Twilight. The roosters of Ybor City. I grab a coffee at 7-Eleven and push into the wide lanes of downtown Tampa.

Here I am, back on the pavement. Moving through a city. The definite expression of the joy of spirit.

There’s a pin on the map. This is where the rest of my career began in 1995.

The hype and clamor of the ’80s had been replaced by the snide and monotone ’90s, and my days as a pro were all but over. I’d become the team manager for Powell Skateboards—a dinosaur, a has-been at twenty-four and fodder for the gossip columns. But I dreamed of building something meaningful in a time where meaning didn’t matter. I envisioned something wholesome in a scene of fragmentation. And in a culture of effect, I sought to assemble a team of individuals to serve a greater cause. Otherwise, what was the point?

We always said skateboarding was not about competition, but we always showed up at the contests. Why? For the community—and to push each other further than we could on our own. Because it took the structure, pressure, and format of competition to bring out the very best in our skating. The arena is the crucible.

We show up at GORUCK events for the same reasons.

Rewind. We rolled up on Columbus Drive in team jerseys. Blasphemy. As the team manager, all fingers pointed at me. I was laughed at, mocked. My leadership was unravelling in real time. When you’re a walking target and there are snipers at every turn, who will walk with you? Vision gave way to acceptance. Acceptance = survival.

I had booked the flights and hotel rooms, rented the van, driven the team around, paid their entry fees, and carried the water. That’s the job. I was supposed to be exiting the stage but the concrete and Masonite were calling. I wasn’t ready to trade in sunlight for fluorescence, asphalt for low-pile carpeting, four wheels for five, the deck for the desk, or the paintbrush for the fax machine. I still had more to say on my board. It was the only place my ideals had a chance. And I had something to prove to my team. I rode out onto the course one last time.

One last time became twenty more years.

I won the inaugural Tampa Pro street contest that year and reignited my pro-career. I didn’t retire from competition until the Tampa Pro contest in 2015.

The Skatepark of Tampa and the annual pro-contest became the Colosseum, where year after year I went to war. I was always at my best in Tampa, whether I placed in the contest or not. In 1996, I was poised to win it again, but then, I broke my collarbone in practice. In 2002, I won the Best Trick Contest, and in 2005, I placed 3rd in Best Trick.

In 2012, I battled a Nosepick to Disaster off the wall, breaking my board, Eric Koston’s board, and David Gonzalez’s board in quick succession before landing it on Felix Arguelles’ board. When I rolled away, the skaters stormed the course and crowd-surfed me around the park. I should’ve retired right then. But I pushed it another few years, as we do, and I was blessed to be greeted by a similarly appreciative audience in 2015. I knew better than to milk it another day. I took my final bows in Tampa.

I was back at the park in March of this year for a Q&A session with the locals. The folks who came out asked me if I was going to skate. I tried to explain that the roll-in, quarter pipe, and concrete floor were sacred ground to me—where I broke bones, spilt blood, and gave all I had for twenty years. It was best to leave it as it was; I couldn’t bring myself to desecrate what I had done there. I have to keep moving.

For all my years visiting Tampa proper, I had rarely seen more than the area around the park. Now, I was marching along Tampa Bay, down one of the world’s longest continuous sidewalks. This is where I’ll be: outdoors with the Ruckers, the runners, the cyclists, and skaters.

Out to Ballast Point, back to and through downtown. My memories of my times in Tampa play so vividly in my mind. I had friends that moved from New Jersey to Clearwater in the 80s, and the Tampa Airport was a regular hub for my travels back then. I was visiting Tampa long before the skatepark opened.

I used to do demos in the 80s and early 90s at Astro Skate, a roller rink in Tarpon Springs—and I spent many late nights skating in grocery store parking lots around Clearwater. Some of those sessions are unforgettable.

Visiting the park earlier this year also brought me back to Astro Skate for a reunion party and session. It was heartening to stand on the same hardwood floor I’d shared with so many good friends when we were kids. Watching the young lions tearing it up out on the rink, it hit me just how much the Tampa Bay area had shaped my life. As the night wound down, Brian from SPoT offered me a beer. Yes, 100%. Cheers and Thank You.

I plod back over the bricks in Ybor. 26.2 miles with 30+ pounds on my back. The shoulders and feet ache—the body hurts. It’s not about the events. But we sign up and show up because we can push ourselves and each other further, together. Besides, is there a better way to take in a city? The arena changes but the spirit remains.

