Spartan Race at 54: Grit, Mud, and a Satisfying Finish

At 54, I ran my first Spartan Race at Lake Perris, California, and I’m still smiling about it.

Not the loud, overly confident, smug Barney Fife kind of smile. The deeper one. The kind that settles into your bones and says, Yes. I did that!

Lake Perris greeted us with chilly weather, wide skies, a calm lake, and that particular Southern California light that makes everything feel both harsh and beautiful. The course looked deceptively calm from a distance. Up close, it was sand, barbed wire, rope climbs, heavy carries, walls that didn’t care how old I was, and obstacles that asked a simple question over and over again:

Are you willing to keep going?

Satisfying finish- SincerelyGail

I didn’t come into this race trying to prove anything to anyone else. I wasn’t trying to prove how tough I was or see who was stronger, faster, or more skilled. I came because I’m a ride-or-die, my bestie wanted to do it, and I was happy to ride shotgun. Naturally, I was also curious about what my body and mind could still achieve at this age when the opportunity presented itself.

And here’s what surprised me most: I wasn’t afraid.

There were moments of doubt, sure. A wall that was definitely higher than expected. A 40 lb carry that dug into my shoulders; I still have the bruises. Sand that scratched and scraped my elbows and burrowed its way into every crevice of my body. But underneath all of it was a steady calm. I moved forward one obstacle at a time, not rushing, not panicking, trusting myself to figure it out, and let's not forget, I was laughing all the way.

That trust might have been the most satisfying part.

Crossing the finish line didn’t feel explosive. It felt grounding. Like placing something solid back into myself that I didn't realize was missing. Pride, yes, but also relief, gratitude, and a quiet confidence that whispered, "You can do hard things.”

At 54, my relationship with challenge looks different from how it did in my 30s. I listen more closely to my body. I respect recovery. I move with intention instead of ego. And yet, there is still grit here. Still hungry. Still joy in doing something that stretches me.

The Spartan Race wasn’t just mud and obstacles. It was a reminder that strength evolves. That adventure doesn’t expire. That satisfaction doesn’t always come from speed or spectacle, but from showing up, staying present, and finishing what you start.

I didn’t just complete a race at Lake Perris. I met myself there, dusty, muddy, and full of sand, but steady, and I liked who I saw.

And honestly? I’d do it again.