So You Want to Be a Mudder

"What was that?" squawked the walkie talkie.

"No, he's conscious, but we should probably get some oxygen down there." The first aid attendee responded and then turned to me, "How's it going?"

"I just need a bandage for my knee, don't want to bleed on everything else," I respond, looking down at my red and expanding knee.  The slip-and-slide obstacle I just pulled myself off wasn't the yellow plastic and manicured lawn version seen in commercials.  It was black tarp and frigid water laid on top of what had felt to be a rock garden.  "My cut doesn't sound as bad as whatever that conversation was about," I add, wondering what obstacle could result in someone requiring oxygen.

"Yeah, it's actually been a pretty light day for injuries," the medic replied cheerily, pulling out a gauze bandage and a roll of medical tape.

I was already grateful my pride didn't get in the way of me asking for a bandage. Crawling around in mud with a gash on your knee was sounding less and less fun.

"Thanks so much," I said, grateful for some added padding and a clean view of the damage, once the blood was wiped away.  With the entire roll of tape now transferred to my knee, I saw that my group was already in the next obstacle.  This one was a series of hay bails in a pool of murky water.  The goal was to jump in the water and climb over the hay.  Not too bad, but any interaction with water during a mid-50s day in the fall wasn't exactly the ideal. With my fresh bandage, I jumped into the murky brown water and began to climb over the hay with the grace of an injured manatee.

All of these obstacles were part of the Tough Mudder, claiming to be "not your average lame-ass mud run or spirit-crushing ‘endurance’ road race. Our 10-12 mile obstacle courses are designed by British Special Forces to test all around strength, stamina, mental grit, and camaraderie. Forget finish times. Simply completing a Tough Mudder is a badge of honor." Apparently lots of people pay to participate in these things, and I had been coaxed by my gym mates to sign up back in August.  

The race started with the registration area at the ski lodge where the event was taking place.  And what registration wouldn't be complete without a mohawk station, a temporary tattoo station, and a keg toss station? We arrived to find people spray painting their hair, stretching, and generally just barking and shouting to psyche themselves up for the race.  My approach was to look around pensively and wonder, "what the heck is wrong with all these people?" Road races--5ks, 10ks, half marathons--are their own sort of strange.  People sign up to run at ungodly early times on a Saturday or Sunday, with no hopes of winning the race.  But at least they stay clean.  Here at the tough mudder, people make a whole weekend event of the race, sleeping over at the ski lodge (thankfully there was no snow on the ground) and proving their primal-ness by running the race in a costume, or if that is too much effort, in as little clothing as possible.

I was expecting a 10-mile run with a bunch of obstacles in the way.  The "race" turned out to be more of a 10 mile hike up and down ski slopes with obstacles that were closer to nuisances along the way.  Yet... it was pretty awesome to go across a 30ft span of monkey bars set up over water, and to run up a 15 foot hay bail and propel yourself over it.  I think those had to be my favorite parts.  

Then there was "Chernobyl," literally a (supposedly clean) dumpster full of green ice water (yes, there were chunks of ice, frequently refreshed by the forklift close by) that you had to jump in and submerge yourself under a board and then climb out.  This "obstacle" was toward the beginning of the race and was pretty much designed just to make the rest of the course miserable.  It worked.  

But in a weird way, this part of the race was one of the most exhilarating. You jump into the ice bath, not knowing what to expect, and then all you get is your body screaming at you, "get out you fool, get out!" I jumped in with a water bottle in my hand and don't even remember letting go of it.  All I could think about was "out." And once you got out, every nerve in your body is on alert.  I seriously have never felt so awake in my entire life.  And even if just for that feeling, the course was probably worth it.  Although I could probably create a dumpster ice bath for less than the course fee...

Anyway, the rest of the race felt kind of gimmicky.  There was a short barbed-wire crawl, a balance beam over water, a log carry up a hill, two sets of walls to climb over, hay bails to vault over, and super-steep ski runs to trudge up.  Combined with the fact that the race came at the end of finals/midterms week, with every step I just wanted to be back in bed.  It was a fun experience, I just had different expectations going in.  I was expecting more crazy physical feats that put your thoughts on hold and less time staring at the backs of someone's calves in front of you, wondering "who thought of charging money for this? they must be sick. or the best salesman ever..."