Here I am—still moving, making new memories.

NEW YORK, N.Y. — I’ve had this day circled on my calendar for twenty-five years.

I meet Jason on the sidewalk. We walk through the winding canyons of lower Manhattan. We grab lunch outside at Ulysses’ on Stone Street. New York City Firefighters in their dress uniforms gather around us on the pavers. The old-guard and probies sharing stories and laughter over beer. We sit in silence and soak it in.

My daughter Lucy stops by between errands. We sit in the park and catch up. I never thought we’d live so far apart, and even though I just saw her last weekend, I’ll take every minute I can get. I give her a hug and wish her a happy early birthday, and she wishes me luck, because what do you say to someone embarking on a 24-hour endurance challenge?

Welcome Party: Vietnam Veterans Memorial Plaza, 6:00 p.m.

Welcome to gravity.

There goes your ego, dead on the pavement.

Now, we can begin.

We get into formation behind the flag. We Ruck over the Brooklyn Bridge to Pebble Beach. We link arms and step into the East River. We lie back on our Rucksacks facing the Manhattan skyline as waves roll over us. We do flutter kicks: one, two, three, one; one, two, three, two… We strain to keep our heads above the water. I keep my eyes fixed on the glittering buildings and bridges and the two ghostly pillars of blue light.

I grew up along the industrial shore of the New Jersey Turnpike in awe of the towers. As a teenager, I rode my skateboard in the plazas and streets beneath them. As a young man I plied my trade in the majesty of the steel and glass sentries. I always experienced them as beautiful, as symbols of freedom, possibility, opportunity, and the greatest of human achievement. They are in the landscape of my self-portrait, in the blueprint of my DNA.

Baptized in American Spirit—we stand up and step out of the river. Rocks in our shoes, water pouring through the drain holes in our Rucksacks.

That morning, I was a world away in California when the phone rang. It was Mom. There was something in her voice that I’d never heard before and never want to hear again: Michael, we are under attack. Annie watched my face closely and knew something was terribly wrong. I rose from the bed and turned on the TV.

Nine months pregnant with Lucy, Annie joined me in the living room. This was her projected due date: September 11, 2001. We stood there watching in disbelief and all we could do was pray: Not today, Lord, please, don’t let the baby come today.

We woke Emily up—she was eight years old. We sat on the couch huddled together. Then, Flight 77 struck the Pentagon and we watched the south tower collapse. Time cracked and we were now on the other side.

Back on the march, we push through Dumbo to the Greenway. We carry sandbags, sand kettlebells, sand medicine balls, firehoses, water jugs and bladders. The weight is moved amongst the team—the suffering shared. We stop for PT at Pier 6: Sandbag Burpees, Sand Kettlebell Swings, and Ruck Shuffle around the pier. Why are we here? To honor the fallen.

Each Rucker has a bib pinned to their Rucksacks—on it, a name of a soul who perished in the attacks, and for whom they are Rucking in honor of. I missed the assignment—didn’t get the email. I don’t have a bib, I don’t have a name.

Throughout the event, every participant will be encouraged to step forward and speak the names of those they are honoring. We listen to these first stories in a reverent silence as towering beams etch the sky across the water. Voices break and tears glisten under the lamplight.

We press on through Brooklyn. I team up with Aj and Hiram. Swap. We rotate the heaviest coupons to lightest from block to block. Conversation eases the load and miles. We trek into the night. Back over the Manhattan Bridge to China Town.

Flight 93 crashes in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Then, the north tower collapses. No one knows what’s going to happen next. The phone starts ringing. We talk to our family and friends. Words left unsaid are spoken. Difficult circumstances and feelings fall away. I just want you to know I love you.

Across Manhattan to the west side. Up the Greenway to the Intrepid. Into Times Square with the morning light. Circle up. More names and stories of the fallen are shared. Cadre Cleve and Cadre Norwich hand us over to Cadre Hand and Cadre McCarthy. Good morning. It’s going to be a Ruck-Run from here on out. The Ruckers in the back will continuously shuffle to the front in an endless rotation.

Up 7th Avenue. The streets begin to fill with pedestrians. They stand aside and watch our procession. They see the flag, the hoses, the weight; they understand the meaning: To Never Forget isn’t just words on a t-shirt or a social post, it’s an action. People thank us.

