 5 and so swollen after the race I could barely get my shoe off, it would feel brand new the next morning compared to all the other sore parts of my body. I learned I really don't like ice in my water, but I can appreciate the health benefits of freezing my nipples off after diving into an ice pool. I learned the only difference between a 12-foot wall and an 8-foot wall is whether there is a 6-foot tall man somewhere nearby to hoist you up to the ledge. I learned it is easier to carry a log over my shoulders rather than under my arm, and that, yes, it is totally bad ass to run with said log.

My oiled-down nemesis...Everest!

I learned what it's like to collide with a 200-pound man while playing slip 'n slide. I learned the time passes much faster when you crawl through tunnels behind a man in nothing but suspenders and jockeys with his left ass cheek poking through a tear. I learned to run on with pride when my own ass is hanging out of the holes in my pants. I learned I can hit my ankle on rocks at least 20 times before the bruises turn black. I learned to love the cold spray of a fire hose, especially when it is hitting you directly in the face while you're suspended 15 feet in the air...on a vibrating cargo net.

Running up to get electrocuted and then the finish line.
Whoop! Whoop! These are the moments when I just
love my man legs. I knew all those squats and jumps
would come in handy... 

I learned there is nothing more perfect than coming up over a hill and seeing my husband's face one mile before the finish line and knowing I've got this thing made. I learned that oil, like any good lube, can turn a good time into something freakishly memorable, especially when there are at least fifteen shirtless guys on top. I learned what it's like to be a firefighter...who was dumb enough to enter a burning building without a mask. I learned the value of electroshock therapy...it helps you cross the finish with a little extra kick in your step.

But, most of all, I learned what I think I already knew...that I am totally and completely addicted to a good 'ole fashioned, gut-wrenching, mud-sloshing, mind-boggling challenge. And, that I am just crazy enough to want to do it again. And again. And, what the Hell, again.

Tough Mudder Finisher 2021

So, to all my Tough Mudderfuckers out there...I'll see YOU next spring for another round of totally Hellish awesomeness. Hoo-ah!
__________________________

A special shout out to the runners who acted as my temporary team since I didn't come with my own and helped me over the 8 footers and 12 footer and helped me out of the ice bath when my muscles stopped responding to my brain's commands. Couldn't have done it without you.


Tough Mudder Virginia at the Wintergreen Ski Resort

The Hoo-Yah Sisterhood

I’ve always had a certain respect for the military. Growing up with a die-hard Army ranger dad and a long line of obscenely proud military officers in the family will do that to you. My father, I can tell you, is not your average dad, and though I may have missed out on some of those father-daughter moments I see Rick having with our daughter, I think my father successfully instilled in me a warrior spirit that has carried me through much of my life and still burns quite strong today.

My father was stationed in Panama in the 1980s. I was barely nine years old when Operation Just Cause erupted, and it was then that I truly began to understand what it means to have another person protect your freedom on a simple vow of honor, determination and brotherhood.  I suppose you don’t understand a lot about life at nine, but you know enough to appreciate the fact that the only thing standing between you and a pissed off army of jungle rebels armed with machetes and automatic weapons is a line of young soldiers just outside your back door.

I remember the very day temporary barracks were set up in empty military housing across the street from our base quarters. I sat on the curb and watched as the soldiers moved in, hauling weapons, helmets and gear I had seen all my life but had never really cared about until I saw it gripped in the hands of the soldiers who would soon use it to defend our base. The other kids cowered behind our family car, too afraid to be seen openly gawking at the new arrivals in the neighborhood. I, however, found myself completely infatuated with all the soldiers who lived there and immediately decided, shy or not, I was going to hang out across the street as much as possible.

And, so every day, I spent hours sitting in the Humvee, walking around with the soldiers’ too-big helmets on my head, watching them do PT or bringing them banana bread I learned how to bake just so I would have a reason to visit again. They, in turn, taught me about teamwork and brotherhood, ferocity and determination, bravery and dedication, adventure and the balls you need to seek it out.

So, when the mortars finally started falling and the house was shaking in the dark and the windows lit up with the sparks of war and all I could hear were the yells of men muffled by the metallic rat-a-tat-tats of gunfire in our backyard, I took comfort knowing those soldiers I had met were there standing strong and ready to do whatever it took to keep us safe.

And, they did.

