You know you’re in trouble when the best part of your vacation is spent on your hands and knees, crawling through a giant, gloppy pit of mud.
Instead, I slogged my way through an adventure race called The Muddy Buddy.
My “Buddy” was cousin Joe, a dyed-in-the-wool Chicago sports fan and jock who e-mailed me back in August to say he’d love to bring the family for a visit, and, hey, while he’s in town, we could run and ride bikes in this lil’ ’ol race with a harmless name.
It’d be fun, he said. We’d bond, he said.
And besides, I was the only person in our family remotely in good enough shape to survive it. (Not high praise, mind you. We’re more iron-deficient than iron men in our family.)
But how could I say no?
And this is how Cousin Joe became Joe the Torturer.