Impressions leading up to the first Pittsburgh GoRuck here.
The Cadre would not be called "Sir." We called him that word and paid for it - and learned to not call our active-duty green beret that word ever again, though it took a few painful disciplinary actions.
He smoked every time he spoke. Holding the cigarette gingerly between his fingers, and he honestly did not have a Hollywood stereotypical "hero" look; he instead looked as if he would come out of PNC Park or a bar in the South Side, eating a Primanti Sammich, and smoking one too many, but you know if you got in his face, you were toast. The way he spoke to the police that night - so matter-of -factly. He enjoyed having us "carry lots of heavy-a@# sh#$!" He enjoyed his story times, telling us all how he blew up a cache of Taliban goodies and how the Taliban responded - good times.
We held the American flag, never allowing it to touch ground. Come to think of it, we never let our coupons (really heavy a@# h#$) down either and it was heavy. Our backpacks weighing, on the march, came in at a bouncy +100lbs. Our shoulders loved us. Our legs loved us. Surprisingly, the Vibram five finger shoes survived as did my little tootser toes after 13 hours and 21 miles.
The Cadre told us first thing was a little mission, after we failed to pull together during the exercise. We all volunteered to do these things. My elbows and knees took a scraping and bruising, and then we went into a pool of stagnant water and performed lots of fun things that the military does, like crawling around with our packs and pulling bodies, but we came together. We had to.
And we carried heavy a@# sh#$.
Into the city with the cadre, smoking his cigarettes, leading the way. Joy.
We happened to cross the bridge into Station Square, and then onto the darkness of the trail. In the background the deep bass of chunka-chunka music to confuse our slogging dogs, the cadre found us a nice sized tree to hoist and pull through the trail. We ran Indian runs to attempt to move us faster in the dark; our headlamps burned brightly.
Hrmmph!
Calisthenics in the Mon. Oh joy!
Then up and through the drunken South Side. I was disheartened by this most of all. The flag was mocked, and had we not been in mass and looking every bit a band of very weary marauders, spit upon by college shits - not quite adult kindergarten kids. We ended up pulling into a gas station - all 28 of us.
On the bright side, the cops showed up. They drove in from the lechery and debauchery of the South Side to see a bunch of tired crazies carrying a lot of heavy a@# sh#$. One old man in a leather jacket muttered, "See, I told you there's going to be some crazy sh#$ happening tonight."
Seven police cars more police officers and the cadre easily walks over, cigarette pursed in his lips and explains the "deal".
And we headed off. Up Mount Washington, carrying the coupons and the log. Never putting a thing down. Slogging and sweating in the humid darkness to the top. We never knew what time it was, and in a way I am glad that we didn't. It would have been torture, but the view of city now rendered harmless by the passing out of drunks and debutante whores spending daddy's hard-earned cash, it looked beautiful again. The statue of Ol' George and an Indian in conversation, silently embraced the remains of the night.
We drank our waters. Ate what we could. And stared blankly off into the city and I imagined it as a big bowl of rubble and debris, and we, the 28, a rough and tumble troop, ready for action - after a long nap maybe.
We finally deposited our friend, the big f@#$ing log. And everyone was so sad to see it get lost on that random ball field, where we drank beers and giggled through our exhaustion.
I won't go into to much more, because - it was a lot of calisthenics, 21+ miles, carrying heavy a@# sh#$ in all three rivers and I can not remember how many bridges where those not carrying coupons were subjected to torturous lunges and bear crawls as the sun rose. We swore under our breath. We carried our "buddies".
In my lucidity, I imagined the relief of our warriors coming home to their families, and I welled up just a little, as we approached our vehicles. I imagined my wife's reaction to my "coming home".
Glorious.
In earnest, I confess, I was never a team player, until the GoRuck. I learned. The only team prior to it was at home, and I think I got a little better at it.
I learned to respect the flag, and to hold in disdain those who would disrespect it. Maybe they should save up their mommy and daddy's money and head to Afghanistan or Iraq or Syria, and see how well received they are.
I learned that Cadre Dan is obeying the rules of the Green Beret. Yep, in spite of his overuse of F@#$ and S@#$, he is pretty cool... and tough as nails.
When asked if I would do it again, I replied that I would consider it - after my wounds have healed and my body forgives me.
And in my fitful sleeps, I shout out to zombie mobs, "GoRuck!" And I smile.