But yes, I am now a "mudder," proved by my bright orange head band hanging from my cubicle wall at work.  I think the whole experience was summed up at the end, when we all got our "free" beer.  All I could think was, "man, I am freezing.  I need to drink this beer fast so I can stop holding this cold cup." There are many more intelligent ways to enjoy a beer. Walking 10 miles in wet clothes and waiting in line for obstacles is one way to get a beer, but certainly not the smartest.

Roar!

A Story of Hot Pot

“So where are eating?” sighed Caroline.

“We can go to the expensive stuff on the Bund—M on the Bund, that French place or this other place—Hi Di Low,” Nadia said, acting as the organizer of the group.

“Hai Di Lao,” mumbled Marcus. He couldn’t really understand Chinese, but at least he could get the basic pronunciation.

“Ugggh, I’m so tired,” continued Marcus. “Let’s just meet up at 7 and decide then.” No matter how much information was available to the group of 5—Trip Advisor, Google ratings, concierge suggestions—choosing where to go for dinner continued to be one of the hardest decisions of the trip.

“Sounds good, whatever,” Andy said. “The hot-pot place, Hoi day lu sounds like it will be a good option. The concierge desk said they don’t speak a lot of English. Err… they don’t speak any English… but they have pictures on the menu, so at least we can fake our way through it. Hopefully my Cantonese will get us by.”

“Yeah man, I’ll help where I can, but all I can say are numbers and random phrases like ‘I like to dance’ or ‘see a movie.’” Marcus and Andy head back to their room to take a nap that jet lag has pretty much made mandatory since they arrived in Shanghai a day ago.

Marcus wakes up, rephrasing his earlier words. “Nnnnngghhh, I feel awful. Why are naps so painful? This dinner better be good.”

“Don’t worry man, I have faith that we won’t die tonight.” Andy’s vote of confidence for the group’s ability to get through a Chinese-only speaking restaurant is high, apparently. “Let’s go get the girls and meet up with Momodou.”

The group meets in the lobby of the hotel, and makes the final call.

“Hy do Lou it is,” proclaims Andy.

“Hai di Lao,” says Marcus, quietly. “Let’s do it,” he continues.

“Yeah guys, I’m so excited!” says Caroline. “This is going to be an adventure! I can’t wait to see how this goes.” Caroline continues to be the optimist in the group. Andy, meanwhile, is still slowly recovering from his nap. Waking up from it felt roughly like climbing out of quicksand after being clubbed on the head.

“Alright, let’s get a cab. Marcus—you got your drunk card and phrase book?”

Marcus confirms by holding up the card with the hotel’s name and address written on it in Chinese and the all-important “I don’t eat pork,” also in Chinese characters for Nadia’s benefit.

“The other people will be so jealous of us,” Nadia chimes in. “We’re going to have an authentic experience and not pay $40 for some crappy Western food.”

Between the five people going to the restaurant, Andy is the most capable with Chinese, having grown up in a Cantonese/American household, but unfortunately like many Americans losing some of the facility he had with the language as time passed. Between the remaining four—Marcus, Momodou, Caroline, and Nadia there is probably about the same amount of Chinese words known—four. Marcus took a few introductory Chinese courses a few years ago, but the amount of language ability that remains is minimal.

The group of 5 climb into the taxi after getting a printout of the restaurant name in Chinese characters from the concierge desk.

“I want bubble tea,” Carline continues. “Bubble tea and hot pot and dumplings and pork buns. We are going to do so much on this trip...”

“Caroline, calm down.” Nadia says. “We still have a week and a half left. I don’t think the hot pot place offers all those things! Did you see how much Twilight talked to Ashley today? I can’t believe he sat next to you and didn’t even talk to you! How does he do that? White sweater was still wearing white. She’s so rude. I walked by her again, and she didn’t even say hi. Who do the globals think they are? Why don’t they have bubble tea at the hot pot place, Andy? Andy!?”

Nadia continues her characteristic rapid-fire question and self-answer conversation style, throwing in the nicknames she, Caroline, and Andy had developed for the other people on the China visiting program over the course of the last few weeks. Twilight is a guy who looks like a character from twilight. White sweater is a girl who always seems to wear white. The nicknames are very sophisticated. Globals are the other group of MBA students who have made the trip to Shanghai over the winter break.

