On this gloriously humid final morning of June, five grown men made the questionable decision to skip sleep, ignore logic, and meet at The Marsh at 5:15 AM for what can only be described as a group therapy session disguised as a workout.
Akbar bailed last-minute (rumor has it he pulled a hammy trying to send that text), so YHC—Jose 10K—stepped up to the mic and led the madness. We gathered at Center Court, not to shoot hoops, but to push our bodies to the limit with what I affectionately call: The Tabata of Hell.
We kicked things off with a warm-up that included windmills, neck rolls, arm circles, and a disturbing amount of self-love. (Interpret that how you want. It was early. Things got weird.)
Then came the main course—45 seconds on, 15 seconds off, a spicy circuit of upper body, legs, and core—rinse and repeat until your soul left your body and hovered somewhere near the pull-up bars, judging you.
Topics of conversation included:
• Form (none of us have it)
• Who does Mary better (still not sure if we meant the exercise or a woman)
• And a heated debate over days off—which are apparently fictional.
Special shout-outs:
• Bushwhacker earned his “Grumble Grumble” merit badge.
• Several men summoned demons from deep within their guts—yes, the flatulence was both legendary and dangerous. Hazmat may need to quarantine the court.
• Waterpik returned from vacation and immediately reminded the PAX what true squat form looks like
• And yours truly? I hit 21 days straight of beatdowns and may—MAY—rest tomorrow. But let’s not get crazy.
We ran over to the pull up bars for 5 or 6 rounds( YHC lost count, hey, I’m still on vacation) of max out on pull-ups.
Hammer closed us in prayer, likely asking for forgiveness for the smells and sounds produced under those pull-up bars. All kidding aside, a great prayer for appreciation for all the gifts we are given!
Until next time, folks… stay fit, stay flatulent, and see you in the gloom.
Jose 10K out.
