Heavy Steps Forward

Is it natural for your palms to sweat? My palms have never sweated, and yet they are slick as a greasy spoon. “It will be impossible to grip anything like this. Maybe I should turn back and go home.”

My feet don’t turn back though; instead, they walk down the stadium’s concrete steps towards the field. Carrying me down the death trap, overriding my thoughts, and indulging my better instincts. Did someone a half century ago think that three-foot steps were a good idea? Were people in better shape, or was safety an afterthought?

Each step sends needles up my bones, through my ankles and femur, up to my hip before a pinch in my low back becomes the ultimate receptacle of pain. Every step aches and stings. This isn’t how walking is supposed to be. This is the first time I’ve felt my weight and the extra pounds I carry around with me.

“The grass will be easier; it has to be. The track will be easier.”

The promise of a better future is how to push forward. There are only a few steps left to the salvation of a softer surface that will alleviate the stinging crunch of my knees, the aching tightness of my thighs. A softer surface I can also dry my oil-slick hands on, because my new workout clothing is resisting any effort to wipe them clean.

The ache doesn’t clear as spears stab my knees and hips when I reach the marble-hard track.

“I thought this stuff was rubber,” I say dejectedly. Rubber is supposed to give. It’s supposed to be soft. This rust-colored track is more forgiving than concrete in the same way jail is more forgiving than prison. "Why is the grass so hard?" Grass is supposed to be soft and not threatening to stab through my shoes.

“Everyone, gather around. Gather around.”

Should I walk? Jog? I’m not that far, and I want to set myself apart from the small group; however, after the hike down the unforgiving concrete, my knees aren’t ready for that. They need a break.

“Thank you, thank you everyone for being here and what you represent. If you don’t already know, you represent promising young recruits: smart, dedicated, who are not physically ready to join us in the minimal training needed to succeed.”

The extra pounds, the midnight meals, are a lead vest on my form. A vest, hopefully hiding a muscular form underneath. How do you even get this way? No one intends to get here. And yet I’m with twenty others.

“I’m not sure why you want to join the armed forces, but I appreciate your interest. If you succeed here, I know you will succeed at the academy. You will have shown that you at least have the dedication required to succeed in any branch of our armed forces. Today we will start off slow. After stretching and a light warmup, we will do laps, pushups, and squats. For a half hour, we will cycle between those three exercises. Spread out. Let’s begin.”

It’s interesting being in a group of what should be like-minded individuals. Unhealthy people striving to join the service, however, judging from our shirts, the group’s interests couldn’t be more diverse.

Two of us are wearing workout clothes. Most of us wear shorts and T-shirts, showing varying degrees of age, wear, and tightness. Sports are heavily represented with seven different shirts. Two high school, three collegiate (all different teams), two baseball teams, a basketball team, and one lacrosse shirt. Two people are rocking bands, a rapper and a death metal group that should have stopped touring before any of us were born. The rest wear a smattering of IPs: video games, books, movies, t.v. It’s fascinating. Each fandom is unique, and no one represents overlapping fandoms. Although I might overemphasize a shirt, it’s incredible how many people can share a dream despite their differences.

My muscles are tighter than a canvas. Our instructor bends with slim-toned, tanned limbs of steel, but I struggle. Calves… Tight. Hamstrings… Tight. Back, I didn’t know your back could be tight. As I creak and struggle to match her moves, my muscles ache to hold these positions. Half the time I’m not sure I’m stretching anything at all.

Fortunately, it doesn’t last long.

“Okay, everyone, look here. Before you go to the track, I want to make sure you understand what to do. Pushups,” the instructor appears on the ground, holding herself up with a back I could rest a book on. “Can be done here or on your knees. You will go down keeping your elbows in and then back up. Squats,” she jumps up to her feet. “Try to keep your heels grounded and sit down as far as you can go. Squeeze your glutes at the top and do your best. I do not want you hurting yourself, but I also want you pushing yourself. On my whistle, everyone will start running, not walking, but running, no matter how slow, around the track. When you hear my whistle, drop where you are and do pushups. Next whistle back to running. Next whistle, squats… and so on and so forth. Let’s begin.”

Despite the early hour, the sun mocks us, bathing our abysmal efforts on the oven-heated track. Before the first whistle blew, I was already soaked, the moisture from my hands migrating across my body, and now that we’re running, pushing, and squatting, I feel like I’ve jumped into a pool.

With each shrill whistle, my being flares with hope and dread as I assume the next position. Grateful for the end of the one workout while dreading what comes next. My legs barely move forward, my arms shake with every trip up and down, and I’m pretty sure every squat will be my last. I’m barely bending my knees and don’t know if the shakes are from exhaustion or anxiety that I will go down and not come back up.

Despite this pain, I push. Not everyone out here can say that, but I push. I push and push. Each whistle giving my all even if it is a rep of one. Whistle. Run, legs burn while debating if they want to hold my weight. Whistle. Pushup on jello arms and sore knees, but I can get one… Then a second. Whistle. Run, so I push myself to balance on wobbling poles as I refuse to not pump my aching arms. Whistle. Squat. Feet wide, and thighs screaming, I can trick my mind into thinking there’s a chair. I push…. I push through each exercise and rep, every whistle, until, after an eternity, something changes.

“That’s it. Everyone come in. Come in.”

On the field, I huddle amongst my new friends. All soaked, gasping for panting breaths on the gentle grass.

“Everyone, get some water and rest. And I’m proud. This was the first day. I’ll see you Wednesday. Good job.”

I collapse with a grin and maniacal laugh. I made it. Today I took the first step. Who knows how many are left?