Ah yes, another fine gathering of elite athletes (and their AARP sponsors) at the peak of the A1C—where the air is crisp, the sweat is questionable, and the soundtrack is straight from your uncle’s favorite road trip mixtape. And yes Cowbell, most of my songs repeat. It’s the Pandora algorithm that suits me. I can’t help it if great music comes out of my hip pocket. A few usuals weren’t in attendance. We were without Fletch, BBW, and Darkwing. Surprising because the temperature was above the required 60 degrees for Darkwing to attend. Who knows?
This morning, a young stallion (that’s me) led a herd of silver foxes in a ritual of pain, otherwise known as “11s.” After a five-minute warm-up (which for some was just mentally preparing to move), the squad got down to business. Merkins at the top of the ramp? No problem. Copperhead Squats at the bottom? Sure, as long as no one’s knees filed a formal complaint. It was how we travelled back and forth was the interesting aspect. Introducing the ramp games:—a chaotic display of movement variety that could only be described as “fitness meets interpretive dance.” Sprints turned into backwards jogs, which morphed into side shuffles, then into karaoke steps (though some of us just looked like we were dodging bees). Forward lunges, reverse lunges, duck walks—basically, a leg day so brutal that tomorrow’s stairs will require a life alert button.
Just when we thought survival was near, it was time for a stair sprint, calf raises (because why not), and a ten-minute Mary session that made abs scream for mercy.
In the end, sweat was shed, egos were bruised, and somewhere, a classic rock legend shed a single tear of approval. See you all next time… if we can still walk. Two weeks from now, April 11th, Moby, the eldest of our group turns 75, and he has promised to bring the pain. Come out and pay your respects and be impressed with this young lads intensity.
