I am sore. I work out all the time. I do stupid athletic stunts with Trish that take sometimes many, many hours and I am SORE. This is actually the sorest that I remember being — ever, I think.

Everywhere.

My knees are swollen and sore from crawling around on them all night and all day. My calves are sore from hiking around Bozeman all night with, generally, close to 100 pounds of added weight. My back is sore, I think, from carrying a 400+ pound log (I’m guessing here because of the number of people, 8, it took to carry the damn thing) either on our shoulders, alternating right/left the shoulder currently being destroyed, or suspended through tie straps and carried like an obscenely heavy suitcase, again alternating right/left to balance the pain. But the torque this places on the lumbar spine… My wrists are sore from wrapping the tie strap around them while carrying the log. My neck is sore from carrying a yoga ball inflated with water behind my neck, balanced atop my rucksack with my head craned forward to provide a larger platform upon which to carry. I have bruises on my face, and randomly across my body…

Trish was scared. She’d worked the Goruck up in her mind to some level of specialized torture from the Middle Ages. There would be a beating of drums and some 8-foot tall man, half-dressed in leather and fur would march out with a torch in one hand and a braided leather whip in the other. He would scream at us before making us crab walk in parallel with a telephone pole balanced across our collective bellies as he cracked the whip and laughed maniacally in the background.

“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!! YOU WILL ALL DIE NOW!!”

There was no evil man. There was an SF operator who does this shit over the weekend for fun. He doesn’t need a whip, he doesn’t need to be 8-feet tall. There are many, many other ways to fabricate torture, and all of the best are mental, not physical. If you have a lot of time with which to work, mental torture is far better than physical. Insidiously, it wiggles it’s way into your psyche and tears your world apart by destroying your beliefs and rationality. When you only have 12 hours with which to work, an integration of physical pain and mental anguish are necessary to create a really fun night.

One of the best ways to get into a person’s head in this setting is to not be what they expect. To immediately remove and diminish an opponent’s defenses by providing a face that is unsettling and unexpected.

Names changed to protect the innocent.

“Hi, my name is Tommy. Call me Tommy.”

We warmed our shoulders up by holding our loaded rucks overhead while 20 people introduced themselves.

Name. Where you’re from. What you do. Why you’re here.

Russ. Billings. Nurse (Oh! A murse amongst us!) I’m here because Daddy must have missed a few too many volleyball games or something.

Trish. Billings. I’m a teacher (what do you teach?). I’m a 7th grade earth science teacher. I’m here because Russ thinks it is fun to make me do these things.

A tongue in cheek answer, but it means a lot that my significant other will do these silly things with me and it means the world to me to see her smile while we’re doing it. I derive strength from having a partner who will stand beside me during the extensive and exhaustive torture sessions we pay to have inflicted upon us. I could not do it by myself and I doubt that I’d even try. I don’t mean that I couldn’t do it by myself, but I could do it with another person, I mean I couldn’t do these things without Trish.

I would be neither interested nor strong enough.

But Trish plays along. We train together. We work things out. I tend to have a heavy role in preparation, from planning and training to prepping and equipping. She just has to say, “yes”.

Everyone gets to know everyone else, a task we’d already completed in the parking lot before the event. The Goruck cadre are military and several of us in the event were as well, and know how important it is to know your team. That behind us, it was time to get going.

“Lay your rucks at your feet! I want you to remove your weights. Now your water. Now your ID and cab fare! Show them to me!”

Timmy hadn’t been in your face yet. He was actually very friendly. He liked to talk. Aside from holding a 50# ruck extended overhead for a couple minutes, he hadn’t asked us to do anything overly exhausting or physically traumatic.

We split into two teams. Now it was going to get real.

“If you came here with someone that you know well, I want you to hug them.”

Several pairs hug, one is a group of five.

Great, we’re hugging them goodbye and we won’t see them again until morning. Shit. This is going to change the dynamic of the night greatly. I’m immediately not happy.

“You two over there, you… Are there five of you? Ok, you five over there. You two over there.”

He was actually splitting us into teams with respect for people that knew each other. I thanked Timmy for that later. I told him it meant a great deal to be able to do this with my wife and that I may have gotten in his face if he’d done otherwise. Timmy said he recognized and respected the idea that, even though these events are supposed to be hard and painful, they have to retain some element of fun or there would be no reason to do them. I thanked him again.

We played capture the flag. In a large park, with a tree-line, a pond, a field and a lot of prairie dog holes. We played capture the flag. In the dark. 20 hyper-fit, borderline insane adults who paid for whatever kind of experience this was supposed to be, though we all inferred torturous, played capture the flag in the dark in Bozemen, MT. Without our rucks. For close to an hour.

The best way to remove a person’s phychological defenses is to be other than expected.

This might be fun.

