My Spartan race day did not take off as planned. Nor did the day go as picturesque as I envisioned in my mind. But it was race day, and I stood quaking in my orange sneakers.

Race day began at 6:30 a.m. Sunday and unfurled in a hurry of finding appropriate socks that wouldn’t slide down during the run; this is a much bigger deal than one would assume. By seven, my dad and I were in the car driving through the early morning fog and encouraging each other to drink copious amounts of water. The drive into Vermont was a pleasant one, seeing as how the trees had changed.

Two hours later we arrived at Killington Mountain. It was hard not to notice the magnitude of the mountain before me. It was mammoth, and the trees were orange and red. People hopped out of their cars in matching t-shirts, kilts or any other assortment of odd costumes. I lamented the fact we didn’t do t-shirts. The walk up to the sign-in tables was like a pre-workout. Sign in was a breeze; it was the waiting that killed me - the anticipation.

Ready to go with a camelback filled with water and a few snacks stuffed in the bottom, we made our way towards the corral. People were stretching, watching other heats of racers begin and getting their race numbers written on their arms. The first obstacle begins before the race even starts - getting over the five-foot wall into the corral. Back in 2014, my dad and a stranger threw me over the wall; this time I wasn’t letting that happen. I managed to hoist myself over the wall and stood there victoriously as if the race was over.

One thing I liked about this year’s race setup is that it was honest. They didn’t try to trick racers into believing that they weren’t running straight up the mountain like in 2014. Staring past the start line, I could see the flattened grass path leading straight up the mountain.

The announcer went through a chant where participants respond with “I am Spartan.” It makes you feel alive hearing all these people chanting with you. It was a last minute pump up before the terrible reality that was the mountain.

I won’t lie, it was rough. Probably the hardest thing I have ever done. The first incline was rough and seemed never-ending; oh how naive I was. I could feel my muscles tensing and my lungs working to keep me going. The first incline followed a path that would take us up, over, and eventually back down the face of the mountain.

An added stress is the fact I have type one diabetes; my pancreas doesn’t produce insulin so I have to wear an insulin pump or take shots. In the past, there had been water obstacles on the course, so I couldn’t wear my pump. We brought a tester to ensure we could know what our blood sugars were, but we didn’t have insulin to fix it. My blood sugars the whole race were far too high. My dad said if it got to a high enough point he would make me stop. So I tried to relax, knowing anxiety about this day was the route of my problem. I drank a lot of water to try and force it to go down. At this point, we were facing a straight up climb. Some people were using their hands to pull themselves up the hill. One of the best parts of these races is the camaraderie between people. At some point, each person hates their decision to do this and wonders how they were convinced to pay for this. Nothing makes the slow crawl up that hill better than a group of people around you complaining about how sadistic this is.

Most of the time my dad was ahead of me. He trained a lot harder for this than I did. Cough, show off. He waited for me, asking how I was feeling and if I wanted to keep going. Of course I did. I wasn’t going to haul myself up a mile of a mountain to walk away without a t-shirt.

The uphills were constant. We would get to the top of one, turn a corner and find another. By now, I had gotten sick. The heat and the high blood sugar had gotten to me but I wasn’t quitting, even if I should have.

I walked at my own pace up the hills, sometimes walking backward up the hill and taking in the gorgeous view around us. I would walk a portion and rest, and then keep going. That’s when I saw this man stroll around the corner in a Wonder Woman armor top, patterned leggings, and a fuzzy unicorn hat tucked into his waistband. He was holding his camelback bag, and he would turn to anyone who would listen and go “guess what, this isn’t water, it's Fireball.” He went on to explain how half the bottle fit in his camelback.

It's really the people that make this special. If I was hunched over ready to puke my guts out, chances are most people walking by were asking if I was okay or if I was with someone. It’s so appreciated knowing that these strangers care and are willing to talk to you.

After hours of uphill climbing, we came to a plateau and ahead of me I could see these people standing and staring at something. I assumed it was an obstacle and there was a line. Nope. It was the largest hill I've ever seen in my life and people were running down it. From the top, I couldn’t see the bottom. All I could see were people of all ages, races, and genders trying not to face plant on a rock running downhill. I fell behind from my dad *shocker* who, in his surefootedness, moved down the hill confidently. I, on the other hand, fell numerous times before I decided the world didn’t intend for me to walk traditionally down the hill. I ended up using my butt as a sled of sorts. I slid down the hill, using my feet and hands as breaks. It was that steep. A girl roughly the same age as me joined and we chatted sliding down the hill. Maybe a quarter away from the bottom there was a man in this more wooded area being treated with an air cast on his leg. You could see the pain in his face as a team of medics had to walk the sled they would use to get him out of there up this large hill.

In a way, I don’t think I can accurately describe how hard this race is. It’s almost something you need to see or experience yourself.

Together my dad and I hopped over a tall pyre of fire and jogged a few feet across the finish line where I was greeted with my finisher medal. The guy who took off the racing timer attached to my wrist complimented my tattoo. I grabbed two bottles of water and went to the t-shirt stand. Almost five miles later and that shirt was mine!

My dad once said to me that this was his last race. During the run, he said, “this is my last one here,” meaning he may be open to doing a Warrior Dash or potentially a Spartan Race with a smaller mountain.

This race did not go as I thought. I wanted it to be some sort of victorious end of an era, but I don’t think now it was meant to be. I think the Killington Mountain chapter has closed, but I don’t think our racing days are over, no matter what he says.

AROO!