I suppose that’s one reason I traded up regular old road races for adventure races. There’s nothing like working together as a team to get through any challenge facing you, and it reminds me so much of what I learned as a naive nine year old eagerly soaking up everything I saw on a military base in a hostile war zone. It’s the same spirit the military instills in its soldiers. It’s all about teamwork and brotherhood.

For me, it’s all about sisterhood. And, when I discovered The Big Hoo Yah back in August, I was determined to run it. So, I recruited two amazing women who I knew had that warrior spirit in them and would never back down from a challenge no matter how hard it tried to beat them down. Jackie and Karen joined me to form the Warrior Princesses and together we spent last Saturday showing The Big Hoo Yah what girls are really made of…and believe me, it’s definitely not sugar and spice.

The Big Hoo Yah is a Navy Seal designed adventure course with more than six miles of obstacles, most of which can only be completed with teamwork.

I have to give these two ladies major props. First, signing up to do anything with me is usually a sign of temporary insanity. My idea of fun tends to include words like adrenaline, danger, sweat, discomfort and sometimes even temporary stupidity. Second, I gave them one month to prepare for the biggest race they had ever encountered. Not exactly a lot of prep time, particularly for moms of new babies!

Here’s the thing though…women are a tough sort. We’ve got that tough chick persona in us, but it’s often buried under all this other fluff we use during our day-to-day lives. But, if you really challenge a woman to step outside her comfort zone and bring the rain…she will rise to that challenge and dominate whatever you throw at her… mud, grit, grime and all. And, I have to say, Jackie and Karen not only let loose their warrior spirit, but they dealt a major ass whooping to a race most people would avoid at all costs.

And, honestly, I couldn’t have picked two more awesomely perfect teammates (and friends). It was truly a privilege to get “intimate” with them as we battled through those 20-some obstacles.

A team is all about supporting each other and working together to make it through whatever gauntlet is thrown at your feet, and we did just that. The race started out mild enough…just several miles of rocky hills---that would have easily broken the faint hearted---mixed in with a healthy dose of bear crawls, low crawls, tires, trivia and even a brief sprint carrying one lucky teammate.

Then, the fun really started…

We had to work together to climb over drain pipes, roll a haystack down a field and back (and, if you have never had the opportunity to do this, I would not recommend it anytime soon.), move rocks, walk a balance beam without falling off, climb walls and jump over and under wood beams.

And, in truly Navy Seal style, there was the mud and water. There is nothing like swimming out into a cold lake as a unit…literally…then filling a 55-gallon barrel with water from said lake, which just happens to be sitting at the bottom of a hill. Can you say Jello legs three times without vomiting?

Of course, there was a mud pit, more walls, a sled pull, rope climb, sandbags, hot Navy Seals in pink shirts and paintballs. (To the sniper who nailed me in the right nipple. Thanks. I don’t really need two nipples. I can do just fine with one. Hoo-yah!)

But in all seriousness, there was nothing more satisfying than to cross the finish line with my teammates' hands clutched in mine, raised in victory.

Clearly, finishing The Big Hoo Yah does not put a racer in the same caliber as the Navy Seals or the Army Rangers. However, it gives you a glimpse into what you can do if you dig deep, embrace the pain and run beside your friends. Imagine what women could do if they followed that mantra every day of their lives. We’d have an awful lot of tough, cool chicks walking around, huh?

And, I think that definitely calls for one BIG “hoo-yah”!

The Day Irene Kicked My Ass

Dearest Irene,

I laughed at all the people in my area scurrying about Friday night in preparation for your imminent arrival. As guests go, you are one unmanageable bitch, and Northern Virginians were ready to placate you by any means necessary.

I, however, was having no part of it.

I don't mind unexpected guests as long as they understand I won't be serving a feast or setting out hotel-quality towels. Poor timing gets you nowhere in my world. So, I refused to stock up on milk, eggs and toilet paper, which by the way, are the most ridiculous items to hoard during a hurricane. I neglected to tie down my deck furniture, and I stopped watching the news where the next Anderson Cooper wannabe was reporting live totally unaware he was knee deep in sewage overflow not sea foam. Instead, I downed three glasses of water in your honor, set out my running shoes and eagerly awaited your arrival.