The Cadre would not be called "Sir." We called him that word and paid for it - and learned to not call our active-duty green beret that word ever again, though it took a few painful disciplinary actions.
He smoked every time he spoke. Holding the cigarette gingerly between his fingers, and he honestly did not have a Hollywood stereotypical "hero" look; he instead looked as if he would come out of PNC Park or a bar in the South Side, eating a Primanti Sammich, and smoking one too many, but you know if you got in his face, you were toast. The way he spoke to the police that night - so matter-of -factly. He enjoyed having us "carry lots of heavy-a@# sh#$!" He enjoyed his story times, telling us all how he blew up a cache of Taliban goodies and how the Taliban responded - good times.
We held the American flag, never allowing it to touch ground. Come to think of it, we never let our coupons (really heavy a@# h#$) down either and it was heavy. Our backpacks weighing, on the march, came in at a bouncy +100lbs. Our shoulders loved us. Our legs loved us. Surprisingly, the Vibram five finger shoes survived as did my little tootser toes after 13 hours and 21 miles.
The Cadre told us first thing was a little mission, after we failed to pull together during the exercise. We all volunteered to do these things. My elbows and knees took a scraping and bruising, and then we went into a pool of stagnant water and performed lots of fun things that the military does, like crawling around with our packs and pulling bodies, but we came together. We had to.
And we carried heavy a@# sh#$.
Into the city with the cadre, smoking his cigarettes, leading the way. Joy.
We happened to cross the bridge into Station Square, and then onto the darkness of the trail. In the background the deep bass of chunka-chunka music to confuse our slogging dogs, the cadre found us a nice sized tree to hoist and pull through the trail. We ran Indian runs to attempt to move us faster in the dark; our headlamps burned brightly.
Hrmmph!
Calisthenics in the Mon. Oh joy!
Then up and through the drunken South Side. I was disheartened by this most of all. The flag was mocked, and had we not been in mass and looking every bit a band of very weary marauders, spit upon by college shits - not quite adult kindergarten kids. We ended up pulling into a gas station - all 28 of us.
On the bright side, the cops showed up. They drove in from the lechery and debauchery of the South Side to see a bunch of tired crazies carrying a lot of heavy a@# sh#$. One old man in a leather jacket muttered, "See, I told you there's going to be some crazy sh#$ happening tonight."
Seven police cars more police officers and the cadre easily walks over, cigarette pursed in his lips and explains the "deal".
And we headed off. Up Mount Washington, carrying the coupons and the log. Never putting a thing down. Slogging and sweating in the humid darkness to the top. We never knew what time it was, and in a way I am glad that we didn't. It would have been torture, but the view of city now rendered harmless by the passing out of drunks and debutante whores spending daddy's hard-earned cash, it looked beautiful again. The statue of Ol' George and an Indian in conversation, silently embraced the remains of the night.
We drank our waters. Ate what we could. And stared blankly off into the city and I imagined it as a big bowl of rubble and debris, and we, the 28, a rough and tumble troop, ready for action - after a long nap maybe.
We finally deposited our friend, the big f@#$ing log. And everyone was so sad to see it get lost on that random ball field, where we drank beers and giggled through our exhaustion.
I won't go into to much more, because - it was a lot of calisthenics, 21+ miles, carrying heavy a@# sh#$ in all three rivers and I can not remember how many bridges where those not carrying coupons were subjected to torturous lunges and bear crawls as the sun rose. We swore under our breath. We carried our "buddies".
In my lucidity, I imagined the relief of our warriors coming home to their families, and I welled up just a little, as we approached our vehicles. I imagined my wife's reaction to my "coming home".
Glorious.
In earnest, I confess, I was never a team player, until the GoRuck. I learned. The only team prior to it was at home, and I think I got a little better at it.
I learned to respect the flag, and to hold in disdain those who would disrespect it. Maybe they should save up their mommy and daddy's money and head to Afghanistan or Iraq or Syria, and see how well received they are.
I learned that Cadre Dan is obeying the rules of the Green Beret. Yep, in spite of his overuse of F@#$ and S@#$, he is pretty cool... and tough as nails.
When asked if I would do it again, I replied that I would consider it - after my wounds have healed and my body forgives me.
And in my fitful sleeps, I shout out to zombie mobs, "GoRuck!" And I smile.
