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.
Been a fan of yours for a long time Mike. It's always been plain to see that you were a good, honorable man. My uncle Vinny lost his life to 9/11 related illness, he spent every day for months on that pile. Thank you for honoring him and men like him. Thank you for being a good father. The world needs more of that.
The way you tell this story makes me feel like I was there too. Thank you for sharing, Mike