Days passed in a fog of fear, pain, and confusion. Images repeated and the bad news crawled across the bottom of the screen. And then, Annie went into labor. Our daughter Lucy was born into the blue light of 24/7 news channels. As soon as we could, we gathered our little family and left the paralyzed hallways of the hospital for home—trying to somehow start life again.

The greatest summer of my career was now an age ago.

Who am I here?

Who am I now?

What is my duty?

I have a forty-pound sandbag across my shoulders, thirty-plus pounds in my Rucksack. The new day hasn’t brought any sense of relief, only the reality that I have some eleven more hours of this to go. I’m at my lowest. I take it one step at a time, block to block. I step off a curb and I hit it. In the middle of a midtown intersection: bedrock. Buried in the internal rubble, my ground zero. Who I’m Rucking for isn’t a soul who perished that day, but one who had not yet been born—our daughter Lucy—and another who was only eight years old—our daughter Emily.

I close my eyes and try to choke back the tears. My stomach tightens and my chest heaves. I wasn’t ready for this. Suddenly, I’m back in those endless apocalyptic days. The helplessness.

How can we bring a baby into this world?

What kind of life can we provide our children?

How can I protect, defend, and keep my family safe?

I’m so scared.

On and up through Central Park—Ruck Run and PT—to the Firemen’s Memorial. We sit on the stairs as Cadre Hand and Cadre McCarthy share their 9/11 stories. I want to tell someone my story. To say out loud what’s been buried in the depths of my soul. But I don’t trust my voice to speak. I know what I want to say can only come out as an agonized cry through time. I clench my jaw and my lips tremble.

Back down through Riverside Park to the Hudson River Greenway. I’m no longer dealing with just the weight on my back, I’m dealing with the weight of time. Holding a new born baby—having a little girl still in grade school, being a husband and a father as the country mobilized for war.

What are my answers to these burning questions?

I slow down. I fall back—I’m out of reach. Isolated. I’ve lost my battle buddies. I carry the weight alone for too long and it becomes too much, too heavy. I need relief, I need help. I call out—I need help. My voice betrays a deeper pain. Word goes up the line. Then, a teammate is there. They take the physical burden from my shoulders. And now, I can’t fight it anymore, twenty-five years of tears come flooding out of my eyes and my body trembles.

I see our home in Long Beach, California. I see Emily holding her baby sister Lucy in her arms. I see myself reading Harry Potter to Emily in her bedroom. I see the dance studio down the street where Emily and Lucy took class. I see summer days and Disneyland nights. I see backyard birthday parties and Christmas mornings. I see vacations in Hawaii and Grand Cayman. I see dance recitals and conventions. I see road trips to concerts and to national parks. I see walks along the canals in Naples. I see Christmas Eves at Open Sesame. I see Emily and me packing orders in the garage. I see Annie at Magnolia & Willow. I see Lucy at the Dance Nationals in Las Vegas. I see Brandon walk on stage at the Whisky. I see Sunday dinners on San Remo. I see Emily and Brandon’s apartment in Wrigley. I see our home in Des Moines, Iowa. I see Lucy and Hayden holding hands by the river. I see Emily and Brandon on their wedding day in Santa Barbara. I see Lucy and Hayden’s apartment in NYC. I see Annie and me reading in bed—the dogs sleeping at our feet. I see Emily and Brandon’s home in California. I see our backyard patio in Jacksonville Beach, Florida. I see our granddaughter, Ella, smiling.

A husband.

A father.

A grandfather.

This was my duty, my calling—fought on the battlefield of everyday life. To raise two independent young women with Annie, rooted in love, support, self-respect, dignity, and optimism. To protect, defend, and keep my family safe.

One World Trade Center rises into the sky before us. I wipe away the last of my tears with the back of my hand. Why are we here? To honor the fallen. To nurture the children—born and unborn.

We arrive at the America’s Response Monument for our final workout. Every rep is hard, but not as hard as climbing up into a burning building, digging down through the pile, or deploying to Afghanistan. I think about all the lives lost—the people who never got to raise their families, who were never found. I think about those who were called to serve, who answered and still answer that call. My cause takes on a sacred charge, and I do my damndest to finish my last reps strong.

It’s taken me twenty-five years to get here. But this patch in my hand is not the end of something—it’s the beginning.

Thunder cracks. Dogs howl. Our eyes open and the room flashes with light. Rain drums down on the roof. Satisfied it’s just another thunderstorm, the dogs spin a few circles and snuggle back into our bodies and are snoring again in seconds. I roll over on my side and ease back into my dreams.

