Princess-the-Older came to me weeks ago and stated, “Coach wants me to run in a Spartan Race, can I?”

You may have the same question I did, “What’s a Spartan Race?”

After a little discussion with her coach, and his explanation, I said, “Sounds like fun, how much?”

After they picked me up off the floor, I regained some of my senses, and I heard myself saying, “$90, you must be kidding!”

They explained, that for this mere pittance, she would have the privilege of running 5 miles through creeks, woods, in mud, both running and slithering, climbing walls, throwing spears, jumping though fire, and letting huge men dressed as gladiators pummel her with pugil sticks as she crossed the finish line. For completing the course, she would get a T-shirt and a medal declaring her a Spartan.

I suggested we flood the garden, swim through the pond, climb the shop wall and jump off the other side and pretty much do the same thing in the back yard and I would be happy to go buy a couple of shirts and a magic marker and scrawl, “I Finished” across them. I would even go so far as to get a couple of wooden disks and draw something on them, string them on ribbon and hang them around their necks and declare them whatever they wanted to be. They looked at me as if I had two heads ... waiting ... staring ... two against one. They won, I agreed to the entry. Clearly, I had not regained my full faculties — $90 for a race? As it turns out, it was cheap at twice the price.

After six weeks of practices, and more money for training, gas and food, it was looking to be too much. The day finally arrived, and of course, for a Spartan Race, it rained.

We arrived with the rest of the registered 4,332 other racers, and their spectator followers. For $10, we got to park in a field in the same county as the race. It was an endurance event walking through the rain for a mile-and-a-half to where we were to pay another $20 for the privilege of standing in shoe sucking mud, in yet more rain, to watch the Princess run, or more like slip and slide through the course.

Once inside, we met up with the rest of team “The Sofa Kings,” about 20 of them. We milled around in the cold and rain for near an hour getting bibs pinned on, clothes changed, last minute visits to restrooms made, and a myriad other details, and made our way to the start.

Here, every 15 minutes, groups of 200 racers climbed over a 7-foot wall to get into the starting queue where they went through a ceremony making them potential Spartans. The starter got them worked up to a fevered pitch before dropping the rope and off they went.

We watchers made our way to the first station where we could see an activity. The Spartans-in-making ran up to where they had to pull a heavy concrete weight attached to a rope up 30 feet and lower it back down. If they were unable to complete the task, they had to do 30 burpees, and exercise designed to make you wish you had pulled the rope successfully. The 30-burpee penalty was standard throughout the event for any activity you were unable to complete.

We watched as the teams worked to make sure every member made it through the event without having to do the penalty. There were many racers without team affiliation and as I observed them through the day, it appeared to me that they were not having near as much fun as those with a team. We waited for The Sofa Kings and our Princess.

The first thing I noticed as she approached the area at a run and as she entered the rope/weight pulling event was that her eyes were bright and she was smiling. She was having a ball. My heart sang. The smile did not leave her face the entire day.

The Sofa Kings had agreed that they would all make it though as near together as possible. The coach, running the event in blue jeans, a chamois shirt, long haired pirate wig, and bandana, brought up the rear, making certain that even the slowest made it through and would finish.

As the events wore on and we watched and waited, one thing became clear. The participants and spectators were good people, willing to help each other in any way possible. There were teams with members who were amputees on crutches running the event. I later found out that the team members took turns, where necessary, carrying these individuals along the trails. I witnessed countless acts of selfless service among racers and watchers, people helping others through mud, across barriers, watching children, taking each other’s picture, holding gear, carrying each other, and many more.

It became clear to me as the race neared its end that being a Spartan was not about enduring discomfort, pain and elements. It is about being part of a community where the strong serve the weak making them strong enough to serve those yet weaker, and making the whole society work.

I did not run the race, but next time, I will. I see something in the eyes of those who finished that I do not have. They are Spartans in the true sense of the word, not necessarily warriors in battle, but all fighting as one for the good of the country. That is something we have lost in America. I am not a Spartan ... yet, but I will be ... for the good of you and me.

David Wilson Atwood may be contacted at david@starchasers.us.