So here I was…
Standing at the start of my first Spartan Race Sprint. Almost 2 hours of driving and 2 hours after parking at the venue (another article will treat Spartan Race being victims of their own success). My legs and arms were tickling, I was really excited but anxious.
Fortunately, there were people close to me, with me. My wife was there on the side line, taking pictures. Her boss was doing the race with me. We decided to stand on the back of the line of our wave, just because we really didn’t know if we were fit enough to do that. We also agreed to wait for each other, for the same reasons.
And then the chanting started “Aroo, Aroo, Aroo…”. Finally the countdown “… 5-4-3-2-1.. GO!”
I really didn’t know what to expect…
Finally, the finish line…And THAT feeling: this indescribable mix of calmness, zen and ironically, excitement rushing through your whole body. This chemically injected combo of emotions: pride, power, serenity and joy flowing through your veins. Most of all, I was absolutely sure of one thing as they put the medal around my neck: I was hooked, addicted. “They” had me.
As I was waiting in line to get the dirt off of me with a nice, cold shower, I felt like I could do 20 of those races, back to back, right now. I also knew that I had found right there, in these muddy pits, my motivation to get in better shape, take control of what I eat and push myself to my own limits. I did a lot of snowboarding and skateboarding in my teen but this was, finally, the precise extreme sports I was looking for to ease this desire to always bring it to the next level.
As soon as I got back home, I started to search on what exactly this whole thing was all about. I devoured the Spartan Race origin’s eBook. I subscribed to all the Facebook groups related to this subject I could find. I added a new folder named “OCR” in my browser to put all these websites as well. I had a goal and a plan now, fitness wise. I immediately booked the next and closest venue: Warrior Dash, in New Hampshire, September 15th 2012.
Even though it meant driving almost 4 hours and sleeping over there in a shitty motel room, I had to do another one before the end of the summer.
I had now found my definition in the sports universe (kind of surprising for a geek like me): I was not a runner, neither a trail runner. I was definitely not a crossfiter, a gym rat, or an ultra marathoner. I was all of that but none of that.
I was an Obstacle Course Racer.
