Fitness, Fellowship, Faith
Fitness, Fellowship, Faith
At the crack of dawn, eight men gathered at the top of the old concrete steps behind Kensington Elementary. The air was crisp, the sky still bruised with the final strokes of night. Leading them was U-Haul, the Q for the day, clipboard in hand and fire in his voice with really no good plan.
“Here’s the plan,” he barked. “One hour. No quitting. Ten merkins at the bottom, ten squats at the landing, ten big boys at the top. Then a lap around the lot. Again and again. We go until the clock tells us otherwise.”
Carb Load cracked his knuckles. Deep Dish stretched his hamstrings. Chainsaw gave a low grunt that might’ve been a chuckle—or a growl. Wilbur nodded solemnly, while McGruff stretched his triceps like he was prepping for battle.
The first set started with steel in their arms and legs. Down, up, push, climb. Merkins, squats, big boys—lap. The stairs groaned under the constant pounding of feet, but the rhythm was steady. Like a war drum.
Meanwhile, two figures moved in the mist just beyond the circuit—Hatchet and Posse, distant shadows on the perimeter. They weren’t running the stairs. They were hunting miles, circling the school like lone wolves, keeping watch and pace.
As minutes turned to rounds and rounds into sweat-stained effort, the group didn’t falter. Jokes were tossed between gasps. Carb Load teased Deep Dish about leg day. Chainsaw’s breathing sounded like a chainsaw. U-Haul called out encouragement reverse at the 30 min mark, voice growing hoarser breathing getting tougher with each lap.
Somewhere in the 40th minute, McGruff growled, “Who invented stairs?” Nobody answered, but everyone agreed silently that it was a bad idea.
And still they moved. Squat. Climb. Sit-up. Run. The circle kept spinning.
When the hour hit, it wasn’t a whistle or a shout that ended it—it was a shared glance. Eight men, forged through repetition, stood at the top of the stairs one last time, made their way back to COT while breathing heavy, sweat-soaked, proud.
U-Haul gave a nod. “That’s time.”
No fanfare. Just the silent triumph of knowing they showed up and crushed the morning.
The stairs would recover. The parking lot would quiet. But the legend of that hour at Kensington Elementary—that would echo in sore legs and inside jokes for weeks.
You want to ruck ruckus tomorrow?
We’ll see you there!!
