Iron Suspension

The swaying rubber swing is conquered ground; true physical discipline demands rigid steel. I marched across the damp morning gravel to the low timber-supported parallel bars. A damp fallen maple leaf was plastered flat against the cold tubular iron, slick with morning condensation and threatening my grip. Ignoring it? Unacceptable! I wiped the sodden debris away with a blunt swipe of my gloved forearm. Planting both fists firmly upon the chilled metal cylinder, I locked my elbows and hauled my entire weight into an unyielding vertical dip. My boots hung clean above the ground, refusing to waver. Capsule town's morning air yields to raw endurance alone.