The road called Hope is cobbled and crooked. It is the scenic route to the City of Joy, twisting and turning, challenging it's sojourner with every hook and dip, every rise of a hill, every rickety bridge, and every gap in the pavement. It asks much of it's traverser, but promises much in return. It whispers encouragement, just when a foot slips, a knee bruises. A glance over the shoulder reveals an honest path. A forward gaze is cloaked by a fine mist; shapes emerge in the distance, and Trust is a necessary companion.
The journeymen hiking Hope's scantily mapped trail are couch potatoes called athletes. Walk-around-the-block-ers called Iron Men. Renamed and repurposed by Hope's landmarks and landmines. Growing into their new [true] identity with every beleaguered step. Hope Road asks too much; Hope's roadies gather and glean at every slope and crest, begging for deliverance.