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The Road Less TraveledPeople often go through with(predicate) their life working-out and going to the gym to get buff. For ninety-five portion of Americans that do work out, few can say that they have pushed themselves as hard as possible, but I have the distinct, and often painful, fun of knowing that there is another way to work out. This option is hostile any other that I have ever personally been through and is a way that I would not wish on any average American. 455 a.m. Seventeen degrees Fahrenheit, a mild play of ten miles per-hour-- for the fifth day in a row and due south consecutive month, it is time for me to wake up, make the face-numbing, core-hardening walk through the century to the Mildred and Louis Lasch Football Building. After the half-mile hike, a swipe of my student identification control board opens the door. A quick walk to the locker room takes the prisoners of pain into production line for their uniform. We pull on stale, manila raiments manila, o f course, from previous uses. each resembles an old Mexican poncho, failing to conform to our bodies. The matching shorts follow both shirt and shorts are embossed with one simple letter, S. The men, clad in uniform and barely awake, file out of the locker room, silently walk down the dimly lit back hallway, dreading the impending infliction of pain. Each socked foot becomes heavier, latching onto each fiber of carpet, but human will, not muscle builder mechanics, moves our warm, muscle bound, ligament and tendon attached, skin encased carcasses to the double doors. Thirteen feet away, the acidulous smell of hot rubber, cool iron, moldy sweat and old coffee bean collides. Most men gag at this point, but the leader of the lead enters the room and there is but one choice.Thirteen thousand shape feet of machines, weights, ropes, chains, and pain. The fluorescent lamps fill the room with an unnatural light. Sunlight, just like excuses, is not allowed in Satans lair. Each horse is paired up with his driver. A seven minute warm-up is prescribed by the trainer, and so it starts. I jump on the stationary bicycle. A light shot against my bare legs blows gently attempting to cool me, but does little to diminish the interior(a) burn of the quadriceps and hamstrings. Upon completion of the warm up, John Thomas, former dark blue S.E.A.L., commands me to join him at the manual neck resistance station.