We gathered at the A1C, three brave souls ready to suffer: Moby, YHC, and the legend himself—Hogs Breath. The mission? Tabata. The pain? Immeasurable.
45 seconds on, 15 seconds off—perfect ratio for pain and mumble chatter. We hit everything: core, legs, upper body. Push-ups humbled us, calf raises made us question why we even have ankles, and lunges—both forward and reverse—had our thighs screaming for mercy. Penguins made us wiggle around like fish out of water, and the infamous Jane Fondas had us feeling like ‘80s aerobics instructors with a vendetta.
And because that wasn’t enough, we threw in a couple laps—because why not finish strong (or at least finish)? By the end, sweat was pouring, muscles were burning, and we all collectively decided that tomorrow would be a “rest day” (or a “can’t-walk day”). Moby may have grumbled something about never doing this again, but we all knew we’d be back. Because pain is temporary, but questionable life decisions are forever
COT, prayers for Tanked Up. Procedure done, he’s resting, slowly recovering. Y’all, he’s been kicking our ass before the procedure, imagine how bad we’re going to look when he’s fully recovered? RunCajunRun begins tomorrow.
