This is how Hell
and Back Apollo ‘13 went down.
Race day. Shorts or running tights? Nerves. Jelly belly. Where’s
the loo? Butterflies. Shorts or running tights? What about my dodgy leg? I’ve
got the cold. What should I eat? What did I learn from last time? Shorts or
running tights? And this was before we got into the car.
We make the 2 hour journey to Wicklow in an atmosphere of
excitement and anxiety – all wondering how today’s event might physically and
mentally scar us for life. We arrive at the venue in the nick of time for
Cormac to reach his wave and set off around the trail of torture, which,
unexpectedly, has turned into a 12km run. What a wonderful surprise.
As Cormac sets off, myself, Nichola and Jennifer assess
the amenities and take a few 'before shots' of our brand, new, clean as a
whistle, Cancer Focus vests. Next, Nichola and Jen finish their warm up and disappear
through a hole in a wall with their dessignated wave. Thankfully, Ciaran and Dave quickly arrive
with our newest recruit Tony. We make our way to the starting line and off we
go.
It begins. Ditch of Doom – nothing like a dip in a trench of
water to start things off. My clothes soak up the water like they’re genuinely
thirsty. The added few kilos of water to my body weight is welcomed with a high
pitched shriek. I fumble up the far side of the ditch.
We sail over the ski jump and reach ‘The Rock and Ice Baths
of Siberia’. Did I miss something? Have we left Ireland? I climb up the squidgy
bales of hay and slip into a skip filled with sludge and water (and whatever
else). Deep breath, I’m in. Yuck. I make my way through the slime, minding the
wooden plank above me. And I’m out again...with just enough time to grasp some
air, wipe my face and smile for a camera in front of me. I didn’t realise that
the paparazzi were offering themselves as an extra obstacle. I drag myself out
of the skip, marinated in muck. I must be holding a good stone of water by now.
Superb.
We slip and slide our way through the mud ahead and find
ourselves in a murky, misty forest. Hold on, am I in the opening scene of
Saving Private Ryan? Is my name John McClane? Black Hawk Down? No, it’s Sniper Alley. Pellet after pellet catapult off the wooden
boards to my left. As I dodge a couple more, another gets me right in the
thigh, another in my arse cheek. I can hear Tony and Ciaran squealing behind me.
Did we actually pay for this?
We make it through about a kilometre of gun shots and pull ourselves
through the Boggy Hollow. We make our
way through winding trails of deep muck that engulfs our, once white, trainers.
In and out, around and around, to the left, to the right, under and over. We
dodge branches and trip up steep mounds of saturated earth, all the time
helping each other reach the next impediment - The Slimy Swamp of Perdition.
Déjà vu. I start to realise that I’ve seen this swamp before;
this is where I ended up waist deep in thick mud in February begging for passersby
to haul me out. I
come to the realisation that they’re taking us along same route as February’s Hell
and Back Trojan, only this time, it’s in the opposite direction. But that
means...no it couldn’t...yes it does. Sugar Loaf Mountain is right ahead of me,
the very mountain that nearly broke me in February.
We soldier on anyhow and reach the appropriately named ‘Satan’s
Sewer’ - four tubes, each just wide enough to hold one person. We shuffle down
the tubes, smelling and feeling like we are literally exiting Satan’s
intestines. That’s one obstacle I don’t hope will be repeated. We slip out of
the devil’s bog and reach The River of Acheron. We jump in. I’m in the zone and
feel quite smug as I see dozens of men around me gripping their shrinking man
hood. We make our way out of the woods
and pass the Hurdles of Hell, dipping and diving over a range of barriers.
There she is, Sugar Loaf Mountain, only this time it’s
called ‘Burn Baby Burn’ and oh how she burns. I run towards the base of the mountain
but abruptly come to walking pace. It’s too steep to run. Again, why did I not
run more? I lengthen my strides to try to make the most of my walking pace on
the uneven path. We reach road surface again and my mind gets the better of me.
“I can’t do it”, Tony and Ciaran walk with me for a minute, cheering me on and
letting me catch my breath. I pick a point and we start to run again. I’m
feeling optimistic.
We turn the corner and the reality of Sugar Loaf Mountain
smacks us in the face like a slap from John Wayne. Here comes the tourrette’s. The
course has been laid out in such a way that we are zig zagging our way up the
hill. Hats off to the organisers, they really know how to break a human’s soul.
This is where the mental battle really begins. I look to my feet and
concentrate on moving one in front of the other. Stage by stage, we push each
other on. When we reach the top we all feel like Kings of the Mountain - if
this was the Tour De France, we’d all have spotted jerseys. But it’s not. It’s
hell and we haven’t made it out alive yet.
We start our descent with hunger in our eyes. We pass the ‘Hades
of Horror’ and reach ‘Nightmare on Hell Street’ – a beautifully named street if
you ask me. We crawl beneath barbed wire, under army nets and reach a, no joke,
12 foot wall which we have no option but to get over. I make a feeble attempt
to bounce to the top, I slide back down with the grace of Nelly the Elephant and
make puppy dog eyes at Tony who offers a helping hand. I reach the other side
and have no option but to carry on and hope that some other Knight in Shining
Armour can do the same good deed for him. My strength is diminishing rapidly as
I reach another high obstacle which I am shoved over by a fellow participant.
Thank you kind sir, off I go through the electrically charged tunnel. It feels
like I’m being hit by a small bundle of fireworks but I power on.
I reach the very last hurdle and decide to go out with a
bang. I fire ahead and launch myself at the vertical slope, grabbing onto the
single rope offered to me for help. My feet slip from beneath me and I grip the
rope like a baby would his last bottle. I’m now hanging over the edge where I yelp
a blood curdling “Help me!” I’m pulled to the top and see what must be a 15ft drop
before me. Que quivering flashbacks of the free fall in Indiana Land when I was
8...I fling myself off the edge and reach the bottom with a triple tumble slash
roll to the mud. I slide round the corner, glide through the finish line and
smile with triumph as I am reunited with my team mates.
If that’s what hell is like, give me a one way ticket back.
In fact, Satan may get ready, we’re all
coming back.
Help us keep Fiona’s memory alive. Donate here to support
Cancer Focus in her name.
