Run for Your Lives: Notes from the Zombie Apocolypse #Z5K

There comes a time in every man's life when he must pony up to survive the Zombie Apocalypse or submit to become fodder for the walking undead. Although that might seem a bit farfetched, that's exactly how my little brother Mikey pitched the first annual "Run for Your Lives" 5k mud run.

The course was designed as a traditional off trail mud run with obstacles peppered throughout the course with one significant distinction: zombie hazards around every bend. Runners were equip with a flag-football belt with three red flags. Zombies attack runners to swipe their flags (aka hit points) and runners try their best to stay alive.

Considering my past inexperience and under-training with this strain of race, I decided err on the side of male bravado (once again) and register for the course. That, and I would be participating with a pair of non-runners. . . not to mention my good friend and running buddy Jon who doubled-up the event as his pre-wedding bachelor outing.

It was set, we had our cast of characters: the jort-wearing hipster, the absent-minded professor, the Dudley Do-Right leader, and the shifty-eyed brooder. We speculated which would survive based on TV Tropes, and formulated our strategy for survival. The black sharpie marker emblazoned on my brother's stark white T-shirt said it best: I'll trip you first.



We were slated to run in the 8:00 AM wave, and had arrived in Shuresville, MD (just outside of Baltimore) well over an hour advance of start time. I could foresee parking would be problematic later on, as cars were already getting stuck in the mud first thing in the morning... and the event catered onward until 5:00 PM! Very reminiscent of festival parking.

The packet pickup system was chaotic at best. Participants were crammed into a carnival style tent with no discernible line leading into three checkpoints: running bib, flag-football belt, and runner's swag. The latter was especially disappointing: a WarWear (which I re-dubbed WarioWear) knockoff UnderArmor shirt with no event logo. Event shirts were for sale at the mercy tent. Lame.

That's where my criticisms start and end. The rest of the day was pure kick ass.

The event started in a canopied chute that blocked out visibility of any obstacles. Runners were channeled into one of three queue's: Appetizer for the elite runners, Entree for the 8 - 12 min/mi jogging crowd, and Dessert for the +12 min/mi walkers. Waves were released every 30 minutes. Since parking and registration took over two hours, we jumped into the 10:30 wave (which did not pose any problem).

In a matter of seconds, our cohort hurtled out of the chute in a surge of athletes running to an uncertain fate. We were pumped out into an open field inhabited by dozens upon dozens of zombies. I lost my footing, and slide down a grassy embankment, only to abruptly crash into the shins of a zombie. Somehow I managed to dart off to the side, narrowly evading the first wave of attack.

Now disoriented and dislodged from the guys, I trudged onward. Avoiding erratic runners proved quite a challenge. Finding myself wedged between a runner and the woods, a zombie managed to grab my first flag. Let me tell you, the zombies were very realistic in both make-up and role play. The whole event felt as if I was dropped into an episode of "Walking Dead." Poor luck or not, I managed to reconnect with the group within the first half-mile.


Run For Your Lives 2011 from Alexander Turoff on Vimeo.

Much of the running took place up hill, in sloppy mud, with hoards of zombies waiting at the top. Let's just say that hill training mixed with wind sprints was the perfect way to train for the event. I underestimated my ability to bob and weave. For my every zig, another zombie was ready to catch me on the zag back.

Flags two and three fell down quickly and I was marked for certain death unless I could locate another health pack rumored to be hidden on the course. Keep in mind runners were prohibited from picked up a pulled flag from the ground. The rulebook stated that cheaters might have their timed invalidated or else be removed from the course.

It's challenging to survive the zombie apocalypse solo; groups enhance survival.

Bands of strangers bonded together in numbers with the impromptu plan to surge the mountainside. Always run behind and towards the middle. Safety in numbers. This is exactly how my brother and his friend, the non-runners, managed to survive much of the race. We also conserved strength by plodding along at a comfortable pace, knowing we might have to high-tail at any given second.

All in all, the event was entirely worth the $80 price of admission. "Run for Your Lives" is far more than a themed mud run; it was also a full blown festival complete with a beer tent and an entire day's lineup of live music. Imagine health fair expo mashed up with Comic-Con… then add in copious amounts of zombie makeup and you might have some idea of the "Party at the End of the World" (as it was billed).

Next year I might be interested in volunteering as a Zombie and camping out after the event (which was $$$ add-on). Hopefully the series will continue to improve throughout this year, and will be a more refined race experience in 2012.

McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst "Beast of the East" Mud Run, 2011

When my neighbor Carl asked if I would be interested in creating a five-person team for the Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst "Beast of the East" September 10th, 2011 mud run… my only answer was, "Hell yeah." A few keystrokes later and our testosterone-filled impulses committed us to running this hellish 10k.