I dream that I fall in love with you all over again. It’s a different setting, different circumstances, but it’s you—the same destiny. I open my eyes at 5:00 a.m. and I’m lying next to you in our bed. I wake up to a dream come true. The dogs are here too.

I get dressed in the darkness. I walk down the stairs. I start the coffee and drink a glass of water. I step out into the heat on the back patio. I sit at the morning table. I sip my coffee and open my notebook.

My first inclination was to write. Stories, poems, songs. Though I’ve mostly ever dabbled, the inclination has never gone away. My first spotlight in the magazines in 1989 was adorned with poems. But most of what I’ve had to say has been written with body english and urethane scribing, or snarled over distorted guitars. Here in the dawn, I pick up my pen.

Barred owls bark and holler as the sky brightens. They greeted us on our first night here in Jax Beach and have been vigilant neighbors along with the lizards, cardinals, red-shouldered hawk, ibis, southern toads, and Cuban tree frogs.

I pull out the sandbags: bear hug squats, Romanian deadlifts, and lunges. I face east as the sun rises over the houses and trees. A pileated woodpecker clings to the large palm and chatters like a monkey. The pool filter kicks on.

Annie’s up. We leash the dogs and head out for our morning Ruck. Back at the house, I make the smoothies while Annie prepares the oatmeal. I shower, dress, and pack my lunch in my Rucksack. I kiss Annie goodbye. I put on my helmet, get on my bike, and pedal through the sunlit neighborhood to HQ.

GORUCK: This is where I see my reflection. This is what I choose to do. This is who I am. This is what I love: Rucking.

9:00 a.m., Friday. It’s been a tough and somber week. and ’s dog, and the President of GORUCK Nation, Monster, passed last Saturday at home. From the sadness and loss, and in honor of a beloved friend, comes the inspiration for GR MONSTER. This Rucksack—a dayruck and hiking pack—has been in development for thirteen years—the entirety of Monster’s life. The final sample was approved just a week ago, on Monster’s last day at HQ. There are no coincidences. All other plans for the week fall away—Nothing Else Matters. It’s all in Jason’s head and his heart. As he works through the grief, I stand by with the rest of the team for whatever he needs from us. Launching GR MONSTER is our only focus.

Mid-day reset. I hit the beach with Jason to earn my lunch via Rucksack. You don’t feel the weight as much in conversation. The sun blazes overhead. Brown pelicans fish in the surf.

4:45 p.m. We’re not leaving today until we finish what we started Monday morning. It’s not an ideal time to debut new gear, to send out an email, to do a social post. Fuck best practices, this is for us. We hit send with love.

I get back on my bike and ride home. The dogs rush me, offer me toys. I play tug of war with Bentley. I put on my swim trunks and take a dip in the pool. Annie makes grilled chicken and tomato-basil pasta for dinner. We take the dogs on their second Ruck of the day. We sit on the back patio and read while the ceiling fans oscillate and the sun slips behind the trees.

9:00 p.m. Annie takes her reading and the dogs to bed. I kiss the best lips ever goodnight. The dogs are concerned that I’m not getting into bed too. Sorry guys, I’ll see you in the morning. I love you. I close the bedroom door.

I open my notebook. I reflect on the day, on the past week, on our new lives here in Jax Beach. I write that I’ve never been bored. That I have always lived the life I wanted. That I have never missed out on anything. That I’m exactly who I want to be and where I want to be. Life is in front of you. Underline it.

10:45 p.m. I sit against the garage door watching the lightning flash in the gathering clouds. Jason pulls up in the Jeep. I get in—top open to the sky.

We pull out onto the JTB, Master Of Puppets blasting over the roar of the roadway. Battery. A light mist turns into a drizzle, turns into a rain, turns into a deluge. Jason says, As long as we keep moving we’ll stay dry. The rain is at its hardest as we exit towards downtown Jacksonville. Water pools on the expressway. We ride right into it and it surges like a wave breaking overhead, crashing down into the Jeep. Jason looks at me and smiles like we just experienced the very best of good luck. We did.

11:30 p.m. We take a short nap in a parking garage in the wet Jeep.

1:00 a.m. We walk down to the Andrew Jackson statue where we meet up with nineteen other weirdos. Ruck or Die, Class 003.

Buy in: 100 pushups.

Ruck up—let’s go.