After playing capture the flag, in an area that was at least half a square mile in area, easily the largest capture the flag arena I’ve played in my life, we rejoin both halves of the full team at our rucks. We still don’t put them on.

“When you’re deployed, you get these weird food drops that never make sense and they’re never fillet mignon or cheesecake.”

He shows us an assortment of food items that I never eat at home. He knows these events draw a bunch of health nuts. He knows there are a slew of paleo, dietarily-restricted Crossfit Kool Aid drinkers in the crowd.

Sardines. Vienna sausages. Black beans. Frosted Flakes. Other potted meats. Sunny D. A 5L box of Franzia Sangria…

“You can eat all of these supplies now, or carry them all night and eat them before the goodbye party in the morning. If you puke now, I’ll give you a freebie. If you puke in the morning, there will be a penalty associated.”

Ouch. You know you’re going to throw up either way, but if you throw up in the morning, you pay for it and you’ve had to carry the instrument of your own destruction around all damned night. We chose now. I don’t pray, but I vigorously hoped that it would be ok.

I immediately began planning. I can throw up, pop a Tums (I packed Tums. For some reason I’ve been getting GERD after really tough workouts, and couldn’t afford to be belching battery acid for 12 hours if the welcome party was too brutal). I’ll eat it, throw it up, and fix my shit with some Tums and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It’ll be ok. I’m not worried about the booze. We did the Dirty Dash last weekend while drinking the entire time. I actually get a kick out of working out and drinking at the same time. It is a dark joke that I find hilarious.

We eat the gruel. A couple people go to town on it. I’m impressed and frightened by their zeal and my complete lack thereof, for the mixed bowl of awesomeness. Did I fail to mention that it was all mashed together? I think the last time I ate something like this was high school freshman welcoming. And we didn’t have a 11 hour workout ahead of us then.

Some have grabbed the individual containers that constitute the pot of destruction and are using them as personal bowls to ladle out large servings of the stuff. The balance of the crowd are using the supplied plastic spoons. That guy is using two or three spoons, held side-by-side, to create one enormous megaspoon. That guy just lifted a 5 inch sardine, shining silver under the glow of the headlamps, and munched it.

I cheated the bowl of gruel. I’m not proud, but I’ll admit it. I ate maybe 2 or 3 spoons of it — and almost jettisoned those. (I think only one person threw up, after carrying me, it turns out, during PT a half hour later. I apologized for being such a fatass). But there were some people who were avoiding the sangria. THAT I can handle. I pulled my weight on the jug of wine. I have a relatively tight diet anymore, and tend to be somewhat gastronomically sensitive, but I can drink. That I can do. Pass the wine. I can help.

The only other time I’ve ever hit a drive by spigot of boxed wine in this manner was in college when we were tripped on LSD and I duct-taped a box to the top of a door jam in my buddy’s apartment. Somebody is holding the box overhead and we just cycle through and hit the spigot. One big mouthfull at a time. I’ll have to check the ABV on Franzia Sangria, but I’m not sure that it is much higher than water. It is actually pretty easy drinking. Grapes are good for you.

A few minutes of this bizarre ritual pass and the gruel is gone. The sangria lasts a little longer. I managed to pull the last of it myself.

The sangria is gone!

Now, it is time for action. Rucks on. Team captain and deputy volunteer and are pulled aside for a map review with Timmy. Our task is simple, we need to get from Point A to Point B. But, we have “casualties” we need to exfil. The “casualties” are Gold’s Gym brand, green yoga balls, filled with water. There is a 75 cm ball, and two 55 cm balls, all green, partially filled with water. We later estimated the large ball to weigh in the vicinity of 60#, and the two smaller balls to weigh around 40#. No structural support. Just a gelatinous, jiggly, sloshy, rubber ball of water.

They were fucking horrible. Absolutely fucking horrible.

We rucked from city park to city park in Bozeman. We were later advised that our total miles were just over 12. This was actually far less than we were expecting. Not a bad thing, but a mile is not a mile is not a mile.

We rucked, the men with a 30# weight plus a minimum 2L of water (I carried 3L — running out of water in a long event is terrifying and a quick way to fail) and the women with a mandatory 20# weight plus the 2L of water, and anything else we were each foolish enough to think we’d need over the course of the night. Food, obviously, but I also had a windbreaker in a dry bag. I estimated weight, plus water, plus food and the bag itself were close to 50#. We cycled responsibility for the yoga balls, which were named, “Karla”. We also had a USA flag on a staff, and a 30# team weight, which was a smaller ruck filled with sand and 2 of 3 of those soft, clear plastic water jugs with a spout and handle.

Early in the night, the Karlas, team weight, water and flag cycled among the entire group. As the night wore on, and this actually happened very quickly, the twin columns of participants began to sort into two sub-groups. Those carrying the Karlas, water or the team weight were forgiven for moving more slowly than those not carrying weight, so they were placed near the front of the formation to set the pace for the group. Those who were cycling among the Karlas were near the front and those not carrying the Karlas remained near the back.

