Iron Work

Field conditioning isn't a luxury; it's survival. Before the terrace filled with civilian foot traffic, I scoped out the underside of a heavy cast-iron bistro chair. The lower wrought-iron rung offered prime clearance. I dropped to one knee, rubbed my palms in dry stone dust from the paver seam for a no-slip grip, and stepped beneath the iron bar. Reached up, locked both fists around the cold textured metal, and hauled my boots clean off the pavement. Ten strict, dead-hang pull-ups, chin clearing the scrollwork on every rep without rattling the frame. Dropped back down onto the flagstones on light heels, forearms humming. Sharp, dialed in, and ready for the day.