Seven mighty men of renown
stumbled out at 5 a.m.
Rings in hand (ten pounds of regret),
they ran into the pitch-black night
like idiots with a plan.
Fast.
Then “why are we doing this?” fast.
Hundreds of merkins on the asphalt.
Squats that made knees weep.
No core work for “Up Chuck”—
someone almost tested the theory anyway.
Hot. Sticky.
August air stuck to them like bad decisions.
They hit the train tracks.
No train.
Just seven guys wondering
if the train was smarter than them.
More merkins.
Downhill south (brief joy).
Uphill north (pure betrayal).
Rings swinging, shoulders screaming,
“Fast… slow… I hate these rings…”
Two-point-two miles of pure darkness
and questionable life choices.
When the sun finally showed up,
seven sweaty silhouettes were still moving—
rings clenched, pride intact,
and already lying about how “fun” it was.
Names, Numbers, Gumbo prayed for us.
See Slack for announcements.
SYITG