Episode #1: Learning about the Originator

The sun had barely winked over the jagged skyline of the mountain when Hara and his daughter, Zaidi, stepped onto the pine-scented trail. Mist curled around their ankles like a sleepy dragon, and the world lay silent except for the muffled crunch of their boots and the drum of their hearts—one seasoned, one eager. 

Halfway up the slope, they reached a clearing carpeted in dew-kissed moss. Hara planted his staff in the earth.

“Horse stance,” he said, voice gentle but iron-edged.

Zaidi slid her feet wide, heels digging in, knees bent. The position felt familiar, yet on this mountain, under this vast canvas of dawn, it carried a new gravity. Her thighs burned almost instantly, but she met the fire with a grin.

“Hold it,” Hara murmured, pacing a slow circle around her.

“While your legs remember discipline, let your mind meet our lineage.”

He stopped in front of her, eyes gleaming.

“Have you heard of Billy Blanks?”

Zaidi’s breath fogged in the chill air. “The Tae Bo guy from Gram grams’s old DVDs?”

Hara chuckled. “The very one. Born in 1955, Erie, Pennsylvania—hips misaligned, learning challenges stacked against him. Most people saw limitation; he saw only room to grow. He earned black belts in taekwondo and karate, then did the unthinkable: he fused taekwondo’s snapping kicks, boxing’s piston punches, and the rhythm of dance aerobics into a single heartbeat called Tae Bo. In the 1990s, that heartbeat echoed from tiny basement gyms to Hollywood sound stages and living rooms worldwide.”

He leaned closer, voice a conspiratorial whisper.

“Why does that matter to us? Because the Roots of the Rising Fist exists for the same reason: we honor every art by refusing to stay inside one of them.”

Zaidi’s stance quivered, but pride steadied her spine.

Hara continued. “Today sweetheart we will be completing; The Originator Workout. A twenty-minute AMRAP: as many rounds as possible, no gear, just grit.”

Exercise #1: Side Kicks — 20 reps

Hara pivoted, dug his heel into the granite, and swept his leg out toward the horizon.

“These side kicks open your hips to allow for more flexibility and power,” he said, the wind tugging at his jacket.

“Every dodge around a loose rock, every pivot on a steep switchback—it all starts with hips that can move like hinges.”

Zaidi copied her father, her kick slicing the mist. A few pine needles spun away on the breeze.

Exercise #2: Squats — 20 reps

Hara dropped into a deep squat, thighs parallel to the stone. “Squats turn your legs into loaded springs,” he explained.

“They anchor you when the path is loose gravel and give you burst when you leap across a stream.” Zaidi followed, cheeks puffed, boots gripping the rough surface.

Exercise #3: Front Kicks — 20 reps

Stepping back, Hara snapped a front kick toward an imaginary opponent in front of him. “Front kicks teach explosive forward force,” he said.

“That’s the thrust you need for a sudden uphill sprint or a quick strike if you need to move something or someone out your way.”

Exercise #4: Punches — 20 reps

Hara raised his fists and punched the crisp air, knuckles humming. “Punches sharpen speed, toughen shoulders, and—most of all—focus intent,” he told his daughter.

“Each punch is you telling the mountain, ‘I belong here.’”

Hara then set a battered wind-up timer on a flat stone. “Ready?” he asked.

Zaidi nodded, and readied herself for the routine.

Side kicks sliced the morning haze; squats rooted them to the mountain’s heartbeat; front kicks drove mist into swirling ghosts; punches cracked like miniature thunderclaps. Sweat traced silver paths down their faces, and birds paused mid-song as father and daughter painted invisible calligraphy into the air.

Minutes stretched and coiled. Muscles trembled, then caught fire, then hardened. When the timer clanged at twenty, Zaidi dropped to the moss, lungs blazing, eyes shining brighter than the newborn sun.

Hara knelt beside her.

“Billy Blanks showed me that tradition isn’t a museum—it’s a forge. He blended styles to serve people, not purists. That bravery birthed Tae Bo…and later, Roots of the Rising Fist. Today’s workout honored his spark. Tomorrow, you will add to the flame.”

Zaidi flexed her weary legs, feeling new power humming inside them.

Golden afternoon light escorted them down the trail, each step a quiet echo of the kicks and squats they had conquered. At the foot of the mountain they paused, looking back as clouds blushed pink behind the summit—as if the peak itself were bowing good-bye.

Back home, they shed dusty boots at the door and let savory aroma of a tasty home cooked meal swirl around tired muscles. While Zaidi laid out tomorrow’s fresh gi and stretched her hips before dinner, Hara was sitting at the table thumbing through a weathered notebook—sketching new combinations that married basketballs rhythm and coordination, baseball’s torque, and capoeira’s flow.

“It's time to eat you two.” Says Kia, the queen of the house, Hara’s wife, and Zaidi’s mother. The family sits down to have dinner before it’s time for bed. As Zaidi heads to her roo she asks her father, “What’s the workout for tomorrow Daddy.”

Hara smiles and responds, just wait and see.

Zaidi sighs and walks off her to her room after giving her mom and dad a hug.

Kia chuckles and asks, “Hara why do you always do that to her?”

Hara smiles and says, “Anticipation adds to the workout.”

Kia rolls her eyes and smiles as Hara continues to plan the routine for the next day.