Mud run is gooey fun

I stepped out of my house last Sunday at 6 a.m., dressed like Michael Jackson.

Trust me, that's not how I spend most weekends.

But on this pre-Labor Day, I slipped on a Michael mask and did a few moonwalk moves in hopes of winning the best costume contest in a freakishly entertaining foot race at Soaring Wings Vineyard.

I was rewarded for my effort — with encouragement, not prizes.

“C'mon, Michael,” a man shouted from atop a dirt pile. “Get down and dirty.”

I shook my head, sat on my knees and dipped my body under a foot of icky brown water.

Ewww. It was the mud pit — the race's most-anticipated obstacle — and it smelled like boo-boo.

The rectangular ditch filled to the brim with cold water was the highlight (lowlight?) of the Nebraska Sports Council's trail run. The trench wasn't very big or deep, but it felt gooey and was dangerously slippery.

What did I get myself into? A big murky mess called “Mud Run.”

The race began at 9 a.m. Sunday, and I wasn't used to being up that early. Not even close. I've never risen before “This Week” with TV anchor George Stephanopoulos. I enjoy his Sunday Funnies segment over a bowl of Cheerios.

But this day, I chose to wake up at the crack of dawn to pick up two running buddies — an old college friend and co-worker, Leia, and my younger sister, Veronica — to hit the muddy trail in Springfield, Neb.

We had talked about running the 3.1 mile course for weeks. For three years, Nebraska runners have participated in either the 5K or one-mile trail race to promote fitness and good old-fashioned fun. They weave down dirt roads, vineyard aisles and patches of open fields filled with tall grass and weeds. Army-crawling through a mud course sounded exciting.

I trained, too. A few days before the event, I ran on the treadmill for about 20 minutes.

But I was serious about creating a team. We made costumes and painted our faces. At last year's race, half of the 600 runners who participated dressed in costume, said Scott Ash of the Nebraska Sports Council. He suggested that my team go as the uber-popular “KISS” rockers. I'm not a big fan of spiky dog collar chokers or dominatrix pleather outfits, so we opted for something more like us. In a weak attempt at an offbeat tribute to the King of Pop, we became “Team M.J.”

Leia already had a Michael Jackson mask. Who knows why. I dropped into a Halloween novelty store to pick up white face paint and fake blood. For just under $8, we had the fixings for the dead creatures from “Thriller.” I spent another two hours at thrift stores combing through gently used clothes for a red patent-leather jacket. I had no luck. The day of the race, I wore a red tank-top and black stretchy leggings, so I was elected to be Michael.

Through the grapevine, we heard that a mariachi group was competing. My zombie friends didn't like that much.

“Are they wearing ponchos or sombreros?” Veronica asked, fearing the intense competition. She's very competitive.

She insisted that Team M.J. look as authentic as possible.

“Dude,” I said. “I'm wearing a mask and you're going as a dead person.” Later on, as I was wheezing along the course and holding the mask's mouth open, I regretted that decision.

She made sure they applied lots of pale, flaky skin, a bullet hole and bloody tears on their zombie faces. They looked incredibly dead. We also researched “Thriller” dance moves on YouTube.

But none of that mattered when we confronted that unforgiving mud pit. The thought of the stench still makes me gag.

“It's mud,” said Mud Run volunteer Scott Stopak. “What's mud supposed to smell like?”

“I don't know,” I joked. “Like flowers?”

Stopak pointed Team M.J. to the vineyard aisle that would eventually lead us to the 40-foot by 20-foot mud pit, about the length of two large SUVs.

It was September in Nebraska. We inhaled hot, dusty, bug-infested air as we ran through muddy fields. The ground was uneven, and the dew from the tall grass soaked our tennis shoes. They made squishy noises as we hustled to catch up with the other freaks.

A man in a blond curly wig and sparkly blue cocktail dress led the pack. A group of adult Girl Scouts jogged, cookies included. A guy in a black graduation gown and cap raced alongside a gal in a grass skirt and colorful leis. A cheesy tennis couple ran with rackets; a throng of pint-size smurfs weaved through the vineyard and several doctors, nurses and a patient (with his plastic cheeks showing) were in the mix.

Team M.J. trailed in the back. I could barely breathe under the mask as I slid across the muddy vineyard.

It was motivating to hear people — superheroes, women in diapers and men in dresses — cheer us on.

“Go, Michael!” a woman shrieked. “Hee-hee!”

Team M.J. boogied to Michael Jackson's “Thriller,” if only in our heads. A guy with a goggles nearly tripped at the sight of us.

We crawled through mud. We walked through mud. We ran through mud. We held our breath while crawling through a foot of muddy waters.

When we reached the mud pit, I froze. I wasn't sure I wanted to jump in with Michael's face on. I didn't want to soil the mask in the swampy water. Ash was standing near the pit entry.

“It's OK, Josie,” he said. “Jump in with it. You're Michael, right? You'd better hurry if you want to catch up to your zombie friends.”

My zombie dancers dove in before me, so I couldn't ask for help. I kept my head on.

It felt like I was crawling through a bowl of chocolate pudding. Argh. I couldn't see from underneath Michael's silly head. Every time I looked up, I could see the ropes tied across the pit to keep runners from standing. At one point during my gooey crawl, I couldn't figure out if it was my hair or Michael's that had been tangled in one of those ropes. I tugged the hair free. My head didn't throb, so that hair had to be Michael's.

I glanced at the sidelines to find a dozen people snapping photos, clapping and encouraging me to finish. People were chanting, “Go, Michael. Go, Michael. Go!”

I finally reached the end of the pit. One of my zombies came back to get me. We looked like cadaverous creatures rising from the grave. Mud splattered everywhere. We enjoyed it.

But did we win? Let's just say we didn't finish with the best time. That was a 45-year-old guy from Plattsmouth. He finished the 5K race in 14 minutes and 50 seconds. The blonde in a dress (Gabriel Kenne) placed second. Winners received medals, but they did it mostly for bragging rights.

A man with snow-white hair, standing on top of a firetruck, sprayed runners with the truck's hose after the race.

Not all of the mud rinsed away, but we felt way better than we had. Many of the racers mingled over glasses of wine. They shared stories about why they joined the race, how they heard about it and how far they traveled. Some runners came from Lincoln and South Dakota to compete.

“How was it?” Ash asked.

“Uh, muddy,” I said.

“What other place can you go to on a Sunday morning to drink wine with a mouthful of mud in your teeth?” he said.

He was right. The gritty trail race was truly amazing. A fitting for tribute for the King of Pop.