Episode # 3: Straight Out of a Comic Book

Rain tapped gently on the cabin windows, a soft rhythm that echoed the serenity of the early morning. Hara was already up, steeping tea while the scent of cedar and pine crept in through the cracked door. Zaidi shuffled into the living room, eyes half-closed, hair wild.

“No trail run today?” she mumbled, stretching.

“Not yet,” Hara replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Today, we train the mind before the body.”

He pointed toward the TV.

Onscreen, a dragon symbol blazed across black, and then—there he was. Bruce Lee, calm and coiled like a thunderbolt in waiting. And next to him, another figure just as commanding: Jim Kelly.

Zaidi blinked. “Who’s that?”

Hara’s eyes softened, and he sat beside her.

“That, my little warrior, is Jim Kelly. One of my greatest inspirations.”

He paused the movie, capturing Jim mid-fight, afro high and fists raised.

“He was born in Kentucky in 1946. Could’ve stuck with football or basketball, but he chose something deeper—something rooted in discipline and expression. Martial arts.”

Zaidi leaned closer. “Like you?”

Hara nodded. “Exactly. In the 1960s, Jim trained in Shorin-ryu karate and won big—really big—at the Long Beach International Karate Championships. That opened doors. But not just any doors. In 1973, he stepped into history.”

He pressed play. Onscreen, Jim Kelly’s character, Williams, walked with swagger, style, and silent strength. His kicks were fast, sharp. His lines, cooler than mountain wind.

“Man, you come straight out of a comic book,” Zaidi heard Jim say with a smirk.

Hara smiled. “That line… It wasn’t just funny. It was truth. At a time when Black men were written into Hollywood as sidekicks or stereotypes, Jim walked in with a fro and a gi and said, ‘I’m the hero.’”

Zaidi grinned. “He’s awesome.”

“He was more than awesome,” Hara said. “He showed the world what power looks like when it’s wrapped in precision and purpose. Because of him, I believed I could become a martial artist too. And now? So do you.”

Zaidi beamed, sitting up straighter.

As the movie ended, the rain slowed to a drizzle. Hara stood and walked to a small wooden crate near the door. Inside was a timer, two light dumbbells, and a kettlebell with its paint chipped from years of use.

“Today,” he said, “we complete The Straight Out of a Comic Book Workout. Inspired by Jim Kelly himself.”

He handed Zaidi the workout card:

20-Minute AMRAP

• Burpees – 8
• Bicep Curls – 19
• Shoulder Presses – 19
• Goblet Grip Squats – 7
• Jumping Jacks – 3

They stepped onto the porch, mist rising from the forest floor. Hara set the timer on the wooden railing.

“Ready?” he asked.

Zaidi nodded, fists clenched like comic book panels waiting to be inked.

The timer beeped.

Burpees first—each one a thunderclap of effort. Then bicep curls, the dumbbells whispering the memory of Jim’s flexed arms mid-fight. Shoulder presses followed, building strength in the frame of a hero. Goblet grip squats grounded them like warriors bracing for battle. The jumping jacks—only three—but they marked each round like the toll of a bell.

Round after round, their breaths joined the rhythm of the forest. Sweat slicked their faces. Muscles burned. But Zaidi moved like she had something to prove—to Jim, to herself, to the spirit of every fighter who came before.

By the end, she dropped the dumbbells and collapsed to her knees, panting, face lit with fire.

“How many rounds?” Hara asked.

Zaidi checked the chalk marks on the porch floor. “Seven rounds. And one rep into round eight.”

Hara chuckled, dropping beside her. “That’s warrior work.”

Zaidi looked out at the trees, now glowing under the emerging sun. “He really came straight out of a comic book.”

“And now,” Hara said, placing a hand on her shoulder, “so do you.”

That night, after dinner and stories, Zaidi sat by her window with a notepad in her lap. She began sketching a hero with a thick afro and fists wrapped in golden flame. The hero had her eyes. Her stance. Her smile.

Downstairs, Hara once again opened his notebook, scribbling tomorrow’s plan at the top of a fresh page.