No One Has Any Business Looking This Happy

Running around Fenway Park on a cold day does my soul good

The morning of Saturday, November 11th 2023 was a brisk day in Boston. It was sunny, but nevertheless, it was chilly as hell as I waited for my cohort to take off from the depths of Fenway Park’s Right Field Concourse. Hundreds of us waited, corralled in a sea of ropes donned in our weekend workout best (which for some was simply a pair of shorts and sneakers) but with one additional item: the Spartan Race headband.

The music blared, and we breathed on our hands and jumped up and down as we shuffled through to the starting line. Groups of 15 were set free every 60 seconds to test their mettle against 21 obstacles spread out over a 5K course in and out of my beloved Fenway Park.

“WHAT IS YOUR PROFESSION!?” The overseer asked us.

“AROO! AROO! AROO!” was what we answered.

BEEEEEEEP! We were off.

As I hurtled up the stairs to the upper decks, I reminded myself that I had to manage my energy. I didn’t want to gas out before I really began, and I wasn’t in this to compete with anyone. I was here for myself.

I love baseball, and my home ballpark is Fenway Park. I’m spoiled as a fan of the game because of this ancient, magnificent cathedral of baseball. As much as I wanted to challenge myself physically, I also really wanted to run around a place that means so much to me.

I sprinted through the seats, wove under wires, carried heavy object after heavy object, threw a spear, failed a few obstacles (I'll be back, monkey bars!), climbed a rope, climbed a net, and ran out of the dugout and onto the field.

And it was wicked.

Halfway through one of the longest obstacles, the sandbag-carry, I realized I was having far too much fun.

Look at this picture:

No one should look this happy while carrying a 40-pound sandbag.

Some people skated past me with theirs, but many had come to a stop. Sandbags littered the centerfield bleachers like abandoned mementos from a bad trip. Meanwhile, I kept smiling and laughing as I trotted along the stands with my 40-pound buddy, shuffling it from shoulder to shoulder.

My Spartan Race wasn't a "Type 2 Fun" event. I wasn't questioning my choice in the midst of it. I knew what I signed myself up for despite my friends questioning my decision.

I didn’t have any epiphanies because of my sandbag-carrying glee. I didn’t think, “If I can do this, I can do anything!” But I did think, “This is amazing! I hope the players run around like this in their training.” Because it was just so cool.

My Spartan Race was not life-changing. It was not transformative. I didn’t walk away from it feeling like a new person. I didn’t make any vows about changing my life or anything like that.

But I did walk away from it feeling accomplished and affirmed in the capabilities I already possessed.

I walked away from it feeling like a stronger version of myself.

I walked away from it, cold and sweaty and tired and smiling, ready for the next one.

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PS - I love Molang and my sister texted me this with, “There, I fixed it,” after I sent her the above photo: