Your children get only one childhood.
Make it memorable.
~Regina Brett
What were we thinking? I was standing at the starting line for the Marine Mud Run — a 5K that includes a trek through a stream, hill climbs, and a course of obstacles to finish in a long, soupy mud pit one has to low-crawl through. The USMC sponsored this “fun” run, and they took it seriously. At every challenge, they stationed a Marine to do his best drill-sergeant impersonation as the challengers ran by.
My family had decided to do the team run. The rules: no man left behind. Teams start together. Teams finish together.
As we crept to the starting line, I glanced around at the competition. There were warrior teams in matching uniforms. Young adults prepared themselves for combat. Some wolfed down an energy bar. Others warmed up with a quick set of jumping jacks.
And then there was my team. My wife was busy chatting with another runner, oblivious to the world around them. My daughters, ages eight and three, were sitting on the ground playing with a butterfly.
An old-fashioned air-raid siren screamed out. War whoops sounded all around us as the mass of runners started forward. My daughters brought me the butterfly so it wouldn’t get stepped on. Our team with the butterfly mascot riding on my shoulder started off with a shuffle but gathered speed, hitting our stride of a walking jog.
Teams of runners passed us on all sides, many slowing to give my daughters a high-five as they ran by.
The first challenge was running up a stream. The autumn water was cold but not unbearable. But with each step, the water got deeper. My wife and I each grabbed a girl in our arms to keep her from drifting downstream. Dripping and giggling, we climbed onto the bank to start the hill climbs.
My wife was keeping pace with our older daughter, encouraging her to push to the top. Our three-year-old fell behind the pack. I could see her spirit crashing as her big sister pulled away. Someone had to do something quick.
I took a knee as the three-year-old climbed onto my back. With a kick in my ribs and a strangling choke around my neck, she pointed her steed to the top of the hill. We were off at a full gallop, my daughter squealing out her warrior cry as we caught up and passed the others.
At the top of the hill, we sidestepped through tires, climbed a rope ladder, and leapt log hurdles. Then came the six-foot wall. As we approached, the Marine stationed there saw our team charging his way. He waved us to go around the wall. My girls were having none of it. They were warriors. They wanted to go over the wall.
I went up first and straddled the wall. Then my wife handed me one daughter and ran to the other side as I passed our daughter over the top. The process repeated with our younger daughter. Finally, my wife scrambled over the top. As a team, my family topped each obstacle.
As we started down the backside of the hill, a lady near us slipped and fell. My little girls scrambled to her side to make sure she didn’t hurt herself. Then realizing all the obstacles were behind them, they asked if they could roll down the hill. The girls screamed out in laughter as they tumbled down the hill.
There was just one last obstacle — the mud pit. As we waded into the muck, I knew we were in trouble. One of my daughter’s feet got stuck deep in the mud. I pulled her free only to see that the sticky stuff kept both of her shoes, and she was not happy about it. I passed her over to her mother and fell to my hands and knees. My wife draped our daughter across my back, and away we went.
Side by side, laughing and spitting mud, we crawled. Climbing out of the pit and crossing the line was an event. Our team of warriors was on as we crawled out by a hundred other mud-caked victors of the pit.
Our team didn’t finish first, not even close. But in the spirit of the team event, we crossed the finish line hand-in-muddy-hand. This was our first time competing in the Mud Run, but with the encouragement of the girls, this became a yearly event we shared. The Mud Run taught us that we wanted to live our lives together. It also taught us that there will be plenty of mud pits and high walls to climb. We learned that we can always count on family and never leave a man behind, no matter what the obstacle. And we also learned that towels are good. Lots of towels.
— Larry Hoy —