“Can you guys chill?” Marcus interrupts. “I think the cab driver just turned up his music because of your voice Nadia.” Marcus chuckles until he sees the stare from Nadia and turns his attention to the streets outside. The Shanghai residents on the streets continue with their normal activities on a frigid and rainy Friday night. Heels click quickly on the pavement for those making the dash from their car to a bar or club while other city residents smoke and chat outside, rubbing their hands together in the chill. Although the area is not as pristine as the Bund area where the group is staying at the Westin, the streets are clean and orderly. Shanghai could easily be the Chinatown section of LA or New York in Andy’s eyes.

“I’ve been to hot-pot places a bunch of times before,” Andy begins.  “Basically you choose a broth and then different things to put in the boiling soup—seafood, chicken, other vegetables, noodles.”

“I can’t wait. Oohh—I there it is.” Caroline points out the window and the five of them climb out of the cab.

They enter the restaurant, and the confusion begins. Andy is talking to the host, while Marcus, Caroline, and Nadia stare at the chaos going on around them. Parents with kids are walking quickly to or from the bathroom; groups from 2 to 8 are seated throughout the restaurant, with shining eyes and laughing smiles, with a bubbling section in the center of each table. The host begins to lead Andy and the rest of the group into the restaurant, pointing them toward a small corner table with barely enough room for four kids-sized chairs.

“No, we want hot pot,” Andy explains, Making a symbol of a pot with boiling water with his hands. Really, there is no hand gesture of a pot with boiling water, so it turns into more of a swimming gesture with one hand flicking the air.

The host stares at the group and continues to speak Mandarin.

Hanging in the back, Marcus makes out a few words but can’t do anything to help. Nadia tries to help Andy by making her own boiling broth gesture and pointing.

“Hot pot! We want that,” she points to a group close by, who at this point, along with most everyone else in the restaurant have directed their attention to the Westerners who clearly have no idea what they’re doing. Finally, a manager who speaks English comes over.

“We have full—you wait here 10 minutes. Chinese Checkers, water. Then we call you to hot pot.” Somehow the message that they have to wait at this kids-size table with a few games and water that the tour books told people to avoid makes its way across. Andy sits down dejectedly, frustrated that his Cantonese is not enough to understand exactly what the servers are saying.

“It’s alright Andy. We wouldn’t even have gotten this far without you.” Caroline adds some words of comfort to Andy as Marcus sets up the Chinese Checkers board in completely the wrong way.

“Here’s how you play—you put all of your marbles in a triangle, and then just move one at a time into any other triangle until the other triangle is full.”

“Whatever. Let’s play.” Caroline, Momodou, and Marcus play a broken game of Checkers while Nadia consoles Andy and makes sure that the wait staff won’t ignore them.

After 15 minutes, the group gets seated and puts in their order for vegetable broth, seafood, sweet potatoes, and noodles, being careful to avoid pork for Nadia’s sake.

The water begins to boil, and the Westerner table now looks just as chaotic as the surrounding ones.

“This is great!” “What’s this one?” “Are the shrimp here yet?” “Make sure the spoon doesn’t fall in!” “Can we put the duck in yet?!” “Are you sure this is broccoli? It doesn’t look like broccoli.” “Who ordered so many shrimp?”

It isn’t really clear who ordered what, or if the translations for the things to put into the hot pot are accurate.

What the English-speaking waiter put on the table as “sweet potatoes,” was clear and noodle-looking. The broccoli was clearly cauliflower.

“Guys- this is awesome!” Caroline exclaims.

“For sure,” agrees Marcus. “Definitely not sweet potatoes, but still awesome.”

At this point, a server comes over, reaches into a bowl, and takes a pile of rice flour and egg into a stretchy ball. He continues to swing the ball around like a pizza, until something resembling strands of taffy forms. The server twirls, spins, twists, and swings the ingredients until they magically turn into the noodles that will go into the soup.

“Awesome! That’s crazy,” says Nadia. “How does he do that? I hope they don’t drop it on the ground. Caroline! Take a picture! Why aren’t you taking a picture? Andy- why don’t you tell him not to drop it on the ground?”