WTTG-TV reporter Tucker Barnes, you are either an idiot
or a PR genius. I hope the shit storm you bathed in was worth it,
and you get your own show after this hot mess
circulates the Internet.

You see, I grew up in Panama, and minor hurricanes in the tropics are the type of things you just get used to. I was just too young to really enjoy their potential for mud-sloshing fun. When Hurricane Isabel hit Virginia in 2003, I was newly pregnant and once again missed out on an opportunity to be adventurous and brave her wrath. So, this extreme weather junkie was not going to pass up the challenge of testing whatever insanity you planned for our state.

The thing is you were downgraded to a Category 1 hours before hitting Virginia, and I just figured my little adventure would turn out to be rather anticlimactic. Regardless, I laced up my trail shoes early this morning and headed out to the woods in the wind and relentless rain to see what you had to offer in the way of adrenaline rushes.

Let me tell you...running in a hurricane, no matter the size, is no joke.

Thanks, Irene, for bitch-smacking me again and again over eight miles of vomit-inducing adventure. I quite enjoyed sliding down the mud-engulfed hills and nearly breaking my ankle twice. And, there's nothing like jumping over and crawling under fallen trees while simultaneously doing the duck and cover every time I heard a crick, creak or crack from above. The flying tree bark was extra special, and I will savor every bruise and scratch from the ones that actually met their mark and hit me in the head. Thanks for limiting the head beatings to bark; I'm not sure how well tree limbs would have gone over.

In short, Irene, those hours alone with you kicked my ass, which I quickly realized as I humbly crawled back to the car dead tired but filled with a certain elation I can't even begin to describe on paper. It's just one of those awe-inspiring moments I may just have to keep to myself. I will tell you this...Irene is one big bitch, but I guess this proves I can handle the major ass kicking bitches dish out.

So, let me be clear, Irene...thank you for teaching me a stiff lesson today in humility and respect. I would like to say I learned it well enough to avoid your cousins should one decide to visit our woods in the future, but the truth is, I'm stupidly addicted to a little bit of danger and suspense, and so I WILL run with the winds again...I just won't laugh about it next time.

Hoo-ah,

Mary

(DISCLAIMER: Before you send me hate mail about my apparent disregard for the destruction and devastation Hurricane Irene wreaked on nearly every populated area along the coast, please understand my lax attitude toward her fury was only acceptable because I live far enough away from the coast to avoid what could have been a horrible disaster. Much love to all those who are rebuilding and regrouping after the big bitch blew through your neck of the woods.)

Inward Bound

My definition of a perfect date is probably a bit different than most. I spent last Sunday morning in the middle of the woods with my husband....running. I know it would be a whole lot more interesting to tell you we had some secret, sexy rendezvous that involved lots of rolling in leaves and poison ivy and running butt naked into the lake, but, ahem, not every day in our household can be THAT exciting. C'mon now. Let's be real.

I have to tell you, though, there's something about being out in the middle of nature that revives me in a way nothing else can and being alone with my husband was just a bonus. Clearly, I can't run at his pace, so I had a few hours to myself, and I couldn't help but think about one of the most life-changing experiences in my life.

When I was sixteen, I signed up for a 33-day survival course through the Colorado Outward Bound School. I had seen an advertisement for it in a magazine four years earlier, and I remember telling myself I would do this one day. Sixteen was a hard age for me. I was dealing with my parents' divorce, their new flames, a sinking suspicion I was on my own while the family regrouped and on top of it all, I was trying to figure out how to exorcise my own self-esteem-eating demons in a high school full of teenagers who were anything but forgiving.

Needless to say, I needed a change. I had just seen the musical Rent, and I was high on that live life to the fullest mantra the play preaches, and this was my opportunity to really give it a go. This was about doing something no one else wanted me to do, something no one else thought I could finish, something I needed to do for myself to prove I could make it through any challenge thrown at my feet. This was about finding my boundaries and crossing them with my arms in the air and my middle fingers raised in salute to all the naysayers in my life.

I was ready to get down and dirty in the muck of my life, grab hold of everything I had and say, man, this is what I want out of you. This is what you're capable of.

And, at some point during those 33 days out in the middle of nowhere surrounded by mountains and lakes and rivers and canyons, I did just that and came home stronger and more self-confident. It was in Colorado that I really discovered what I was made of. I realized I had some serious balls, and I fast became addicted to that adrenaline rush you get when you do something really kick ass, totally insane and completely out of your comfort zone.

