AROO! AROO! AROO!

Only the crazies are going to understand that AROO! title, so if that’s you, I fully expect you to stop whatever you’re doing and make that sound.

Now, for the rest of the sane folks wondering what on earth just happened, that sound is the battle cry of the Spartans. No, not the scantily-clad men from the movie 300 (well, hello, Gerard Butler), but those of us who willingly pay money to roll around in the mud, shedding blood, sweat, and tears, all for a cool medal and a banana at the end.

I’m not joking—you literally have to jump over fire for that banana.

I got started with Spartan Races during my husband’s fourth deployment, when a girlfriend of mine asked if I wanted to try a “sprint” with her, the shortest version at only 4-5 miles. Of course, I said heck yeah, and by the time we finished that race, we were hooked.

Spartan training commenced, which includes ridiculous things like climbing 30-foot ropes, hoisting logs onto your shoulders to hike around in the woods, finding big heavy things to flip over, doing monkey bars until your hands bleed, and essentially just getting yourself as dirty and worn out as possible. And then, when you’re physically done, and can’t go any farther, you pick up that dang log and do it again.

Fun stuff, eh?

In the two years before the military moved me away from my Spartan bestie, she and I completed another Sprint together, two “Supers” (8-9 miles), a “Beast” (11-13 miles), and a “Hurricane Heat,” which is actually doing the course in the middle of the night, because apparently being able to see all the death traps isn’t important.

She was with me as I ran a Spartan four months pregnant with my third (doc said I could), and she was with me four months after he was born, running another one. She’s the gal that will grab Thai food and Starbucks with me after every race, not caring a bit that we’re covered in muck with sticks in our hair. In fact, in the case of the Super in Sacramento, which took place at an old cattle ranch, I’m fairly certain I had literal cow poo all over me.

Did that stop us? Pssshhtt.

I could get all sentimental about my memories of racing with her, but then I’d start to tear up, and I’m one of those ugly criers and no one wants to see that.

Now that we’re on the East Coast, I’ve been introduced to a new Spartan race called the “Winter,” which is exactly as nuts as it sounds—running a Sprint distance on purpose in full blizzard conditions, which includes crossing through frozen rivers, sliding down mountains of ice on your butt, bear crawling through the snow, and generally just being as cold as possible. By the time you’re done you feel like walking through that fire at the end instead of jumping over it, just to get feeling back to your toes.

My husband talked me into doing this one three times, and every single time, as I get out of the car to go check in and feel the gale-force wind hit me in the face, freezing my snot to my upper lip, I ask myself why?

And since I’m on the topic of my husband and races, can I take a very public moment to call him out on paying the race photographers to make him look all macho and buff in their pictures, while I look like I’m ready to die? Even on the fire jumps, he’s clearly dragging my slow butt over those flames so he can get to his snack quicker.

If this isn’t a flagrant act of bribery, I don’t what is.

So, what the heck is the moral of my story, besides letting you know I like mud? Partly, it’s to encourage you to not be afraid and to get out there and do something. It doesn’t matter how old you are or how fit you are.

Out on the course, you’ll see everyone from age 16 to 80 (honestly, maybe even older). You’ll see World Champion runners, and you’ll see teams from Weight Watchers. You’ll see people in wheelchairs getting carried over the walls and warriors with no legs pulling themselves up the hills with arm strength alone. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been helped on the course by complete strangers and consider it a blessing when I can get next to someone and help them perform their best, too.

Running a race like this becomes a tribe mentality, and sure, you’ll find those folks that are in it to win it and can’t take the time to stop and help. That’s okay, because right behind them will be someone else that won’t think twice about giving you a boost so you can keep going.

But you know what the other part is? It’s to remind you that we are a tribe—this tribe of women called military spouses. When one of us is falling behind, we band together and help carry that load until our fellow spouses are strong enough to carry it themselves.

Service member deployed? We’ve got you covered.

Kids get admitted to the hospital? We’ll be right over.

Bathroom flooded and is dripping through your ceiling? Come live with us.

Marriage is struggling and you need to scream and cry with someone for a little while? Our ears are available.

No one needs to run this race alone. And make no mistake, there will come a time that you’re the one struggling, relying on the help of others to get you through. That’s okay, because eventually it will be your turn to pay it forward, your turn to reach down and grab someone and pull them up with you, until they get their feet back underneath them.

In racing, just like in military life, it doesn’t matter how fit you are. What matters is the grit and heart it takes to keep running that dang thing, even when you want to quit.

And of course, get your Thai food and Starbucks when it’s all over.