This year Jason and I participated in the Dirty Dash again for the third time in a row. Although our companions on this run change every year along with the weather’s temperament, the outcome never does. We consistently end up goopier than a sick toddler’s diaper after trudging through stinky streams, sludgy pools and slippery hillsides but getting gross is more fun than you’d imagine. You’ve always wanted a mud-stache haven’t you?

Our team this year, originally comprised of Jason and me and our friends Adam and Abigail, picked up a straggler from a different group signup gone awry, my buddy David. He was asked to join a team of six that ended up being five short. Luckily, David had us as a backup and we’ll take anybody. We designated ourselves The Mucky Brewsters and attempted (unsuccessfully) to dress accordingly. If you’re too young to understand our clever pun then you missed out on some quality 80s entertainment.

Unlike last year, our early starting slot did not result in near hypothermia this time. The temperatures were perfect that morning for a hop in the slop. We were warm enough that we didn’t freeze while swimming through vats of muddy goo but cold enough we didn’t crack like the grime on our skin between obstacles.

While the Dirty Dash is a run, “running” is perhaps not the best description for what we did along its route. Adam admittedly loathes exercise and plans on avoiding it for the rest of his life if at all possible. And David, while always very concerned about the size of his muscles, often neglects to remember the size of his puny heart. So yes, we had a few cardiovascular difficulties during our sullied trek. However, although the reluctance of some of our racers necessitated a lot more walking through this course than usual, everyone completed the 10K. (Adam’s exercise-induced catatonic state made tricking him into missing the 5K shortcut easier.)

I’ll admit though that David did come in handy on a few occasions despite his aerobic insufficiencies. As we all know, I have the upper body strength of a gerbil so I’m sure that some of the race barriers that involved the mandatory use of arm muscles would have resulted in catastrophe and humiliation for me had both Jason and David not been around to act as my saviors. For instance, I completely slipped at the apex of one wooden wall that was about 15 feet high and I’m not too much of a stalwart feminist to admit that had those two boys not come to my rescue and grabbed me I would have ended up flat on my face and probably broken. David, I am most grateful for your muscles yet that appreciation will not stop me from making fun of your stride. Idiocy = teasing. Sorry, I can’t change the laws of the universe that dictate the balancing of that equation.

The Dirty Dash was again as filthy as its name would suggest. I’m glad that Jason and I had a couple of fresh, albeit sluggish, recruits to pester along its sloppy path. And yes, those dawdling rookies may have been somewhat instrumental in the successful implementation of my manglement prevention program. Thank you slow people for flexing your limbs when my tiny T. rex arms failed me.

Dirty Dash, may your dirt be as cozy and your muck be as sweet next time me and your mud pits meet.