The Turkey Trot Is for Wimps-Welcome to the Iron Turkey
Briefly

The Turkey Trot Is for Wimps-Welcome to the Iron Turkey
"Everyone thinks that Thanksgiving is about gratitude and family, but we know what this holiday is really about: astonishing your entire home town with your athletic prowess. The only problem is that, for years, true challengers have been forced to participate in rinky-dink Turkey Trot 5Ks. But no longer. At last, there's a Thanksgiving race for real competitors: the Iron Turkey."
"This intense feat of endurance begins at 4 A.M. sharp with a gruelling, three-mile river swim. And the water isn't just frigid-it's thick. Yup, to kick things up a notch, we dumped five thousand pounds of instant mashed-potato powder into that bad boy. It's mealy, it's blinding, and you'd better believe it smells crazy. As you plunge through miles of synthetic spuds, you'll notice a familiar, grating voice in your ear."
"That's right, it's your Aunt Kath's third husband, Walt, the one who keeps getting scammed on Facebook. He'll follow you in a canoe for the entire journey, desperately trying to lead you astray so that he can tell you about a barista who was rude to him. Think that sounds hard? We're just getting started. If you manage to make it through the swim, and to peel off your starchy bathing suit, you'll begin a hundred-and-twelve-mile uphill bike ride to the most crowded grocery store."
An extreme Thanksgiving event called the Iron Turkey starts at 4 A.M. with a three-mile river swim made intentionally viscous by dumping five thousand pounds of instant mashed-potato powder into the water. Competitors endure mealy, blinding, foul-smelling conditions while a relative's husband follows in a canoe, distracting and misdirecting with anecdotes. Survivors peel off starchy suits and embark on a hundred-and-twelve-mile uphill bike ride toward the most crowded grocery store. Riders must remember fifteen specific grocery items under threat of familial wrath. Drunk cousins block the route and demand games, forcing competitors to distract them with thrown deviled eggs.
Read at The New Yorker
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