The Spartan Beast at Killington Vermont

Introduction:

The Spartan Beast at Killington Mountain in Vermont is the gold standard for endurance racing. Widely considered to be the most challenging obstacle course in the world (Google says so) the Killington Beast attracts about 3k-4k people every September. With a DNF rate of anywhere from 40%-60% (depending on conditions), just finishing this race is a huge accomplishment.

My brother introduced me to this race in 2023. He provided very limited information to me. He told me it was a race at Killington Mountain and that there were a bunch of obstacles. While not untrue, this description fails to capture the true spirit of this event. The reality is that this race is absolutely brutal. Which is to say it’s absolutely amazing. How can it be both? I don’t have a great answer other than to say that’s probably what makes it so great. You don’t compete in the Killington Beast, you survive it. I have a hard time even calling it a race. Voluntary torture is a more fitting description. Part of me is convinced that my brother liked the idea of subjecting me to this level of suffering. His motivations for introducing me to this race notwithstanding, I am thankful he did. He got me hooked and that was that. I’m not sure what that says about me, but I don’t really care. I’m not alone. There are 4,000 other crazy, unbalanced people that feel the same way I do. Regardless of how I got roped into this Spartan race, the fact remains that there is no greater test of physical and mental toughness in the racing world than the Killington Spartan Beast. At least for the layman and I was most certainly a layman.

I mention this because the Beast is not the most difficult race at Killington. They have multiple types of races. The Spartan Sprint is a 5K with 20 obstacles. The Spartan Super is a 10K with 25 obstacles. The Spartan Beast (the race I’m running in) is 21K with 30 obstacles.

Finally, the Spartan Ultra is a 50K race with 60 obstacles. It’s basically two laps of the beast. I don’t count this race as the hardest because it’s not for the ordinary person. It’s for elite endurance athletes. The beast is at least plausible for the ordinary person and that is why I am labeling it the hardest endurance race on the planet.

The distance of the beast is only a small part of what makes the race so difficult. In addition to the 21K (essentially a ½ marathon), competitors must tackle 30 obstacles that range from relatively easy to absurdly impossible along the way. There is about 6,400 FT of elevation gain to tackle, which is akin to climbing Mount Washington (NH’s highest mountain) twice. I want to highlight just how difficult 6,400 FT of elevation gain is. Any mountain hike that has over 4,000 feet in gain is by my definition difficult. 6,400 FT over 13-14 miles while tackling 30 obstacles is not difficult, its obscene. Leading up to the race I did some research trying to get a better sense of what I was getting myself into. It became clear pretty quickly that this wasn’t just another race. There was a section called the “Death March.” While that sounded ominous, I was actually more freaked out about another obstacle that was called the “dunk wall.” The dunk wall required the competitor to completely submerge themselves underwater in a muddy water pit. Oh, and this obstacle is typically towards the beginning of the race so most of the race would be run while being soaking wet and covered in mud!

There were giant walls to climb over. There was barb wire to climb under. There were cargo nets, spear throws and something called the Tyrolean Traverse. As if that wasn’t enough, there were obstacles that involved carrying heavy (really heavy) objects up and down hills. I was intrigued by what I read, but I was also scared. Very scared.

This Spartan race was a huge event. A spectacle. The base of the mountain transforms into a village of vendors and race related tables. There was a stage with podiums for the winners. There was an enormous first aid tent for the... losers? Oh, and don’t get me started on the Spartan Shop, which was a giant merchandise tent filled with every type of Spartan logoed gear you could dream of. There was music playing over the loudspeakers. There were people everywhere. Racers, spectators, and dozens of race day workers. The scene was electric. It was a giant party. All of this. Every bit of it was to cater to and support the thousands of like-minded people gathered to subject themselves to pain and suffering for upwards of 8 hours. In September of 2023, for the first time, I was one of those people. Here is my story.

The Start:

I arrived at the event by bus because there were too many people to accommodate parking near the start of the race. I waited in line to register and pick up my racing package. I looked around. It was apparent that these races attracted a diverse group of people. Men and women (and even kids) of all ages showed up to attempt this race. There were overweight people. There were scrawny skinny people. There was everything in between people. Don’t get me wrong, there was definitely a high percentage of what I would call extremely fit athletes, but the diversity was still off the charts. Almost everyone that signed up for this race has one undeniable trait; the desire to challenge and push themselves to their absolute limits. In some ways it was comforting being amongst people that shared this passion (or affliction).

After registering I started to prepare myself for the actual race. From what I had read, hydration and nutrition play a big role in this event. Cramping up is very difficult to stop. I loaded up on electrolytes and began to stretch. My brother continued to give me tips as we approached the starting line for our heat. “You need to pace yourself Mike”, he said. “Ok,” I said, not really paying attention. It was almost as if there was fear in his voice. I think he could sense that I wasn't taking this race as serious as I needed to. In my defense, there is no way to prepare for the reality of this race. In retrospect, it didn't matter what advice he gave me, it wouldn't have helped.