You see, when you take yourself away from the expectations of society, it's as if your mirror unfogs for the first time, and you see yourself in a whole new way. You borrow a sense of peace that seems to resonate in nature. Everything out there just clicks. There's no resistance and no competition. You just exist.

Every morning out there was the same. As the Earth itself seemed to wake up ready to embark on a new day, I would wake up to the sound of the birds chit-chatting across the trees and the crinkle-crackle of the leaves as the animals stirred under the first rays of the morning sun. I would breathe in the crisp, clean mountain air that tasted faintly of moss and ash, and I would prepare for another challenge that would test my limits.

It wasn't until the last leg of the trip that I had my own small awakening amid all this magic. We had divided into groups of seven, and we were left alone with our packs, one bottle of water each and the challenge to hike a canyon and make it to our ride home. Those few days alone were the hardest of the entire course. The sun beat down on the red canyon and literally boiled our very skin and melted our sunscreen. The water ran low and soon ran out, and the map's water sources were all dried up except for one sink-sized hole filled with sludgy brown water and some sort of swimming creatures I really didn't want to drink but was too desperate to really think about it. We were tired, sore and frustrated when we finally decided to lay camp for the night only to find our perfect camp spot filled with pissed-off rattlesnakes. It was the rattlesnakes that finally broke the seam on a group filled with hairline cracks. And, it was in that moment when everything seemed to fall apart that I found my voice and brought us all back together and gave our group the motivation to push on and finish strong. It was right there that I had my first taste of what it was like to empower others to test their limits and cultivate their inner beast. As if finding my own inner tough chick on this trip wasn't enough, I now wanted to inspire others to find theirs.

Fourteen years later, and I'm still hooked. Although Virginia trails hardly compare to the trails I hiked in Colorado, the feeling is still there. Running the trails empowers me to be stronger, work harder and never underestimate what I'm capable of. Out here in the middle of nowhere in particular, I feel as strong as the very trees that surround me; it's as if my roots dig deep into the dirt and spread out like fingertips grasping for something beautiful that sits just on the cusp of their reach, just close enough that the possibility exists of one day holding it. This is the feeling I knew I missed but didn't realize I needed until I returned to the trails.

Those Colorado mountains have been calling my name since I left them fourteen years ago heavy hearted and full of a longing I can only describe as a soul-ripping passion you feel when it's very dark and late and you're with that one person you can't be without. It's about time I take my life off call waiting and answer them. It just may turn out to be the best conversation I've ever had with myself.

_________________________________

For more information about Outward Bound, visit their site:
http://www.outwardbound.org/

To the Land of Bikini and Back

Whoa! It's been two weeks since I've posted here; is the world ending? Was I swallowed up by a giant sea squid or imprisoned for being way too brash? Better question: have you missed me and my weekly blabber gabber I send out to the Never-Neverlands of the cyber world?

My crazy, happy, beautiful brood.

Well, I missed you, and I want you to know I didn't abandon my post here. I've just been soaking up some rays at the Outer Banks, which was a much-needed respite from the daily grind. Change is always a good thing, particularly when the days are so stock-full of errands and appointments you forget when the week started and when it ended.

Don't think, though, I was there purely for fun and play. You see, I was in the trenches, my friends. I was getting down and dirty and sandy (and a little bit salty, I must say) on the very frontlines of a simmering battle between what should be and what is. I was a torch-bearing, ass-kickin' rebel leading the charge in the Bikini Revolution.

And, yes, yes, YES!, I donned my very first bikini in twelve years. Can I get a Whoop! Whoop!

Sadly, prior to my recent bikini phenomenon, I had only modeled a two-piece twice in my entire life. The first time really doesn't count as I was about three years old. The second time I was in college and on a very private beach with my younger brother, Mark, who I have to say was my champion that trip and made me feel like I could pull it off. I never thanked him for that, but looking back, I really appreciated his unwavering confidence in me because I certainly had not found mine yet.

Chillin' on the shore with my sexy man.

Fast forward roughly 12 years, and here I am, a 30-year-old mother of three with a size 8 body (still under toning construction, I might add) and the pouchy remnants of three c-sections and perhaps a few more dimpled parts than I'd had in college...and of course, my crowning glory, my boobs, which have endured three booby feeders, the third of which is still clinging on like a monkey high on ripe bananas. You do the math and figure how that equates to major, jaw-dropping droopage.

