Three brave men rose with the sun on a pleasantly cooler Monday—75 degrees and wet enough for Waterpik to call it “simple.” We began at the playground, transforming monkey bars into our personal gym. Five rounds of max pull-ups paired with squats got the blood flowing.
Then it was off to the lakefront, stopping at every single stop sign for 10 Peter Parker Merkins and 10 Supermans—because why not earn every step? Once lakeside, our imaginary Bulgarian trainer took over, leading us through punishing rounds of Bulgarian split squats and dirkens.
On the return, we revisited our stop sign friends—again with Peter Parker Merkins—before closing out with a solid five minutes of Mary.
Yes, it was “simple.” And yes, it was a beautifully brutal beatdown.
But brothers, consider this your fair warning: The Hammer turns 50 this year. He’s cooking up a two-hour sufferfest—five miles, 500 Merkins, and then some. One random Saturday. In the gloom. And that’s just the beginning. He’s not celebrating 50—he’s declaring war on it.
Jose out.