Heats were going off in groups of roughly 50 people. In order to get to the starting line, you need to climb over a 6-foot wall. I guess it’s their way of telling folks, if you can’t do this, then you shouldn’t be here. The hype guy with the microphone takes it from there. He spends some time going over the rules. If you miss an obstacle, you must do the penalty loop. If you are wearing a backpack, you must keep it on during the obstacles. He then does the standard pump-up stuff getting the group amped up for the start. He asks everyone to scream “Aroo” three times and we were off. The course starts with an immediate muddy uphill section that sets the tone for what kind of race we about to experience. From there, it’s a bit of blur. Obstacles appear at regular intervals. Some easy, Some hard.

At about the 3-mile mark I encountered the “dunk wall” obstacle. I was dreading this part. It requires you to crawl under barb wire through mud and then through two or three huge mud puddles. It culminates in a full submerge swim under a wall (the dunk wall). I learned my first real lesson of Spartan racing. There is no such thing as being comfortable.

The Death March

My feet squished and squashed with every step as I continued on. I don’t know how to describe the discomfort of running, hiking and even standing still when your shoes and socks are completely soaked through. I didn’t have much time to dwell on it, so I continued on. More elevation gain. More obstacles. Before I knew it I was tackling the infamous “death march” which is a long continuous uphill hike to the top of Killington. This is where you start to see people fall apart. Some people were sitting down on the grass clutching their legs or trying to catch their breath. Others were just standing in place, staring off into the distance, trying to come to terms with their decision to attempt this race. Hiking was my strength, so I didn’t mind this section. The higher I got, the more wind. The more wind, the quicker I dried.

From the top of the death march, I encountered more obstacles before a significant downhill. Most people struggle on the downhill sections. They were my specialty. I handled downhill with what I call controlled chaos, letting the momentum of my body and gravity guide my way down the trail. The course continued to go up and down, sometimes through wide open ski trails and other times on single tracks through the woods. Many times, lines would queue up in these sections, which slowed me down. I tried to treat this as a blessing as fatigue was starting to set in. A deep fatigue. The kind you feel when your body begs your mind to please stop. This is the battle of mind over matter. For now, my mind was winning the battle, but would it win the war?

I tried to hydrate using electrolytes and salt heavy snacks. It didn’t matter how much salt I ingested; I couldn’t stay hydrated. As I approached an obstacle called the Tyrolian Traverse, I started to wonder if I could complete this race. The TT required me to hold on to a rope while hanging upside down. As I moved along the rope, hand over hand, a horrible cramp in my leg presented itself. I was upside down. My arms and legs were holding on for dear life. On many obstacles, you must reach the end and ring a cow bell. I could see the bell about 30 feet in front of me. I didn’t come this far to give up on this obstacle, so I pushed on. The cramp was incredibly painful. I ignored it. When I rang the bell and got to my feet, relief washed over me. It was a small victory, but a victory non-the-less. I took a minute to stretch but each step felt off. I took more electrolytes. The rest of this race was going to be a grind like I have never experienced before.

Death March #2

After more ups and downs and more obstacles the trail starts to go up again, this time there was no end in sight. I could see people a mile up in the distance climbing up the mountain. How was this section not called the “death march?” It’s almost as if the course creators were intentionally partaking in some kind of psychological experiment. If they called the first long ascent to the top of Killington the “death march” then what was this? What’s worse than death?

The wide trail was strewn with bodies. People were on the ground clutching their legs and grimacing in pain. I heard an injured person calling for help. A cart would have to come and rescue them from this battlefield. Cramped up racers were sharing their favorite cramp remediations; pickle juice, mustard, and tart cherry juice. This wasn’t a race anymore. It was survival.

I’ve read a lot of hiking memoirs. Some of my favorites are about the famous pilgrimage called the El Camino de Santiago. It’s a hike that typically starts in France, heads over the Pyrenees Mountains, and ends 500 miles later in Santiago, Spain. The legend of the pilgrimage is rich and it is thought to have 3 stages. The first stage tests the body as the Pyrenees Mountains are the most challenging part of the pilgrimage. The second stage tests the mind as it passes through a section called the Meseta, which is a barren, treeless and dry landscape that is bombarded with high temperatures and dangerous sun. The third stage tests the spirit as the trail cuts through the incredibly beautiful and serene green landscape of the Gilisia region of Spain. It’s almost as if the 3rd stage is a reward for those who make that far.

I was thinking about these stages as I continued to put one foot in front of the other up this endless climb to the top of Killington (again). Well, if the first third of this Spartan Beast race tested the body, then this section truly did test the mind. It would have been so easy to sit down and rest for 10 min. 20 min. 1 hour. It would have been so easy to just quit all together. The path continued to go up and up for what seemed like over a mile. At this point, I was in survival mode. I tried to think about the possibility that the last section of this course would feed my spirit, that it would be a nice easy stroll through beautiful green landscape all the way to the finish. When you reach this level of exhaustion, you will do anything to get through it, even if that means lying to yourself. I knew deep down that there was no hope of a fairytale ending, but false hope, was still hope.