There were people who never came to the front to carry extra weight. But they were also moving slower than those carrying extra weight. Not only did some people spend substantially more time under extra load than others, but they were also dropping the unweighted off the rear of the moving formation.

Weakness squared. Slow and unwilling or unable to help.

Nobody ever said anything about this, which was very, very smart. I try to maintain a perspective that demands me to assume everyone is doing their best and giving what they can. If all you can do is carry yourself and your weight and hang on for dear life, then that is all you can offer. If you are stronger and can carry a weight, do it. The group sorted out according to ability. I like to think everyone gave what they were able and nobody just skated by.

Every time we arrived at a new park, we’d stop and engage in some kind of sadism.

“Those park benches are Hueys. You, you — get on top of them. The rest of you, carry them for two laps of the park. Anyone not actively carrying, beat your hands on your chest and make helicopter sounds.”

The night got a lot tougher when we found a log to carry. Amusingly, it was found near a 24 inch glass water pipe along a gravel trail through Bozeman. We gathered around the pipe to laugh, first, before the log was presented to the group. We never named it, I don’t know if that is encouraged or required, but it was probably in the vicinity of 6 or 8 feet, and around 2 feet in diameter. Based on the number of large adults required to carry it, I guessed it to be 300–400 pounds. Maybe 450.

The log took 8 people to carry. We hoisted it onto our shoulders and carried it overhead for the first… Time and distance are both very, very challenging to estimate. We carried it overhead at a snails’ pace, for a little while. 20 minutes? An hour and a half? It’s really hard to tell. We still had the Karlas and the team weight, water and the flag — and we each had our individual rucks. The extra water was consumed/transferred into rucks as soon as possible so we wouldn’t have to carry it any longer.

Eventually, several of the team produced cargo tie-down straps and we rigged a system to sling strap handles under the log so we could carry it lower to the ground with handles. This was much faster, but still a pain in the ass. Regardless how the log was carried — on shoulders or low like luggage, it placed torque on the spine. The manner in which carriers were paired by height, mattered intensely. Throughout the night, anytime more than one person was required to move weight, the height of the players mattered.

We had one gentleman who was quite tall. For a time he was behind me on the log, or a park table or something. He was huffing and puffing and obviously dying.

Who is that puffing in my right ear?

Seeing the culprit, I tell him — don’t take this as an insult, but why don’t you help with the Karlas and stay off the team lifts? You are too fucking tall and it makes you the high lift point, which puts you under a unfair amount of strain and fucks up the balance of the object. It isn’t that you’re not useful, it’s that you could be best used elsewhere. I tried to make sure he knew it wasn’t because he wasn’t or couldn’t help, but that he could help better elsewhere.

He complied.

Later, over beers, Timmy and I were talking about the way the group had dichotomized according to ability and that there were some who may not have been helping with group weights to an extent commensurate with others. He said that was why we’d been given the log. Now, everyone had to help because there was so much extra to carry that nobody could hide. We still cycled responsibility, so quick breaks were possible, but everyone had to cycle in or those carrying the weight would literally never be able to recover.

Some people proved able to remain under additional weight for very long periods of time. Others — myself very much included, can carry a great deal, but have to cycle in and out of weight a little more frequently.

The balance of the group was great. ”Do you need a break?” Was offered thousands of times last night among the group. ”I need a break” was quickly answered with relief thousands of times last night. Over and over. You’d cycle in, shoulder (literally) the burden for as long as you could, then hand it off to someone a little fresher. Over and over and over. All night long.

We eventually got to ditch the log after the several mile, several hour, “Log Relocation Project”. We were allowed to keep our watches, though I’ve heard they are commonly removed at the beginning of the night. We ditched the log when we had quite a ways to get back to the starting point and there was no way we could cover the distance in the time available. I think we’d have kept it longer if we could have made the starting area with it in tow.

“Does anyone have a problem with physical contact like fighting and wrestling?”

Hmm. That is an interesting question to ask at 0400 on a Saturday morning after many hours running around town looking like insane asylum escapees. (Every time someone would yell, “what are you doing?” I’d respond with we’re pledging Tri-Lambda) The answer from the crowd is a cautious, “it sort of depends on what you mean by that”.

We kept trucking through the Bozeman night while I contemplated what he could mean by the question about physical contact, fighting and wrestling. It couldn’t be THAT bad. The group was too diverse and the liability would be too great. Maybe sumo-style wrestling where the only point is to lift the opponent. Something where we have hands on each other but in a relatively non-threatening manner. I thought about this for quite a while.

It couldn’t be THAT bad.

