Last month, I had the honor of participating in the Ruck4HIT Relay to support Heroes In Transition, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

This wasn’t your typical charity run. There were no water stations. No crowds. No finish-line fanfare. Just seven men, two drivers, and one grueling mission — to carry the weight for our nation’s heroes.

I also want to say a massive THANK YOU to everyone who supported me and donated to HIT. Your kindness and generosity only bolstered my efforts and inspired me to keep on rucking:

Jennifer Zhu
Tom Petrocelli
Julia Rodgers
Theresa Mwicigi
Nicole Campos
Doron Bracha
Zawadi Lemayian
Sam Reifman-Packett
Michael Sherman
Randall Horn
Bill Gehan
Bruce Fields
Reed Apfelbaum
Roberto Patarca
Masha Zilberman
James M Marsden
George Haroutounian
John Ahlgren
Walter Pawlowski
Rebecca Layton
Cynthia Nagrath
Dipti Patel
Sheri Andon
Gayle Wholley
Bruce Martin
Howard and Gareth Levy

Read my account of this incredible journey below - and if you're able, please consider making a donation to Heroes In Transition today.

Ruck4HIT: Carrying the Weight for Those Who Can't

We didn’t run a race.
We went to war.

Seven runners. Two drivers. One battered van that smelled like death by mile ten.
Thirty miles each — some even more.
Thirty-six hours straight.
Twenty pounds strapped to our backs, grinding into our spines, wrecking our knees, and lighting our bodies on fire.

It started at 1:00 AM.
Eli first. Then Dakota. Then Jake. Then me.
Nick and Leo weaving the van through the night like battlefield medics.

There were no finish lines in sight. No music. No cheering crowds.
Just blackness.
Just a headlamp slicing through the dark, your own breath reminding you that you were alive — and hurting.

You weren’t just running.
You were navigating deserted streets alone, carrying a weight that symbolized something far heavier than gear.
It symbolized the burdens carried every day by the men and women we were rucking for.

Every leg was a battle.

You stumbled off the course and crammed yourself into the child-sized torture chamber we called a van, trying to fake recovery.
But you couldn’t sleep.
You couldn’t stretch.
You couldn’t even breathe without feeling boxed in.

You just waited for the inevitable:
"Rucker up."

And then you hauled your broken body back onto the battlefield.

The van was a rolling tomb — reeking, cramped, disgusting — but out on the road?
Out there you were stripped down to pure survival.

By my third leg, my knees were cooked.
Sitting sent lightning through my legs. Standing was worse.
I popped ibuprofen like candy just to keep moving.

But quitting? Not an option.
Not when six brothers were grinding right alongside me.
Not when every step was a tribute to something bigger than our pain.

Everyone fought something.
Everyone paid a toll.

Blisters.
Pulled calves.
Cramps.
Sleep deprivation so deep it left you delirious.
Shattered knees.
Empty tanks.
Bodies breaking down, piece by piece.

But no one folded.
Not one man.

And when the load got heavier, Braden — our captain — didn’t just carry his share.
He took on more.
He ran eleven legs. No complaints. No excuses.
Leading by example, rucking until his body gave out but his will never did.

Because this wasn’t just a race.
It was a mission.

We rucked for Heroes In Transition (HIT).
We rucked for Captain Eric A. Jones, a Marine who gave his life so others could live.
We rucked for every veteran who comes home to fight invisible wars.
We rucked for the families left behind — piecing together the aftermath.

Heroes In Transition helps them — through counseling, financial support, and emotional healing.
They carry that weight every damn day.
We carried it for 36 hours.

Every cramp.
Every scream from our knees.
Every sleepless hour packed in that van.
It was for them.
Because they deserve it.

When the road stretched too long, when the weight felt unbearable, you remembered who you were running for.
You thought about the heroes who never made it home.
You thought about your brothers waiting at the next rally point.
You thought about how pain is temporary — but honoring them is forever.

That’s what kept us moving.

We rucked through two sunrises and one endless night.
Through 36 hours of hunger, thirst, doubt, and agony.
Through empty towns, blisters, bruises, broken bodies, and stubborn hearts.

And when we crossed that finish line?

We didn’t just finish a race.
We earned something permanent — something inside of us that won't ever leave.

We finished second place.
But there’s no medal big enough to measure what we truly won.

We built a brotherhood no one outside that van will ever understand.
We built a memory no amount of pain could erase.
We built a bond forged in suffering, loyalty, pride — and love.

Unless you lived it — unless you tasted the vomit in your throat, felt your knees buckle under the weight, smelled the misery packed into that van, fought the demons alone on those empty roads — you’ll never understand what it was.

And that’s okay.

Because we didn’t do it for them.

We did it for the ones who can’t.
We did it for those still carrying heavier loads every single day.

We carried the weight.
We carried the mission.
We carried each other.

Ruck heavy. Ruck proud. Ruck forever.

By,
Hans Nagrath
Rucker #4