Once reaching the top there were more obstacles to contend with. I tried my best to complete them, but it was not pretty. Sloppy attempts at obstacles usually meant failed obstacles. Failed obstacles mean penalty loops. Penalty loops mean more mileage. I was stuck in a living breathing negative feedback loop (pun intended) fueled by suffering and pain. I was a Ford Taurus with 200,000 miles under my belt. I could breakdown at any second. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when. I truly didn’t know how much further I could go. After the obstacles, the trail descended on a steep graded trail. It was a relief to go downhill for a while, but that eventually wore off as my quads began to burn to the point of wanting to give out. People were walking down backwards to alleviate the quad pain. It was quite the sight. It was if I cast in a weird version of the film tenet. I wasn’t going to do that. I bared my teeth and continued down.

The next five miles were a mixture of more up hills, downhills, and obstacles. I kept going as if I was walking through a fever dream. Half conscious, half in that place between consciousness and coma. The clock wasn’t clocking anymore. Did someone change the speed of the minute hand on my watch to 2x? Did someone set my hiking speed to ½? I was in the fog of all fogs. I was in a dirty hazy smog. Worst of all, I couldn’t find my way out.

The Sandbag Carry

At some point I snapped out of it and looked at my watch again. I was relieved to see that I had less than 3 miles left. Maybe I was going to make it? Maybe this was the spiritual part of the journey where I eased my way to the finish line? I could see the starting line in the distance, which is also where the race concluded. I tried to do the math in my head, but much like the clock, the math wasn’t mathing. It looked a lot closer than 2-3 miles away. I continued on, tackling another huge downhill. When I got to the bottom of the hill, my heart stopped. In front of me was the obstacle called the “sandbag carry.” The word obstacle never seemed so fitting as it did at this moment. The sandbag carry stood between me and finish line. I watched in horror as people picked up a 60-pound sandbag, put it on their shoulders and started climbing up what seemed to be an impossibly steep hill. The obstacle required a person to carry this bag up a steep trail for an impossibly far distance. They then had to carry it across the hill and then down. It looked like it was a mile long (probably more like a half mile). A 60-pound bag feels like 600 pounds after hiking 12 miles up and down difficult mountain terrain for the last 5 hours. I picked it up and put it on my shoulder. My knees buckled under the weight. There would be no spiritual journey, only pain and suffering. I wasn’t sure I could do this without the 60-pound bag! It was awkward on my shoulder. After 10 seconds I shifted it to my other shoulder to provide some relief. That lasted roughly 30 seconds. I tried hugging the bag like a teddy bear. I lasted 10 seconds. This was truly torture.

It took me way too long to complete this obstacle, but I did complete it. I had to stop every 10 yards, put the bag down and rest. By the time I finished the obstacle I was completely out of gas. Not only that, but the alternator, radiator and engine all broke down at the same time. And guess what? There were more obstacles left! The sandbag hoist, the Z wall, the Multi Rig. One after the other I hobbled through them determined to cross that finish line.

The Finish

Every Spartan race ends by jumping over fire. It’s some kind of Spartan tradition. Maybe it’s a metaphor? A rite of passage? I don’t know, but I didn’t care. I wanted to be done. I don’t remember jumping over the fire and crossing the finish line, but I did. One of the race photographers took my picture, so I had proof. Usually when I run in a road race or complete some kind of competition I feel a sense of pride and joy. I didn’t feel any of that when I completed this Spartan Race. I just felt exhausted. The joy would come later. That was the beauty of it. You leave it all on the course. Later, looking back on it, you can appreciate and take pride in the accomplishment. When you finish, you get a medal and a t-shirt. Two small symbols of the sacrifice you made. A symbol of suffering you endured. I remember finding a shady spot to sit down in to rest. I would wait there while waiting for my brother to finish. I remember thinking to myself that I would never do this race again. The idea of putting myself through that again was not feasible. On a sliding scale of probability, I was at 0%. Of course, after a few hours those feelings started to fade. As each hour went by, the probability increased. Eventually it would hit 100%. I finished the race in close to 6 hours, which was a good time for a first timer. I was a hiker and this course did play to my strengths. That being said, elite racers were finishing it in the 3-hour range. To this day, that seems completely impossible to me.

I have done this race 3 straight years and each year I have been able to improve my time, but the improvements have been marginal. My ultimate goal is to finish in under 5 hours. That should put me in the top 10 in my age group. Will it happen? I don’t know. What I do know is that I will continue to train for this event. I will show up each year eager for the challenge, and each year I will be humbled. That is the one guarantee of this race.

Before I know it, it will be September again and I will be halfway up the death march wishing that my brother never introduced me to this masochism. I’ll curse his name. I’ll cramp up. I’ll curse him again. In the end I will power through, no matter what the course throws at me. And when I finish (and even if I don’t) I will continue to circle the September date on my calendar each and every year. That’s the allure of this horribly beautiful race. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

-MikeHikesTheAlps, 2023

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