The journey began with the navigation of the rickety Gene Snyder. Dodging potholes whilst the rhythmic thundering of a scornful pavement below bellowed throughout my Camry, I neared the La Grange exit. Swinging into the designated Patriot Parking I rubbed my weary optics, still crusty with morning dew, and peered past the shadows, fixating on the illuminated square before me. At last, I glimpsed upon once more, the faithful Minute Man.
Fifteen pax, YHC included, emerged from their motorized carriages to encircle the copper colored Patriot to pay homage to his sacrifice with one of our own. We burned the morning oil, the fat of our bones, and the water of our flesh to demonstrate that we were worthy of the light that playfully teased beyond the buildings to our east.
Slowly, at first, we warmed our bodies and minds through the usual drudgery of side-straddling, toy soldiering, and Michael Phelpsing. Once sufficiently warmed, like a quesadilla in the air fryer, we built our liberty ladders for the late Colonel. What followed? A coupon clipping combination: manmakers(a traditional favorite), core, lower and upper body, and a light trot around the premises as our respite, all forming the foundation of our exertion.
Nearing the end of our gathering, we all joined together in the frightful 10 minute abs routine so oft performed. Each pax took turns delivering a wonderous beat down upon our cores until at long moments last arriving upon Holy Roller and his ten count manmaker. Just the one, as we were pressed for time. Looking back now it seemed liked that solitary manmaker would never end, as each count was met with a pause that lasted for ages.
With the expiration of our perspiration we counted, named, and announced. A few pax in attendance received patches from Swag for their dedication to The Range. Each man may have grown, but I my friends grew most of all, for I had the pleasure of serving them.