AO: cowbell
Q: Deadwood
PAX: Singlet – Justin Nelson, Dasher – Jeff Green, Chastain, Deadwood, Bottlecap, Hooch – Bret Turner, Foundation, Deflated, Dana, Gerber, Posse, Tron, Catfish, Speed Bump, Crouton, Launch Pad, Agassi, Hammer
FNGs: None
COUNT: 18
Gather ’round, you unsuspecting souls, for a tale darker than a moonless night. Ever since we dove headfirst into this GTE training, our legs have suffered a fate worse than a bad stand-up comedian. Dasher, that merciless fiend, decided one round of leg torture wasn’t enough – he unleashed a sequel at Commitment and Watchtower. If Respect can handle it, why not push the boundaries of suffering?
Normally, I’ve got a band of workout accomplices to share my diabolical plan with, but not this time. YHC took the ominous back roads, dropped four foreboding sandbags at the peak of Paxhaw Ridge (named by some shadowy character Transporter), and skulked into Petsmart at 4:43 like a fitness phantom.
Dasher, the harbinger of discomfort, was ready to roll. A brisk one-mile ruck ensued, and Singlet and Hooch willingly joined in for a 1.5-mile run. With the weather throwing tantrums, I anticipated a scarce turnout, but nope – they just kept slinking in, 18 in total, counting me. Dark humor, indeed!
Now, let’s dive into “The Thang.” A swift meander around the parking lot and a malevolent circle formed. Twenty SSH and ten molasses-speed IC merkins set the tone for the grim proceedings. Kettlebells were summoned, and we treaded into the abyss, ascending Paxhaw Ridge, the PAX blissfully ignorant of the impending sandbag apocalypse. Partners were paired like accomplices in a heist. P1 grabbed a sandbag, sprinted to the hill’s abyss, did 5 squats, and raced back, while P2 concocted their own wicked blend of exercises – swings, curls, triceps, RDL, thrusters, rows, overhead flutters, Zimba, a grotesque dance with the dark.
Now, I didn’t lug all 13 sandbags. Didn’t want anyone’s gear soggy, but consider this your ominous warning – next time, the full arsenal comes out.
Hill work conquered, almost. On our way back to Petsmart, we made a spectral halt on the sidewalk hill at the gate. Facing downhill, we summoned 10 burpee presses OYO – a cryptic nod to the fitness underworld. We staggered back to Pet Smart with 3 minutes to spare, and a Circle of Merkins marked the unholy finale.
Today marked the 53rd time I played the role of fitness grim reaper this year, not counting the handful Zinfandel pilfered from my grasp. Shoutout to the brave souls who showed up, stared into the abyss, and laughed.
Announcements: Posse’s got the 80/80 marriage talk – because even in the dark, we need a flicker of hope. And a prayer for Gaylord and his kin – may their spirits find solace in the shadows.
Until next time, may your sandbags be heavier than your darkest thoughts, your laughter more macabre, and your leg days eternally cursed.
