I
have loved our three weeks in Northern Ireland. I really have. However, this
week contained a critical moment (more accurately, a critical two hours). It’s
funny in retrospect, but ‘fun’ would not have been an adjective used in the
moment.
One
of the highly touted events of our stay here was advertised as a Mud Run. The
friendly older Irish gentleman who owns the cottages held a 'Mud Run' a couple
weeks before we came. It sounded so like so much fun that he offered to
organize one just for our group--a unique Halloween activity. I like running. I
don’t mind getting dirty. I enjoy social fun runs. Madeline and I even ran a
half marathon last February, and have run together during our time here. I
looked forward to the Mud Run with great anticipation, envisioning some
obstacles, mud, and best of all, a warm shower afterwards. Little did I know
what was in store.
Stephanie,
Annie, and I suited up in our most expendable clothes, in case they were
irrevocably ruined by the mud. Predictably, Madeline (in retrospect, wisely)
chose not to participate, instead taking on the role of cheerleader. To begin,
our Irish leader gave us an introductory talk stating that this was a
teambuilding time—we would stay together throughout the whole run. It may just
be that I grew up in a competitive family, but the statement ‘we’re not doing
this to win,’ doesn’t bode well. When your dad is a former college football
coach, competition runs in your blood. It’s difficult to dissociate a run from
motives of winning.
We
started out with the entire group jogging together across a field normally
inhabited by sheep. The opening of the jog included crossing a stream—2 feet
deep. Wet soggy feet, socks, and shoes spell a bad beginning. Keep in mind that
it’s a mere 45 degrees outside. We proceeded to scramble up muddy hills, where
I unknowingly placed my hands on stinging nettles. Things were looking grim.
They got worse when our leader then encouraged us to hurl mud at each other. I
have difficulty combining in my mind the concepts of teambuilding and hurling
mud. Even more, I’m trying to live and travel with grace and patience with the
same 24 students for 16 weeks. It’s challenging to be patient when someone is
hurling mud at your face. That challenge grows exponentially when you discover
that what the Irish call ‘mud’ is actually what we refer to as ‘manure’.
Every
time we completed some sort of obstacle, such as wading through a bog pit where
mud came up to our waists, we would go one by one, and wait for everyone else
to come through. This lengthened the process a good deal. Things took a turn
for the worse when we ran up to a small hut with a sign reading ‘Maggot Farm.’
I assumed that since we could opt in or out of the Mud Run, we obviously would be
able to opt out of sections like this. I could simply walk by the Maggot Farm,
rather than crawling underneath it into the black pit of insects. I don’t mind
getting dirty, but I don’t relish the idea of maggots inside my clothes. I
walked past with a couple girls, while we watched each person disappear into
the darkness underneath and reemerge a couple seconds later on the other side,
with questioning expressions on their faces. Somehow, our leader knew I hadn’t
gone, and required me to cross through the proverbial abyss before the group could
continue. I wanted to be anywhere else. Maggots? There’s a reason I will never
be on Fear Factor. I closed my eyes, and crawled through as quickly as I could,
hating every moment and swearing never to sign up for a ‘fun run’ again, unless
I knew what EVERY single obstacle entailed.
What
was billed as a 'fun run' turned out to be a 2 hour ordeal of misery. We waded
through some more rivers, crossed bog pits, and climbed nets, all the while
having mud hurled at my face. I faced a dilemma with the mud hurling. If I were
to hurl mud back, it would encourage this behavior. If I were to actually get
serious and take them down, it would bring an end to the manure hurling (my
objective) but obviously would be too intense for the situation—yet another
moment when my competitive instincts were thrown into confusion. In the end, I
opted to simply ignore it, in an attempt to remain on the fringes of the
conflict.
I
tried to be a good sport but every atom of my being longed to be done as soon
as possible. This is difficult when the group waits at every single stop for
every person to make it through. Being freezing cold, soaking wet, and coated
in mud added to my anxiety for what I now thought of as the ‘Manure Trudge’ to
be over. Visions of the lasagna soup, pretzel rolls, and hot tea (my dinner
plan) filled my mind. Finally, we were lined up single file behind a mud pit
covered with a net. We had to crawl one by one under the net through the mud to
the other side. No one in their right mind would purposefully go under this
net. It looked like a nightmare realized in reality—I could picture my long
braid getting tangled in the net (a la Absalom), not being able to escape, my
face in the manure, etc. etc. My gameplan was simply to get it over with as
soon as I could. I entered under the net and quickly realized that it was not
simply a mud pit—my knees were on rocks! After two major knee surgeries, I am
very protective of my knees—and I had not anticipated this. The next thing I
knew, someone from above was shoving me into the mud, and my knees were
grinding into the rocks. Luckily, this painful experience was the close of the
mud run. I nearly cried from relief (and pain) when I emerged from the net and
was informed that we were finally done. To add insult to injury, we have a
particular assignment for one of our classes in which we are to write a
‘Critical Experience’ Essay—about a critical moment. However, I’ve already
written that essay about a grumpy employee at a Post Office in Stratford-upon-Avon,
so my painful experience wouldn’t even be applicable to any of my remaining
essay assignments!
getting shoved into the mud
Four days later, the manure smell is gone. We’ve washed our clothes, shoes, and hair. The only traces remaining of the Mud Run are the deep purple and light blue hues that shade my knees. In the spectrum of bad experiences while abroad, this really wasn’t that bad. Our cottage that night featured lasagna soup, blankets, mulled cider, and the four Babes: a recipe which can heal a multitude of hurts.
Tonight is the last night in our little pink cottage. Tomorrow we fly back to London. Highlights of the coming week include: The Lumineers and The Civil Wars in concert (which we are attending with the illustrious Kyle Phipps), The British Museum, and Twelfth Night at The Globe. Stephanie's parents are joining us, and we board the Chunnel to Paris on Friday!
--Morgan
