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.

Loadout:

Rucker 5.0: The Rucker 5.0 is the purpose-built Rucking Machine. I’ve done all three Ruck or Die events to date with the American Tiger Stripe 20L edition on my back.

Mackall 45s: The Mackall 45s have a retro-upper that abides by Rule #1, and a performance lower that supports your feet for the hard miles. I wore the Fog colorway for Ruck or Die, JAX.

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.

Loadout:

GR3 — I never check a bag, and I don’t use roller bags, so I carry the largest possible carry-on Rucksack, the GR3. In it goes my clothes, extra shoes, electronics, books, journal, laptop, and Packable Bullet Ruck.

Rucker 5.0 — The Rucker 5.0 is the purpose-built Rucking Machine. I carried the 20L American Tiger Stripe edition on my back in NYC and DC. Instead of trying to travel with a Ruckplate—not recommended, remember, I don’t check bags—I packed a 30LB Achilles Vest and loaded that into the long pocket inside my Rucker

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