I've run for endurance. Run for speed. Never quite had the opportunity to participate in an adventure race (except for the Morris Mauler 5k where I had to crawl up an icy hill). This would be my first opportunity… and I certainly didn't want to pass up the possibility of forming a team.

Forget training. We had no real chance in completing the race with any respectable finish time. Therefore we set upon the strategy of style above substance. We needed flash, not fast. You might compare this against starting up your first garage band. Picking a good band name and style of performance art is sometimes more important than the song choice, or being able to play instruments for that matter.

We set to task with heart and determination. Skimming through the team registration online, we knew we were up for a good battle. Cereal Killers. The Asstastics. FudMucker. It was then I had a moment of brilliance. Run For Morass.

Carl gave me a squinty-eyed look, and pointed out that pulling together a team of five men under the banner of Run for Morass might give the wrong impression Forget that we are all straight, happily married men… a name like that might draw scowls from the Don't Ask, Don't Tell military crowd.

So, we set our sights for a team name that exuded uber-masculinity. In terms of 80's action flicks, it came down to two simple choices: Arnold Schwarzenegger or Sylvester Stallone. This was a no brainer. We immediately agreed upon the team name Rambo, First Mud.

Fast forward our lackadaisical late-summer, training routine to the week before the event. Hurricane Irene swept through New Jersey in a downpour, flooding wetlands, streams, and rivers. Another round of cloudburst activity came through on a separate storm front. Considering the ground was already saturated from Irene, the runoff from the second wave caused even worse flooding conditions.

To be perfectly honest, I wasn't sure whether or not the race organizers would need to cancel the event due to extreme flooding. This suspicion was stoked by a lack of information and updated regarding race-day logistics. With very little time until race-day, an email came blazing through my inbox with "Working on last minute stuff" frantically types into the salutation. This was the final confirmation: the race was on.

The day prior, Carl and I drove down to the base to pickup our registration bibs and runner's booty. In casually speaking with some of the event staff, we learned that some of the obstacles still needed to be drained. Yes, drained. It was then I realized that the mud run might better described as a marsh run. Another volunteer imparted that we had better bring bug repellant, as the combination of high humidity and standing water was fertile grounds for breeding mosquitoes. With that last bit of advice, we departed.

Route 68 is a two-lane highway that narrows down to a single lane. It exists for one reason only: to bring visitors off the New Jersey Turnpike and onto Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst. And we were bumper to bumper with a few hundred other cars waiting to pass security check to enter the base's main gate.

An officer on the side of the road spotted the driver's Department of Defense identification and suggested we bypass the wait by driving to a military-only entrance. Following command, we drove off (only half-remembering the directions) in search of this alternate entrance. Truth be told, someone didn't have their stories straight, as we were redirected back to the main gate upon arrival. Fortunately, everything onward operated like a well oiled piece of machinery.

The race was staggered into multiple heats-- at least eleven if rumors were correct. We anticipated many of the military-grade obstacles would be relatively free from grunge since we were schedule for the third heat. Our cohort was a mixed bag: costumed amateurs (bonus points goes out to the BraveHeart group who ran in kilts), military personnel, a few crazed adventure seekers, peppered with some die hard runners.

This wasn't a traditional race by any means as evidenced by the lack of passers by or even a passing lane. Participants patiently waited his or her turn to take a whack at the obstacles. A generous amount of time between heats proved an effective means of crowd control; I did not experience bottle necking at any point in the course.

The course was naturally flooded. I was soaked within the first half-mile. Running the next six miles with waterlogged footgear over a sandy surface was one of the more challenging aspects of the race. The three mile mark felt like running a full 10k. Running through mud puddles felt reminiscent of puddle stomping as a kid, and wading through the swamp was mildly amusing. There's nothing like feeling unidentified objects brush past your legs beneath the murky depths.

Scores of plastic "Jersey Dividers" were spread throughout the corse. A few showoffs with bravado would either hurdle or leapfrog over, whereas most others approached the highway medians one leg at a time. Climbing up sheer embankments of festival-grade mud required knuckle deep finger holds to gain better traction. Each aspect of the race layered another coating of filth: sweat, festival-grade mud, swamp water, duck weed, and a dusty film of sand.

Rounding that last bend, I spied something better than the finish line: fire hydrant's rigged to spray into the running lane. Not even caring for my finish time, my team and I soaked in that the direct blast, watching as layer after layer of grime melted away leaving me drenched and mud-stained. After crossing the finish line, I removed my sneakers to reveal a bed of sand having accumulated in the toe box. Another stratum of sediment came to rest inside my socks.

My old running sneakers found their way inside a dumpster and I began the walk back to the car barefoot, with a satisfied look on my face. The Beast of the East was unlike anything I had ever run before.

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