The starting area was both a welcome sight and frightening. Returning to the start means that we were closer to finished, but about to check into some sort of evil “goodbye party”.

We were broken into teams again. This time, Trish and I were separate, which actually turned out to be awesome. Team wrestling. No fishhooks, no biting, no gauging, etc. You have to keep your knees on the ground — meaning we had to crawl, and when you put your opponent’s shoulders on the ground, they go do jumping jacks until we’re down to the last man standing.

There were some large, muscular men. Crossfittters who can move some serious fucking weight, repeatedly, and all day. By this point, we’d seen each other carrying logs and Karlas all night long. We’d carried each other in a fireman’s carry at one point. We knew who was very strong and we knew who was scary.

But we didn’t know who could actually wrestle. This is not a skill possessed by your average camper. It is one thing to be big, strong and highly athletic. But wrestling takes skill, or at least exposure. Thank God. Two of the largest, most athletic men were placed on the team opposite me. I was actually very seriously intimidated by both of them. Turns out they couldn’t wrestle. Brute fucking strong, but they couldn’t wrestle. I had quite a few pins during the two rounds. It was fun as hell. I haven’t gotten to actually wrestle since I tore the high school coach’s MCL during practice my first year following high school graduation. I told Trish that getting to put the shoulders of a couple big, strong guys on the ground was easily the highlight of my night. It was. Three of the smaller guys came after me the first round and I quickly put each of them down. Then, I had no choice but to square off against one of the big guys.

Dirty, brute strong. Uh, oh. But he had no hips. I did a modified cow-catcher and just hipped him over. Done. Yay! I’m still a competent adult male! The next round, he was running me over and I hipped him over again — right after I’d gotten the other big guy. Dirty strong, athletic guys, I just got them on mat experience.

It made me smile and I’ll take it.

Trish was on the other team. None of the guys on my team would go after my wife on the other team. I put her out both times. Timmy loved seeing the spousal abuse in public. There was boisterous cheering. Trish comes from a wrestling family and last night was far from the first time we’ve wrestled. She would crawl away as I chased her. I had to catch her by an ankle and drag her back in. Just like starting an IV, it goes worse when you try to be nice. I tossed her and pinned her quickly. Though I may have given her a kiss when I did it. Nobody else wanted one. Weak.

We finished. It was pretty damned hard, and we were pretty beaten up, but it was a great night.

But then, a decision. We were registered for the Light event that afternoon. We finished the 12 hours of Goruck Tough, at 0930 and the Light was scheduled to begin at 1400. We were wrecked and had been up forever.

Decisions, decisions. We didn’t have a motel room available yet. We ran quick errands around Bozeman to get food and drink, before returning to the starting area to sleep in the 4runner, still unsure if we were grabbing a nap before the next event, or hanging out until our motel room was available. We didn’t know. There were others from last night registered to double, but we didn’t know if we’d be physically able to join them. Sore is acceptable, injured is not.

Trish crashed for several hours in the front seat of the car. I caught a very quick nap, surely less than a half hour, before I couldn’t sleep any longer. Soreness and stiffness were setting in with gusto. When I could no longer sleep, I decided to drive around with the AC cranked and find more food and drink. Trish woke up, and I made it my personal mission to get calories and electrolytes into her.

Remember, I can’t do these things without Trish. I can’t and I don’t want to. But I also can’t ask her to keep going if it will actually hurt her. My only choice is to fix her without pressuring her to participate. Banana smoothies, Gatorade, electrolyte tabs. Food. Calories.

She began to lighten. Life returned to her face. She stretched and rolled her legs out.

Trish was a go. I felt much better than I thought I should. Sore, but not disproportionately so. Sore on a level equal to the night’s activities, but I figured once I got moving my body would loosen and play along. If you do enough crazy things to your body, you get a very precise understanding of what it can and will do for you.

We returned to the starting area and saw many of our friends from the night before. Most of the participants in the Light were doing the double. One man who had done it the night before, an Army major who must have been a pack mule in a former life, had his son with him for the Light. A father-son activity.

I think it means a lot when families are able to do these things together. It means so much to me being able to do them with Trish, and Duncan has already expressed interest — and has successfully completed 10 miles of Dirty Dash with us for the past 2 years. Soon, these silly weekend outings will be a full family affair. Rivers may join eventually, but his expressed interest isn’t currently as great as Duncan’s. In a couple more years, Duncan will actually be able to train with us and do Spartans, Gorucks and Tough Mudders.

The man doing it with his son was a great thing to see. Overcoming challenging events with a person makes you that much closer to them. This occurring within a family that is already close, is a magnificent thing to experience. To know and support someone under extreme stress is to really know them and to show them what they mean to you.

We did the double. It was awesome, and there were smiles all around during the Light.

Someday, we’ll do these with our sons. For now, it means the world to do them together.