The point I'm making, though a little roughly, is I am not perfect and definitely not a poster girl for society's ideal bikini bod. Really, though, most women will never meet society's expectations of what we should look like, which is why it is so important for me to stand up for the average woman (Who is not a size 2, by the way! Didn't you ever notice the only sizes left on the racks are size 2 and extra small?)

Regardless of my bikini anxiety, I had committed to wearing a bikini this summer, and I was not backing out of my promise. The truth is I needed to overcome my fear of the two-piece in order to fully accept my body the way it is and to be comfortable in my own skin. And, I wanted to do more than run my mouth about how we as strong, independent women need to stand up to society and say "enough!" I needed to take some action. So what if I am only one woman and one bikini. Perhaps I influenced some other women on the beach last week to take the plunge, embrace their curves and flaunt some skin. I mean, come on, if I can do it, anyone can.

Look, I have four legs!
You know you love my meaty
drumsticks, right?

So, I packed in my suitcase two bikinis, and I added my leftover bikini from 12 years ago to my supply just for good measure. I packed no other swimwear other than a rash guard in case the kids wanted to ride on my back in the pool (Irish skin, man. I burn like a mother!). I gave myself no outs, no excuses and nowhere to run except the naked road. And, my husband had already put the brakes on that particular avenue. Such a prude, Rick. Such a prude.

I have to tell you, I was extremely self conscious the first day at the beach. No lie. I had a brief moment where I set foot on the sand in my new bikini, and I wanted to dig a hole and bury myself in it so deep no one could see the monstrosity underneath, and I planned to wait right there, snug in my little hole until Rick brought me a cover up. I swear I felt like every eyeball on the beach was trained on my not-so-perfect body, and every mouth attached to that eyeball was either laughing or cringing in a not-so-encouraging manner. I felt like the carnival freak show had come to town, and I was its opening act.

The money shot.
See...not the ideal, but damn it
was nice to feel free! 

Five seconds later...my little self-conscious girl moment had passed, and I no longer gave a shit. I raised my chin, walked out onto that beach and strutted my stuff in front of the entire Corolla population. Take THAT, society! And, the funny thing is, once I got passed those first few moments before I took the plunge into the land of bikini, I felt like a new woman...liberated and strong, confident and sexy, and I really just didn't care what anyone thought. I was comfortable; I was happy; I felt amazing; and in that moment of what the New York Times called the "come-to-Jesus" moment, I became the "good-attitude girl" and fell head over heels in love with my bikini.

For those of you snickering right now and thinking, good for you, Mary, but you won't catch me in a bikini this summer, here's the cold, hard truth.

My girl in her bitsy bikini.
Totally too big for her, but hey,
she's got time.

No one was looking at me. No one cared. I had entered the mecca of the bikini universe, and I was just one more semi-naked body in a sea of self-loving women.

Apparently, I am a little late to join ranks in the Bikini Revolution. It's been going on right under my nose, and I never sniffed it out. There were bikini babes of all shapes, sizes and ages running around the beach that week, and no one seemed to care what was hanging out or in some cases, not hanging out of their two piece. Grandmas, mommies, teens and even little girls rocked bikinis...on the beaches, at the pools, up and down the streets and even in the grocery store. It was like women's liberation had laid claim to the Outer Banks, and these women were going to do what they wanted to do whether or not they fit the ideal stereotype of the bikini bod.

Needless to say, I relished in it. I drank up the plethora of female confidence like a frosty margarita on a steaming hot day. It was refreshing. It was beautiful. It was heaven, and I took full advantage and cloud surfed this wave for the entire week and literally LIVED in my bikini.

So, there you have it. I followed through on my promise, and I overcame my fear of the dreaded bikini season. And, you know what, it wasn't so bad after all. I hope my little Emma appreciates what I did for her, and in the process, what I did for myself.

Rock on, ladies. The summer is just starting, and we have a looonnggg bikini season ahead of us. Saddle up, put on your big girl panties, and take the plunge into what may be uncharted waters for you...just make sure you've got that hot, sexy bikini on when you ride your first wave.
___________________

Got bikini on the brain? Read more articles about this topic on my Fresh Press page.

