Less than 45 miles from New York City’s most popular (and glamorous) running destination- Central Park- sprawls gritty FDR Park, a wooded enclave of Westchester County.

Instead of ‘Tavern on the Green’, there’s a modest outdoor pavilion whose only source of heat is a brick fireplace. Instead of well-groomed bridal paths, you get uneven trails subject to the harshest of seasonal conditions.

And instead of the road races with navigable 4-mile loops often found in Central Park, you get Mudders and Grunters. Approximately 5 miles in length, Mudders and Grunters is Westchester’s oldest trail race and features a course with at least three water crossings (more if it’s been a particularly rainy spring), several collapsed trees to climb over and a chaotic system of red flags that runners must follow to stay the course.

The race typically attracts between 300-400 runners, a fraction of the road race totals that Central Park boasts. Yet they all come to this historic race with one thing in common: an unhealthy affinity for getting very, very dirty.

This year I decided to run it and found it is unlike any race I’ve ever run. This became clear to me as soon as Ed McLaughlin, the race’s co-director, shouted his pre-race instructions:

“You will get wet. You will get dirty. You will get cut. You will get bloody. If any of these things sound like something you didn’t sign up for, please step off the line.”

I poked my head up to see how many runners would drop out. No one did.

In the first mile, two runners in the lead pack took a spill attempting to clear a picker- bush barrier that was set up ahead of time by the race directors. Soon after, the race descended down a hill and disappeared into a wooded marsh where the fun really started.

Nick Jubok, the race’s other co-director, told me that part of the fun of this race is its unpredictability. “The course is never the same. The day before the race each year, we come out here and map the course differently, making sure to include as much mud as possible.”

Often the course veers off the beaten path and becomes a series of red flags randomly tied to trees. Runners must follow the flags to avoid getting lost. It’s a nearly impossible task, keeping your eyes peeled while maintaining steady footing on the muddy and uneven surface.

Eventually runners reach a creek known only as “the pit”. To get to the other side, one’s only option is to jump into the frigid waist-deep water and churn through. It’s fast flowing enough that a rope is attached on either end to navigate across.

Fittingly the race ends on a steep uphill, one final insult to the multitude of injuries endured during nature’s worst. I was soaked, my toes were numb and my legs were lined with cuts and scratches.

I caught my breath and began to recount the experience with the other runners. Everyone was in good spirits and it was infectious.

“Now you see why we come back every year,” one finisher said. “There’s no other race like this.”

Certainly not in Central Park, I thought.