Strike while the iron is hot.
No two men may have set forth on their morning ritual in quite the same manner. Not all men might have traversed the mine field of the Snyder pre-dawn. Not all needed to evade the stationary locomotive blockading the convenient entrance to The Foundry. All who did eventually arrive however, grasped their tools with their meaty palms and bulged their muscles as they strained against gravity to muster that most elusive, elating, and ecstatic feeling of a true heavy: the pump.
And pump we did.
As groups of two HIMs journeyed around the perimeter of the county parking lot, rucks in tow (including a magnificent 65 pounder which was used with most enthusiasm), we beat our mighty hammers against the anvil, working, shifting, molding. Each blow to the metal more vigorous than the last; we shaped and forged our bodies to our own desires.
We poured our sweat, like molten iron fresh from the kiln, into the cast. Bicep curls, skull crushers, overhead presses, squats, and rows were all methods used to climactically billow our ingots into their true form. In typical county fashion we engaged in wonderous mumble chatter as every PAX struck their steel.
As quickly as it came alive, the bellows ceased, the coal grew cold, and the foundry grew solemn as we joined in the CoT to count our labor and blessings. With the day’s smithing done we remind ourselves that only iron can sharpen iron and likewise we must diligently sharpen ourselves, consistently stroking the edge of our blade against the grindstone of the gloom. #MTCGA