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Push The Prowler

Illustration by Sam Woolley/ GMG

Push it. Push it. Push it. Now celebrate!


There’s not much more to life than this: you push a heavy thing, and then you die. There are details in between, and sometimes you have to go to dinner, but that is basically it. Life is a Prowler sled. Enjoy it because you don’t have a choice.


A Prowler sled is a sled. Got it? You put weights on it and then you push it a ways. Then you turn around and push it back. It may, indeed, cause you to die. But as you die, gasping for oxygen as your muscles seize and your consciousness swoons, you can bask in the aptness of the metaphor. “I overdid it,” you think to yourself in your last moments, whether you die under the cold, fluorescent lights of a “$19.99 Per Month Special!!!” gym next to an Albertson’s, or in a dirty latrine with a fentanyl-laced heroin needle drooping out of your arm as you fade away, a tiny part of your mind still thinking about burpee variations.

Expending all your energy struggling against a nearly immovable force, only to end up in the same place you began. We all live the Prowler sled in our own way. But whereas your daily life is defined by a distinct lack of progress in any measure other than video game levels completed, the Prowler sled offers progress—yeah, progress within. Progress at the cellular level and mitochondria and things of that nature. On the outside, all that people see is you, a failure, looking as if you have failed once again, but more so, because you are collapsed next to a weighted sled, twitching in a way that makes you even less attractive than usual—a high bar. But on the inside, there are things happening that a scientist could describe with specific words about chemistry and how muscles work. Words that are important as the concepts they describe. Words like “if I were a sprinter—and I’m not—I would be greatly improving my starting time off the blocks, thanks to fast-twitch muscles and how they work.”


Words of glory.

If you look around your gym I bet you’ll see lots of people doing bullshit. I know it for a damn fact. How? Because they insist on doing that bullshit right in the one single astroturf-ed area within the gym suitable for pushing the Prowler, upon. Hey buddy—mind doing your back bends over a big inflatable ball somewhere not in the path of my metal sled of destruction, there? How about I push this intimidating-looking contraption of fucking raw steel past you at a very slow speed? How would you feel about that, ya big bag of bones? Would you be fearful of the mighty power inherent in its creaking metallic frame? Would you gaze in slack-jawed admiration at the man bent like Hercules, his properly straightened arms grasping the big handle things, stunningly propelling this weighted sled down the astroturf area by the front windows, his face alarmingly red? Would you worship at the altar of the Prowler? Or just continue down the path of “planks on the foam mat?”


Can’t even do your planks on the hard ground to make em more painful buddy??

Into the elite pantheon of Single Exercises So Hardcore You Can Just Come In The Gym And ONLY Do Them And Leave And Still Feel Like You Got a Complete Hardcore Workout, I would like to induct: The Prowler! [APPLAUSE.] Even when your knees are too decrepit for heavy squats and your back is too decrepit for deadlifts and you lack the stony will necessary for a hundred damn jump burpees, you can do: The Prowler! [APPLAUSE.] The last refuge of the washed up bastard. (Who am I describing? Myself? Am I a decrepit old fuck, body torn to shambles by years of workouts done for no rational or useful reason? A shell of man, an absurd caricature, a cautionary tale, respected by none, reviled by some, and ultimately forgotten by all? You may never know.)


Pushing that Prowler sled is a hell of a good exercise! Whew.

One day when our labor is done, I hope that we all can at last lay down our burdens and retire to a small, warm, quiet home in the country. We’ll have a fireplace, and some chickens, and a couple of loyal dogs. Next to the home is a picturesque field. We’ll cut some fifty yard-long strips of heavy rubberized carpeting and lay them down in that field. We’ll put a ELITEFTS OLD SCHOOL PROWLER 2 onto those dirty strips of carpet and push the hell out of it, up and down the field, screaming until our last ounce of breath leaves our body in a stream of vomit. We’ll do this every day, our hamstrings strengthening, feeling ever ready for the looming great war that may break out at any time, decimating our tissue-thin social fabric. Later we’ll settle in by the fire and enjoy a slice of homemade pie as we read a nice book.


The book is called “Push the Prowler” And it has a WOLF on the cover.


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About the author

Hamilton Nolan

Senior Writer.