March’s Gladiator Assault was the brand’s debut the next round hits Lake Geneva September 29 and 30. Not surprisingly, races keep piggybacking onto the trend. Last year, roughly 1 million people in the U.S. (Because of the terrain needed, the “Chicago” races usually take place in a suburb, Wisconsin or Indiana.) In 2010, the Spartan Race and the Tough Mudder debuted on the East Coast before bringing events to the Midwest.
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In 2009, a River North company called Red Frog Events held the first Warrior Dash in Joliet for a sell-out crowd of 2,000 racers today, that 5K is the fastest growing running series nationwide, with a projected 750,000 participants in 48 cities, plus Australia, Ireland, England and Canada, this year. Obstacle racing has its roots in England, where the Tough Guy Challenge, an eight-mile trail run featuring flooded tunnels, fire pits and commandos firing smoke bombs at participants, was founded in 1987. Apparently, Americans are eager to get beaten by pugils, those jousting sticks from American Gladiators. The same universe that has spawned not only today’s race, but also the Tough Mudder, the Warrior Dash, the Muddy Buddy, the Spartan Race, the Down & Dirty National Mud Run and the dozens of other obstacle races sweeping the United States. The question is: In what universe do people pay to crawl under barbed wire, or to haul a 20-pound log through a forest, or to slide down a mud-slicked tarp into a mud-filled pond that will, as one male racer put it, freeze your balls off? (It’s March 31 and 37 degrees.) The demographic here is more yuppy than military. After all, I’m in Lake Geneva, a ritzy Wisconsin resort town, for the Gladiator Assault Challenge, a race that hundreds of people have paid $60–$90 to do. My dad was a marine, and the comparisons to boot camp flashing through my head would probably make him laugh. Marines tank tops charge past me, leaping over four-foot-high hurdles made of logs. I tug up my shorts for the millionth time as a man and woman in U.S. Would’ve been better to stay low and risk face-planting into the mud. Shit-is my back bleeding? A few minutes ago, crawling under barbed wire, I’d let my spine arch a half-inch too far and, well, ouch. Instead, the mucus trails down my upper lip. I’d like to blot my runny nose with my shirt sleeve, but that’s also soaked with mud. My shorts are so caked in filth they’re falling off, the elastic waistband sagging with the weight of mud.
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