Men’s Health Survival of the Fittest: mud, sweat, tears – and beers
I read an article in the New Yorker which said that while runners have a healthy set of lungs, they tend to have the upper body strength of Keira Knightley. It is all I can think about while struggling to haul myself over a hay bale that is just below shoulder height: I am Keira Knightley. This is the problem.
The many strapping gym-bunnies effortlessly leapfrogging the obstacle don’t quite adhere to my Knightley analogy, however. A good thing, I realise, as one kind, muscular soul takes pity and shoves me up and on to the first hurdle. “Thanks!” I manage to yelp as I’m sent flying through a cloud of hay in a very unleading-lady-like manner.
I’m at Wembley stadium taking part in the last leg of this year’s Men’s Health Survival of the Fittest series, a programme of 10k military-style obstacle courses that take place in various UK cities every year. Organised by Rat Race Adventure Sports, the big dogs when it comes to large-scale adventure races, the popularity of such events has rocketed in recent years. Since the first Survival of the Fittest in Nottingham in 2008, some 100,000 people have taken part. This year’s series alone had a record-breaking 23,900 participants (up from 1,000 in year one). I was keen to see what all the fuss was about.
Having cottoned on that these tests of “stamina, grit, speed and guts” are best attempted with a little help from your friends, I’d tried to recruit the toughest, most united of my comrades to Team Vicky. Unfortunately, they weren’t available, so I was stuck with Daz, Lou and Mike, three mates from very different walks of life who had never met before.
Still, as we arrive early at the events’ village on an overcast yet mild November morning, everyone is making an effort at small talk. At least, until we get to the gates of the arena and become distracted by the boisterous crowd. It is as though a One Direction concert is taking place rather than an assault course, assuming your average Directioner was in their mid-20s-plus, whooped a lot and moved around in clusters distinguished by matching bandanas.
While the buzz is, undoubtedly, partly fuelled by the large beer tent (indeed, the unofficial slogan for the race is “mud, sweat and beers”), it is the competitors really driving the excitement. That includes those psyching themselves up for the challenge, and those who have already finished: soaked, muddy, bruised, some inexplicably topless – and all grinning ear-to-ear.
It is a good sign, because at £45-£75 a pop, depending on how early you register and team size, it is not the cheapest 10k. But then, of course, this giant adult playground is nothing like your usual 10k: it includes monkey bars, 8ft walls, icy water baths, mud runs, inflatables, a smoked-out disco pit and giant waterslide, to name a few. Let’s just say the organisers know how to keep things interesting, and upper body strength or no upper body strength, I’m determined to, er, survive it all. (To clarify, no one has ever not “survived”).
At the third obstacle – about 30 metal railings bundled together to create possibly the most awkward climbing frame ever – I’m forced to accept I’m not destined to survive, at least not unscathed. Thanks to my new, muscly friend from the hay bales, who comes crashing past like a rottweiler that’s been called for dinner, I slip, and end up in an extremely undignified position. It’s the first of many “ouches” I’m to mutter that day.
Still, I recover quickly. It’s hard not to when you’re being blasted with an oversized hose or pushed through a giant tractor tyre. Running around Wembley also helps to numb any pain. We are led up and down the stadium stairs, past the Bobby Moore statue and through the archway where my friend passed out at after a Justin Timberlake concert. Later, we run through an industrial area round the back, through a park and into the river Brent.
It is at about the point when Daz loses his footing on a muddy slope and morphs into a human bowling ball, striking out the whole team, that I realise this isn’t just fun. It’s really fun. As we lie giggling in the mud, I ponder when else you can crawl through dirt, run down a river, clamber on to the high-vis vested shoulders of an attendant or slide down the entrance to Wembley Arena on your front, as a grownup, without having someone call the authorities on you. A shame, really.
That is not to say we don’t each encounter difficulty. Daz’s trainers, it turns out, have as much grip as Kate Winslet at the end of Titanic, meaning he spends almost as much time on his arse as he does his feet; I manage to smash my kneecap with eye-watering force after getting too complacent; Mike discovers he is allergic to the washing-up liquid used on the giant water slide, and Lou has a little cry at the top of one of the walls.
Yet we pull it together, and by the last few kilometres are working as one beautifully synchronised unit. At the bottom of every wall, Mike and Daz amalgamate into a human ladder that Lou and I climb, before us girls attempt to help drag up Daz. We leave Mike to sort himself out, as it is clear by this point that he is the human equivalent of a kangaroo. Camaraderie at its best.
By the time we’ve cleared the final Men’s Health wall and crossed the finish line holding hands, it is as though we’ve all been mates for years. We’re beaming, high-fiving, hugging and excitedly reviewing our performance. One, I’d like to think, that even Keira Knightley would have been proud of.
• Vicky tweets @TravellerVicky.
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