We move briskly along the St. Johns River. The focus sharpens, the tinnitus recedes. There is only the unfolding ribbon of concrete and asphalt.

We push the pace to Memorial Park.

Buy in: 100 flutter kicks.

Dedicated on Christmas Day in 1924 to memorialize 1,220 Florida Fallen men and women who died serving in World War I. We do twelve burpees, twenty squats, and run the quarter mile oval walkway x10.

Ruck up.

We shuffle under Southern live oaks draped in Spanish moss to Five Points. We stand at the intersection of Margaret, Park, and Lomax Streets as the bars empty around us. Jason tells us about the Great Fire of 1901 that leveled one hundred forty-six Jacksonville city blocks. He says it again, One hundred forty-six city blocks. We do one hundred forty-six ground to overhead presses. The inebriated cheer us on, some join in for a few reps.

Zoom out: No one else anywhere in the world is doing this right now. No touchdowns, no gold medals, no economic return, no career path, no point. Only the joy of pure self-expression.

Ruck up.

Zoom in: You feel it in your left shoulder, your left ankle, your right foot. Old injuries that couldn’t stop you then and will not stop you now—signs of life.

We pause on a street corner to orient ourselves. You have to pay for that. What sounds good? 100 Ruck swings. Sure. We get after it on the sidewalk.

The night is ours now. The bridges, the skyline, the river, the streets, the stars and planets.

You want to break the algorithm? Show up at Ruck or Die. You want good, hard, clean fun? Show up at Ruck or Die. You want community? Show up at Ruck or Die. You want physical therapy? Show up at Ruck or Die. You want mental therapy? Show up at Ruck or Die. You want to be present? Show up at Ruck or Die. You want a time machine? Show up at Ruck or Die.

Ruck up.

We move through the silent neighborhoods to the Fuller Warren Bridge. Over the river to San Marco. Street lights and puddles. 100 pushups. This is how you deal with life’s petty stuff and not so petty stuff. Sweat seeps through the soles of my shoes.

Ruck up.

To the Friendship Fountain.

Downtown Jacksonville is lit up just for us. Purple neon floats on the wide river. The magnificent scenery is what makes the sport. Good people embracing the suck together is what lifts it into the sublime.

Jason tells us about Ax Handle Saturday in 1960 in Jacksonville, when a white mob armed with baseball bats and unattached ax handles attacked young black protesters. Then, five years later in 1965, at the height of the Civil Rights movement, Friendship Fountain was dedicated to symbolize civil pride and unity—an aspiration we are still fighting to realize. We do nineteen overhead presses, sixty-five lunges and circle the fountain x3.

Back across the Main St. Bridge into Downtown Jacksonville. Into the twilight—to the Veterans Memorial Wall.

Gather round. Jason has carried GR Monster on his back through the night with a leather patch that simply reads: MONSTER. He tells us that Monster passed away a week ago on August 15. That the grief comes in waves and he thanks us for being here—that this is a beautiful tribute. We do eight thrusters, fifteen pushups—because that was always Monster’s favorite time to lick your face—and 100-meter front rack carries— because someday you may have to carry your dog like this: be ready for it—x10.

As the sun climbs over the football stadium we begin the final push to ENDEX. Jason breaks off from the group to make a beer run. I stick with him through the awakening streets to 7-Eleven. Three cases of Bud Heavy: two stuffed into GR Monster. We head down to the riverfront where crowds are gathering for the Jaguars 5K Prowl. We sit on the steps of the Performing Arts Center drinking Victory Beer with Class 003 while people stretch and prepare for the race.

8:00 a.m. What’s another three miles? We merge into the stream of bodies and take another tour of the city via Rucksack.

Back in the Jeep, back to the beach, Master Of Puppets still blasting out of the wireless speaker on the dash. I remember when this record hit in 1986. I was obsessed then with another pointless activity and this was our soundtrack. We’d put it in the boombox, hit play and go hard. Some things never change.

The Intracoastal Waterway shimmers in every direction. Too tired to talk, Jason points at it as if to say, Are you seeing this? Then he opens his arms wide to receive the beauty.

12:00 p.m. The Jeep stops in front of the house as the last jarring note of Damage, Inc. hits—perfect timing, cover to cover. I step into the house and give Annie a kiss. I lie down on the cool tile floor while the dogs jump all over me. Annie says, They missed you. Then she asks, How was it? It was needed—just like this.

