The morning air bit with the ferocity of a thousand tiny knives as we gathered at the trailhead. Steve, our fearless leader, had a gleam in his eye that promised pain and growth—or maybe just chaos. The big news was the triumphant return of Cowbell, whose absence had left a void only filled with awkward burpees and wistful murmurs of “I need more Cowbell?”
Enter Jose, the early bird who, instead of getting the worm, opted to destroy the trailhead and stairs with solo laps—a full 40 minutes before the rest of us even started moving. While most were still negotiating with their alarms, Jose was out there redefining what it meant to be extra.
Bushwacker rolled in on time, a feat in itself, and immediately solidified his status as Mr. Grumble Grumble. His truck, dubbed the “piece of shit,” welcomed us with its nostalgic vibes—turns out it’s the same clunker Cowbell used to cruise in back in high school. Talk about a blast from the past. Grumbling aside, we dove into the warm-up, marching headlong into the discomfort we all secretly crave.
The stage awaited us, as did an assortment of strange teenagers who seemed utterly transfixed by the bizarre spectacle of grown men willingly torturing themselves. Were they judging us? Plotting their escape? Just vibing? Who knows, but their silent presence made our suffering even more surreal.
The workout itself was pure madness: five brutal exercises—burpees, squats, lunges, big boys, and merkins—starting at a grueling 28 reps of each. After every round, we ran a lap around the trailhead, decreasing reps by 7 each time. It was a rinse-and-repeat system that quickly had us questioning our life choices. And yet, every lap brought us back to the stoic teen peanut gallery, still watching, still silent. It felt like a scene from some dystopian fitness reality show.
At one point, Bushwacker and I casually debated whether Santa’s sleigh, parked nearby, would make a suitable workout station. But even in our delirium, we decided that push-ups on Santa’s ride might be crossing a line.
Midway through the chaos, Jose slipped away, duty calling him to mold the minds of America’s youth. He is, without question, a hero, a legend, the wind beneath our collective wings.
We closed with a Circle of Trust (COT), sweaty, sore, and better for it. Cowbell, it was good to have you back. To the strange kids at the stage: we hope you were entertained. And to everyone else, see you at the next beatdown—bring your grumbles and your grit.
Okay, so Steve might be sick and I(Jose10K) wrote this backblast because of my abnormal obsession to reach my stupid goal!
