For The Love Of Mud
			by Debi Osborne

It wouldn't be called a Mud Bog if there wasn't mud. And there was mud! It was everywhere. Spectators even found some in their hair! I was among the sensible with rubber boots and ear plugs, my plastic lawnchair strategically placed to get the best view of the mud-pit below.

Official "Mud Bogger"

Massive trucks, equipped with tires taller than me, struggled to make their way through the Bog of Mud. Cheers from the spectators in the Beer Gardens made it clear someone had made it and driven out the other end. The year is 1998 and the Third Annual Mud Bog Race is underway. Trucks without mufflers, trucks having only frames, and trucks using nitrous oxide as fuel mill around the two "lanes" of mud. The lanes had been dug out, then packed with dirt to form a hard base. Next a roto-tiller was used to "fluff up" the soil on top of the base before tank loads of water were poured in. Front-end loaders, with steel cables attached, waited to drag out the many contestants that couldn't make it through.

Big and Bold

Everyone is glancing skyward for fear of more rain. It has already poured all of Saturday, but the crowd remains, waiting and watching. Before the trucks race, the Human Mud Bog begins and supposedly-sane people run through the mud, great globs of muck clinging to their limbs. They trip and fall, scramble and fall again, all for the chance at being the first to climb out of the pit to grab the $100 prize.