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The Road Less Traveled   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  People often go through their life working-out and going to the gym to get â€Å"buff.† For ninety-five percent 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, pleasure of knowing that there is another way to work out. This option is unlike any other that I have ever personally been through; and is a way that I would not wish on any average American. 4:55 a.m. Seventeen degrees Fahrenheit, a mild breeze of ten miles per-hour-- for the fifth day in a row and second consecutive month, it is time for me to wake up, make the face-numbing, core-hardening walk through the snow to the Mildred and Louis Lasch Football Building. After the half-mile hike, a swipe of my student identification card opens the door. A quick walk to the locker room takes the prisoners of pain into line for their uniform. We pull on stale, manila shirts; manila, of 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, â€Å"S.† The men, clad in uniform and barely awake, file out of the locker room, silently shuffling 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 mechanics, moves our warm, muscle bound, ligament and tendon attached, skin encased carcasses to the double doors. Thirteen feet away, the pungent smell of hot rubber, cool iron, moldy sweat and old coffee collides. Most men gag at this point, but the leader of the pack enters the room and there is but one choic e.   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Thirteen thousand square 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 Satan’s 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 breeze against my bare legs blows gently attempting to cool me, but does little to diminish the internal burn of the quadriceps and hamstrings. Upon completion of the warm up, John Thomas, former Navy S.E.A.L., commands me to join him at the manual neck resistance station.