Raise Your Glass

If you put eight women together and throw in a whole lot of mud, a little bit of fire and the blind determination of a team to push through every obstacle regardless of the sweat, the pain or even the fear of possible failure...what do you get?

Absolute perfection.

Back in December, I mentioned I was running the Warrior Dash in May, a 5K on crack with miles of ankle to knee-deep mud and obstacles like walls, barbed wire and rope climbs. Although I didn't really expect anyone to take the bait, I was hoping perhaps I would be able to scrape together a team of women willing to step out of their comfort zone and try something totally new and totally insane.

I had run muddy obstacle races before, so I knew what I was getting into. However, for someone who has never done one, I realize it can be rather intimidating. So, I was shocked when not one but seven women jumped on board the warrior wagon and blindly signed up for their first mud race and became team Dirty Little Freaks. 

You could tell as May crept closer and closer, the ladies were beginning to worry, and I started to hear comments like "Mary, just leave me behind."; "I don't want to hold you back."; "I'll probably die on the first obstacle."; "You may have to carry me."; "OMG! What are we doing?"; "I'm really scared." and my personal favorite, "YIKES!". And, I started to wonder if I would even have a team come May 22, especially after the Run Amuck disaster two years ago when all six of my teammates backed out race day, and I ended up running solo.

So, when I arrived at Budd's Creek in Maryland on Sunday and joined the thousands of warriors checking in for the race, I cannot express how relieved I was when my phone started to ring with one call after another until I knew all seven of my warriors had survived the two-hour trek and arrived ready to get dirty.

At 11:30 sharp, with shoelaces triple knotted and our team shirts glistening in the spring sun, team Dirty Little Freaks crossed the start line amid a flurry of nervous energy and surging adrenaline. I looked over my shoulder as we neared the opening to the trail and our first sign of mud and saw a line of strong, determined women in hot pink shirts boldly running forward, ready for whatever obstacle this race would throw at their feet. I knew in that moment these women had finally embraced that warrior spirit I had seen simmering in them all along and that no matter what they faced on this 3.11-mile course, this race was going down and these tough chicks were going to show the world what they were made of.

And, show the world they did. I saw these women maneuver through mud so thick and deep it threatened to eat your shoes right off your feet, trudge up steep hills, leap over fire, pull their muddy bodies up and over walls and under barbed wire, through dark tunnels and up a two-story cargo net. I saw them conquer the half-way point when you start to get stitches in your sides and feel like you might just hurl if you face one more hill. I saw them eat dirt and spit mud-stained sweat. And, as we rounded the bend where hundreds of spectators waited at the finish line with the band playing Pink's Raise Your Glass and the last mud pit waiting, I knew my team had not only survived the Warrior Dash and finished, they had conquered it.

I have to tell you, though, the most amazing part for me was watching the transformation in my seven teammates. You could see it all over their faces, etched deep into the mud and sand and grit. You could see it in their newfound swagger as they walked away from the finish line dripping with foul-smelling mud, their shoes sloshing against the dirt. You could hear it in their voices as they discussed their next race. Somewhere along this six-month journey that led them to this very moment, these women had discovered their inner warrior, and these tough chicks weren't turning back.

So, raise your glass to my tough, strong, hot Dirty Little Freaks! And, I'll see YOU on October 1 for the next Warrior Dash. 

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Want more pictures of team Dirty Little Freaks? Check out this link to access our full album of totally awesome insanity!

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.1890080544135.2104563.1605147158

Hellloooo, Out There in the Vast, Overcrowded World of Bloggers....

Yep, I am now officially a blogger. After months of listening to my husband tell me I should do this, I am finally taking the plunge. Why now, you ask? Well, I have a feisty 1-year-old daughter who mimics everything I do, and I guess I feel this sense of urgency to show her how to be a cool, confident, HAPPY woman, and I really can't do that unless I can walk the walk, right? So, here I am. I'm putting it all out there, and challenging myself to be authentic, to embrace what I got and what I can be with a little hard work. Impossibly simple, right? Ha! All I can say is...this should be fun. And, seriously, after hanging out with me on this crazy, perfect adventure I hope some of you ladies out there in this vast world of blogging will perhaps feel a little more empowered by the woman you are the next time you look at yourself in the mirror. Now, THAT sounds pretty damn perfect 2 me.