Fitness, Fellowship, Faith
Fitness, Fellowship, Faith
Yo, what’s up, fam? It’s your boy Real Hatchet, straight outta South Jersey, here to spin ya a ruck workout tale so damn ridiculous you’ll be laughin’ harder than a seagull fightin’ over a fry. So picture this: me, Deadwood, Zinfandel, Chastain, Posse, and U-Haul—yeah, the whole motley crew—decide we’re gonna ruck it up like some kinda badass brigade. Except, uh, it went sideways faster than a drunk dude on the Wildwood boardwalk.
We kick it off at the crack of dawn—well, more like 10 a.m. ‘cause Deadwood overslept huggin’ his pillow like it’s his prom date. Guy shows up lookin’ like he just rolled outta the Pine Barrens, smellin’ of regret and cheap beer. I’m like, ‘Bro, you ready to ruck or you still dreamin’ of hoagies?’ He just grunts and slaps that pack on—20 pounds of pure nothin’, probably stuffed with empty Yuengling cans.
Then there’s Zinfandel, this fancy schmuck, struttin’ in with his ruck lookin’ like it’s designer—swear to God, it’s got more flair than a Margate mom’s beach bag. He’s all, ‘I hydrated with a crisp Pinot last night, boys,’ and I’m like, ‘Yeah, Zin, you’re a real warrior—did ya pair it with a cheese plate too?’ Meanwhile, Chastain over there, Mr. Serious, cinchin’ his straps so tight he’s about to pop a vein, growlin’, ‘We gotta push the pace!’ Push the pace? Bro, we’re barely movin’—I’m haulin’ my sorry ass at a shuffle, and my gut’s jigglin’ like it’s tryin’ to escape.
Posse the wildcard, though—dude’s got his ruck half-open, snacks spillin’ out like he’s preppin’ for a tailgate. I catch him munchin’ on a soft pretzel at mile one, mustard all over his mug, yellin’, ‘Gotta fuel the machine, Real Hatchet!’ Fuel the machine? Man, the only machine here’s U-Haul, and he’s the real MVP—or damn near the opposite. This joker rented an actual U-Haul van, parked it at the start, and keeps circlin’ back to ‘check his gear.’ By lap two, he’s sittin’ in the driver’s seat, blastin’ Springsteen, hollerin’, ‘I’m supportin’ y’all spiritually!’ Yeah, spiritually—like our own personal Jersey Uber.
So we’re ruckin’—if you can call it that—down by Five Stones, lookin’ like a pack of lost shore clowns. Deadwood’s wheezin’ louder than a busted muffler, Zinfandel’s whinin’ about chafed thighs, Chastain’s still actin’ like we’re in boot camp, and Posse’s droppin’ pretzel crumbs like Hansel and Gretel. Me? I’m just tryin’ not to trip over my own damn boots, sweatin’ like I’m grillin’ pork roll in July. We clock maybe two miles—tops—before U-Haul honks and waves us over with a six-pack of Wawa iced teas. ‘Workout’s over, fellas!’ he yells, and we pile in like it’s a victory lap.
End of the day, we burned more calories laughin’ at each other than ruckin’. Deadwood’s my ride-or-die, but even he’s like, ‘Hatchet, we’re a freakin’ circus.’ Damn right we are—South Jersey’s finest, ruckin’ light and livin’ loud. Catch us next time, fam—hit that :hc: if you’re dumb enough to join! LET’S GOOOOO!”