What started out as a groggy decision just to eat because it is dinner time turned out to be a memorable night.

“Andy, this is awesome. Thank you so much.” Caroline continues to be the gracious cheerleader.

“Guys, I didn’t do anything. But at least we’re not dead yet. The globals will definitely be jealous.” Andy finally cracks a smile as the amount of food that the group ordered becomes much bigger than the size of their stomachs. Although the food keeps coming, Andy sends the last few things back.

“Nice job, Andy,” agrees Marcus. “I can’t believe this actually worked. We’re going to have stories for days.”

The group slides out of the booth, removing the seat covers, bibs and phone covers that are part of the frenzy of the hot pot dining experience. They split up into separate cabs, and Nadia hands the driver her drunk card with the address of the hotel.

“Wo bu zhi dao. Wo men zai nar?” The cab driver has no idea where the three in the cab want to go. Marcus takes the card back and pieces together the handwriting on the bottom.

“I don’t eat pork.”

The cab pulls from the curb and begins toward an unknown destination. Definitely a memorable night in Shanghai.

See No Evil

“Some people swore that the house was haunted. But not anymore. Now it’s just 

another law office.“ The guide chuckles and rattles on, taking the occasional sip from his 

“This tour is not worth the $30,” Sid complains to his girlfriend. Sid and Sophie 

continue to wander the historic streets of Savannah on the last leg of their combined 

pub-crawl and ghost tour, the Georgia air clinging to them like the hanging moss on the 

southern oaks lining the streets. 

“Ah… this is mah favorite part,” explains the tour guide with enough accent to be 

endearing but not annoying. Does he practice that? Sid wonders. The guide waves his 

hands in a giant circle. 

“What don’t you see? Any of that hanging moss.” The guide is right. Around the 

square, there are the usual benches, brick paths, city vagrants, but not a trace of moss. 

Sid forces himself to hear bits and pieces of the guide’s story about William Wise, a 

slave owner from the 18th century. Wise beat his slaves, raped them, made them bathe 

him every day. One day, the slaves had enough. They saw Wise smirking in his slave-
drawn bath water and snapped. Husband and wife slaves held Wise’s smug face under 

the water for as long as it took. They fled town only to be dragged back. The husband 

was executed, but Alice the wife pleaded for her life. She was pregnant. With Wise’s 

baby. She waited out the pregnancy, and then was hanged in this same square over 

three days. Her baby died weeks later.

“And so,” the guide finished, “there’s no moss cuz it don’t grow where the blood 

of innocent lies. Look here-- this part is new.” He points to a wooden mausoleum-looking 

shack on the edge of the square. “Go in this box, even the unbelievers swear they 

hear Alice’s voice wailing and searching for her baby. Your turn.” The guide leads the 

skeptical Sid to the door. Sid can’t embarrass himself by asking for company and takes 

a step inside. 

The heat envelops him before he even closes the door. His collar feels tight. 

Man, it’s a sauna. He takes a long draw on his beer and feels it goes down like sand. 

Then he hears the scratching. “Sophie?” he pants. The poor construction of the hut is 

more like a sauna than Sid realizes. “…Alice?” he calls, not believing his own ears when 

he calls the name. Another scratch, followed by the sound of tattered rope dragging 

in the dirt. The last thing Sid remembers is a pair of eyes staring at him from a moss-
draped figure holding an empty shawl where a baby should have been.

But it’s the ambulance sirens that Sophie remembers. She remembers the 

guide morphing from endearing host into frantic accuser. “It’s too hot this time!” He’s 

screaming in his phone. “I know you said it’s fine, but we may lose this one.”

“This one?” Sophie wonders. The aimless happy hour conversation of the tour’s 

other members is long silent. 

The guide continues yelling over the deafening sirens. “Of course heat stroke 

makes you have hallucinations… Yeah that’s our product, we sell an experience. But 

damn man, forcing heat stroke for a little added experience was bound to go too far. A 

cup of water and a free t-shirt ain’t gonna solve this mess.”

The moss-less trees block out the streetlights, with the departing sirens casting 

swirling shadows over abandoned cups. The guide stares on in disbelief, thinking that 

Alice is the least of his worries.

Nothing was ever the same again after that.