I tried a Hyrox race for the first time – here’s why I’m already signing up for another one
My first Hyrox race didn’t go to plan, and now I can’t wait to do another one
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Your support makes all the difference.“Never again,” I promise myself, staring at a 40m stretch of astroturf. A man in a “judge” t-shirt tells me I need to burpee and bound my way to the other end, but there’s already a Niagara-esque stream of sweat cascading down my nose. This is my first Hyrox race.
The next morning, not 24 hours later, I excitedly fire a message to a group chat: “Loved it. I’m going to do another one. Anyone fancy joining me?”
So what changed? It’s simple. I was bitten by the Hyrox bug, and it sank its teeth in deep.
For the uninitiated, Hyrox is a fitness race comprising eight one-kilometre runs, each followed by a different functional fitness station – think sled pushes, farmer’s carries, sandbag lunges and the like. It’s hard enough to finish, let alone finish quickly, but this daunting gauntlet has proved irresistible to fitness fans since its 2017 inception in Germany.
As a religious lifter and recreational runner, Hyrox’s ever-growing stock has been impossible to ignore. It offers a stamina challenge worthy of endurance athletes, and omits the high-skill elements that can deter would-be competitors from other compeitive strength sports, like my beloved CrossFit. In the brand’s own words, “Hyrox is the sport for everybody”.
I figured it was time to give it a try so I headed up to Manchester bright-eyed and blissfully ignorant of the scale of the test that awaited me. By the end of the day, I’d learned several hard lessons, each of which will hopefully help me (and anybody reading this) to nail any future Hyrox races.
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Arriving at the venue
Hyrox has the uncanny ability to create temporary cathedrals of fitness in the cities that host it, and Manchester was no different. Making my way from the railway station to the venue, I find myself swept up by a throng of people kitted out with Built For Athletes gym bags, Represent 247 gear and Puma shoes – the unofficial uniform of the Hyrox aficionado.
On the side of a high-rise building, a huge digital billboard beams a video of a woman grinning as she rips at the handles of a SkiErg machine. Not long after, I turn a corner to see the imposing silhouette of the Manchester Central Convention Centre – a glass-fronted former transport hub, and one of the few venues large enough to hold a Hyrox event.
Inside, the operation is slick. Checking in takes minutes, and I’m soon fielding freebies from Myprotein and other sponsors. A few food offerings and a small village of vendors narrowly fail to lure me in, then I’m through to the warm-up area. Here, you have the chance to prime your heart, lungs and muscles pre-race by playing with the torture implements (ie. equipment) you’re about to face.
Chatting to one of the volunteers (all of whom were unfalteringly friendly and enthusiastic) I‘m told to head down a small walkway five minutes before my heat. I follow instructions and find myself ushered into a small corral off the side of the venue, alongside roughly 30 other athletic-looking men. T-shirts are few and far between, bulging abdominals are not.
A screen at the front of the corral shows a countdown to my start time, ticking down in seconds. I ask a guy next to me how many laps of the arena we’re meant to complete for each kilometre-long run, but before I’m certain of the answer the screen starts flashing: “Three, two, one, go.”
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The race begins
Like a stampede, we’re off. Despite being in the minority, I keep my shirt on, and I come to regret it – more on that later.
The event floor is impressive. A large running track loops around a central “Roxzone” – a space containing all the functional fitness stations, gates for transitioning to and from the running track, and a couple of tables to pick up water, Red Bull or electrolytes between runs.
The first run whizzes by in no time. I later learn this is because it’s shorter than the other seven, but for now I feel like I’m flying. I also attempt to track the run on my Apple Watch so I can stick to my pre-planned race pace, but for whatever reason the numbers it’s giving me don’t feel quite right. A couple of laps in, I abandon it and go by the clock.
After a blistering first run, I enter the Roxzone and settle onto one of the SkiErg machines. As a CrossFit fan, this is a home from home from me, and I’m unbearably smug when my slower, smoother strokes deliver a faster pace than the choppy tugs of the people either side of me.
I’m able to finish the section up in roughly four minutes, then follow another athlete back onto the running track and stay on his heels for the next three laps.
The problem is, my chosen running buddy is exceedingly speedy, and I bite off more than I can chew trying to keep up with him. A glance at my Apple Watch reveals my heart rate has soared to 170bpm, and it doesn’t go much lower for the remainder of the race.
That leads me to the first lesson I learned: run your own race, at your own pace.
Next came the sled push, and while I’m a tad apprehensive about this section, it winds up being one of my favourite bits. I had only touched a sled for the first time two days prior, but it moves surprisingly well, and there’s something enjoyably primal about throwing all of my weight into its two metal handles.
I expect my quads to take a beating from this exercise, but it’s my calf muscles that feel worse for wear when I set off on the next run.
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Things start to go wrong
The second run feels a lot longer than the first, so I double check with a fellow competitor how many laps I’m meant to do each round.
