Rocky on Rockwell?

I live close to an el stop – as in, if I fell out my living room window, I would be on the el tracks, close – and can see the station from my kitchen window. I like to people watch when I'm cooking or washing dishes, and more than once (okay, quite a bit), I’ve spied a well-dressed guy at the station, whose faded navy Jansport backpack doesn’t quite go with his creased slacks and colorful ties. He catches the 2:48 train toward the Loop, arriving shortly before it arrives. In fact, he has his departure timed so well, that he strides confidently onto the platform, walks directly past the recycling box, the pay phone, and the other commuters, and drops his old Jansport onto a bench about halfway down the platform.

He then drops and does exactly 15 pushups – the manly kind, with an extra-macho clap of his hands between each one – as the train approaches. He somehow always manages to complete all fifteen just as the train rolls to a stop. He leaps up, assumes a very Rocky-esque stance, throwing his clenched fists into the air victoriously as he grunts, “YEAH!” Then he slings that dirty blue backpack over his freshly pressed shirt and boards the fourth car of the Brown Line train.