Fluge Global Adventures

By Yelena

According to the Random House Dictionary, the term warrior has two meanings: the first literal use refers to “someone engaged or experienced in warfare.” The second refers to “a person who shows or has shown great vigor, courage, or aggressiveness, as in politics or athletics.”

I don’t know much about politics, so when I discovered Red Frog Events was holding their annual 3.5mile obstacle course race – known as the Warrior Dash – for the first time in the Northwest, I had to seize the opportunity to earn the title myself.

I rallied two of my best friends, Caitlin and Jennifer, to ensure my success. All three of us approached the starting line cool, poised, calm. Unprepared.

Shortly after the starting gun went off, I realized why this race is described as “the craziest freaking day of your life.” The bottleneck of race participants quickly fanned out as we were faced with a ½-mile, lung-busting vertical hill-climb that made Mount Hood look like a leisurely stroll. I took this opportunity to channel my inner Fluge and pass the slower competitors on the inside of the trail as they attempted to switch gears to the insanity of the obstacle course.

Barrel rolls through waist-deep frigid water were followed by cargo nets, rope-repelling down the side of a mountain, a Dukes-of-Hazard-like jump over a few junk-yard cars, all while dodging ankle-twisting mud holes and maneuvering up slick inclines that made my heart explode and my legs pump battery acid. All around me I heard the grunts and moans of fellow competitors as they attempted to pass me on the uphills; but I kept a firm pace, remembering Nick’s heroic Kilamanjaro summit, determined to make the FGA nation proud.

Three miles later, my confidence was at an all-time high as I set my sights on the finish line. But first, I had to hurl myself over not one, but TWO walls of fire. Only moments earlier, another participant had tripped and landed face-first only inches from the inferno; so needless to say I was planning my attack carefully. I quietly thanked Fluge for the hours of footwork we had practiced with BOSU balls at Ballys as I leapt over the blaze and into the mud pit that followed.

Crawling boot-camp-style under countless strands of barbed wire, swimming through the final portion, I emerged from my mud bath and crossed the finish line victoriously with my friends beside me. I had shown great vigor and courage, and had earned the label I had worked so hard to attain. I had proven that I was a warrior. But more importantly, I had proven that to live the FGA lifestyle, you can’t be afraid to get a little dirty.