IN LOVING MEMORY

You meet under a streetlight at 0100 hours. Details not forthcoming. It’s you and a bunch of other sick fucks who shrugged off every possible excuse to not be here. You take off through the city streets, into the night. You’re moving quick, up and down sidewalks. The moon hangs like a bare bulb in the sky. You’ve done this a thousand times before, now you’re doing it again. In a world that prizes parking spots, impressions, and hacks, you’re seeking a more honest relationship with the universe. It’s not something that can be extracted—it’s an offering. Sweat drips to the pavement.

Tonight the flattened earth regains its shape, its dimension, its texture. This is the way to take in a city: legs and lungs, high-spirited play. Federal Hall, Washington Square, Battery Park, the Brooklyn Bridge in New York. WWII Memorial, Washington Monument, Ulysses S. Grant Memorial, Jefferson Memorial, FDR Memorial, MLK Memorial, Korean War Veterans Memorial, Vietnam Veterans Memorial, Lincoln Memorial in DC. Past the gawkers and hecklers—you chase the sunrise together. The only value it holds is what you give it.

ENDEX: Cold beer around the concrete campfire. Handshakes, and thank-yous. Good Livin’.

Passing thoughts get aired over breakfast in Dumbo with and Lucy. Coffee, protein bowls, smoothies. It’s good to talk, to lay the cards on the table and look at them. To get another perspective—to have perspective. What does success look like? It’s the light in the eyes that illuminate the room.

I cross over the bridge with Lucy and Jason. Somewhere in the future I walk the battlefield one last time. I see ghosts. Buffalo once roamed here, birds of the sky. Now it’s a designated park: restored, refurbished, preserved—fake bricks and tourists. Hey Mike, which post was it? I forget for a moment, it seems abstract, someone else’s life. It was this one. Everyone just looks at it. Jason hands me a Sharpie: Put a bolt on it. The last mark I’ll leave here.

I’m sitting in Lucy and Hayden’s apartment in Brooklyn Heights. I’m surrounded by guitars, books, art on the walls—big windows to let in the light. Elvis’ Sun Records recordings on the turntable.

We walk out into a perfect and clear summer day. Along the promenade—the East River, the strange and broken Manhattan skyline with George Washington and Walt Whitman. We stroll through Cobble Hill: coffee and stationery. Jason meets us back in Brooklyn Heights at Felice for dinner. Bread and olive oil, salmon, salad, and pasta. We sit at a sidewalk table and enjoy the evening conversation. Back along the promenade at dusk.

Jason and I leave the brownstone in Crown Heights after 9:00 PM, buzzing down the avenue. LED lights smooth all motion like a bad TV show. We duck out of the ultra-realism of the avenue into the cinematic low frame rate of the Nostrand Pub. We order Erdinger Hefe Weizens, and then another.

You can’t rewind but you can begin again: 001. To be back out on the streets, under the stars, close to the earth. There’s a thousand reasons not to be here right now, and no one would think any less of you, but there is the mirror. I watch quicksand years fall away. If we do what’s right, we won’t win on paper. Cheers to that.

It’s a bright morning. Toyin makes us breakfast: eggs, bacon, and blueberries from her garden. You can’t make sense of the senseless but you can enjoy small savors. We won’t lament the passing days or what once was. We can only honor the day in front of us and keep manifesting what will be. What are you going to put into your time capsule?

On the Amtrak into New Jersey and through my hometown with Jason. Onto Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, and into DC. We walk through Georgetown, meet up with Devin for dinner, then take a nap. At midnight, we walk down to the Potomac. 002.

Buy in: 100 pushups at the Washington Monument. We’ve basked in the radiance of Washington’s servant leadership this entire time—from the evacuation in Brooklyn Heights, to the inauguration at Federal Hall in Manhattan, here, to the capital city. He steps up for his country and then he steps down. The Greatest American.

Through the National Mall, to the Grant Memorial where I landed in June of ‘88: acid drops, sad plants, and boardslides. Stecyk snaps a photo. I’m here again, now: burpees, lunges, and air squats. Jason captures the moment—a continuum.

While the city sleeps, we have Jefferson to ourselves. Rucks off, we linger in the rotunda, silently absorbing the inscriptions. A fox slips along the edge of the tidal basin.

Why are you here?

I have an appointment with myself. To continue to paint my self-portrait outside of cultural mandates and political affiliations. To forgo agency rations and pre-packaged belief systems. Because here is where I see my reflection. Greener grass? No. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Ruck or Die.