“Two,” he responds, so that’s what I do. If I’d read the Manchester event guide and not just the general race rules, I’d know I was meant to do 2-and-a-bit laps for the first round and 2.8 for the remaining seven, but I managed to miss the email. This is how I end up coming in a lap early on the third and fourth rounds, and incurring a time penalty for doing so.
Lesson two: read the race day guide for your specific venue and event – twice.
The third station is the sled pull – something I’ve never done before, which I’m hoping I can learn on the fly. I grab the rope and start by pulling it hand over hand. To my surprise, it moves pretty quickly, but after 25 of the 50 metres my biceps are fried. Knowing rowing is still to come, I shift the emphasis to my legs and employ a slightly awkward straight-armed backwards shuffle to finish it off. It’s slower, but it gives my arms a break.
Before I know it, I’m running again, and after another two laps I enter the Roxzone and prepare to start my burpee broad jumps. But the lap situation is still bugging me, so I check again with a judge.
“You enter the ‘in’ gate of the Roxzone on the third time you see it,” he says. Oh dear. Having been burpee-ready, I realise my mistake, so I peel myself off my belly and head out for another lap.
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No man’s land
By the time I get back to the burpee broad jump station, I’ve worked myself up into a bit of a tizzy about my error. The burpees do not help with this.
I’m half-way through the event, I can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, and from the rulebook I know I’ve incurred at least one time penalty. My body feels heavy as I let it slump to the ground then lift it back up to standing, and each broad jump lights my calf muscles on fire.
This is when the “never again” thoughts take hold, making what happens next even more surprising.
Zen out of 10
I set out on the fifth run feeling a little deflated. I’d been working fairly hard on my running for the last few months, and came into the event with a target time of 1hr 20min in mind. With the mistakes I’d made, that feels pretty far-fetched now.
Yet, as has always been the case for me, the more I keep moving the better I feel. For the first time in the race, I allow myself to glance around, and I’m buoyed by the wide range of ilks and ages taking part. The crowd is electric too, with people cheering on friends, family and loved ones with high-fives and signs.
I smile. This is the side of exercise I love the most: people supporting people, and having fun doing it. And thus comes lesson four: it’s meant to be fun, so whatever happens, just enjoy yourself.
From here, I settle into an almost meditative state. The DJ’s thumping music muffles into the background, my vision blinkers and my feet seem to carry me autonomously. For the first time, my runs settle into a consistent pace, and I begin to have fun with it.
The rowing machine brings me back to life even more. As with the SkiErg, slow-yet-powerful strokes serve me well, and I’m able to catch up with a few of the people ahead of me while bringing my breathing back under control.
A shout of “imagine you’re doing the big shop” from my girlfriend in the crowd allows me to giggle through the farmer’s carry, and my CrossFit background makes the sandbag lunges a surprising highlight.
However, all is not entirely well. It’s during this seventh station that I realise my meagre serving of pre-race porridge was poorly thought through. Running in the 11.30am heat, the fuel from this modest meal has all but run out. Papering over this crack, I make the most of the electrolyte drinks dished out after every station, but a bigger breakfast would undoubtedly have served me better.
Lesson five: prepare well and fuel properly.
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The home stretch
All that now stands between me and the finish line is one more run and 100 wall ball shots. But if my maths is correct, my earlier mistake means I’ve currently done one less lap than the rest of the field.
The wall balls are a notoriously vile way to finish the event, and I can’t in good faith tackle them knowing I’ve done less work than the people around me. So I resolve to do an extra lap on my last round.
When I finally come to this last station, the wall balls live up to their reputation. My quads are crying, my whole bum feels numb, and even my shoulders start threatening to give up the ghost. My set sizes are sporadic, with a mixture of 25s, 15s and 10s split by short bouts of bending over double, but eventually I find myself with 20 to go.
With what feels like a Herculean effort, I polish these off then stumble across the finish line and find solace in a banana. A big screen at the end shows I’ve managed a time of 1hr 28min, including penalties, which doesn’t seem too bad all things considered.
And finally, I succumb to my surroundings and ditch my top, with my nipples feeling somewhat sensitive after 90 minutes of grinding against a sweaty t-shirt. The last lesson, lesson six, is to dress appropriately and look after your body during the event – nipples and all.
Verdict: Would I do Hyrox again?
The sweet relief of finishing feels like all of my Christmases have come at once. I’ve also been awarded with a nifty velcro patch confirming I’ve successfully completed a Hyrox race, which is a nice touch.
After being handed this by a volunteer, I collapse onto the floor before launching into a lengthy (and incredibly dull) debrief, which my partner politely sits through.
“Halfway through, I thought this was a one-time thing,” I’m fully rambling now, in that almost drunken way that soul-sapping exercise prompts “But something happened in those last few stations. I hit my stride and I started to really enjoy it. I think I get Hyrox now. I’m a bit disappointed with my time, but now I’ve got something to improve on. Do you have my phone there?”
It’s handed to me, and I immediately I fire up Google then start to type: “When is the next UK Hyrox race?”
So yes, I would do Hyrox again, and will almost certainly be doing so in the very near future to try and shave a few minutes off my time.