The taste of iron coats your throat. Your mouth is dry from inhaling more dust that you thought possible. Your heaving lungs feel like they’re going to burst as you’re running up, yes up, a ski slope. Your quads are on fire but finally get a moment of relief as you reach the summit. Now you have wet noodles as legs. You catch your breathe only to groan as you turn your head and catch a glimpse of yet. another. hill. Run again.
Welcome to Spartan races.
Meet Spartan racers. A very specific group of people who enjoy pushing their body to the limits to see what it is capable of.
After becoming slightly obsessed with Spartan races myself, I began photographing at different races, intrigued by the qualities of my fellow racers. Familiar with the burning muscles, those lovely rock buckets, the chills of the dunk wall, and the sheer exhaustion only to be followed by the rush of victory upon completion, I wanted to capture those moments in an attempt to share those feelings.
The sharp weight of the bucket of rocks cuts into your arms, torso, and shoulders as you try to figure out how to carry it. Holding the edge of the lid feels like it’s cutting into your fingers, poor choice. You pause for a moment and steady yourself, then hoist it up to your shoulder and attempt to balance it. Somehow you manage it, while simultaneously trying to run without slipping up and down another (shocking) hill. As you’re trudging along, the realization of what you’re doing is honestly quite comical, that you’re carrying a literal bucket of rocks for no actual reason except to see if you’re capable of doing it. But, you do it. Who knew putting a bucket down could feel so good. Now run.
Palms and fingers burn as you pull down on the coarse rope, trying to hoist the sandbag attached to the other end of it up to the beam that’s about 25 feet above you. You reach up, brace your feet on the fence, and lean back until your back touches the ground, trying to utilize gravity and your body weight to relieve the burning of your forearms. Finally the bag is at the top and your forearms are so tight that they feel like they’re made of wood. You try to stay in control as you let the bag back down to the ground while race overseers incrementally yell, “DON’T DROP THE BAGS”. For a brief second, you attempt to shake the tension out of your arms and the cramping out of your fingers. Now run.
You can finally see the finish line. Dust coats every inch of your body, some is now mud after it mixed with sweat. In a few moments, it will pour off you in dark streams after the shocking cold of the dunk wall envelops you. You reach the edge of the giant ditch filled with what looks like chocolate milk and the mud sucks at your shoes as you try not to slip into the inviting pool in front of you. You know you have to swim under the wall in front of you but you can’t see the other side and can’t see into the “water”. Don’t think about it. You inhale sharply as the temperature shocks your skin and you feel around for the bottom of the wall. Deep breath. You gasp upon emerging, the chill of the water temporarily numbing your burning muscles. Now run.
The water pours off of you and squelches out of your shoes as you try to run towards the slip wall, its metal shine mostly covered up by now with muddy hand and foot prints of those who have made their way up before you. Use the rope and get to the top. Now run.
You made it. Still relatively covered in mud, water streams still pouring off of you, muscles burning that you didn’t even know could burn, but all your pain receptors dull for a moment when you cross that line. You don’t want to, but you make your way to the freezing cold hoses and shiver as dirt pours off your clothes and out of your hair.
The weight of the medal hung around your neck is satisfying, but the only thing you’re thinking about is how bananas have never tasted better and how good the dry finisher shirt you just received feels. You’re exhausted. Goosebumps cover your skin and your hair stands up. Everything hurts. But you did it. You’re a Spartan.
Meet the Spartan racers. They’re everyone. They could even be you.
