No more cowbell. Please. As if in answer, a hollow clanging echoes around Harvard Stadium and we all drop to the concrete and rip off 10 push-ups. Then it's back to the steps. "I don't care if you slow down, don't stop moving," a deep voice booms. "Just like life." A few high-lunges later and I slap my hand at the faded number 22 at the top of the seating section. My lungs are heaving, my quads so heavy I'm pretty sure they could anchor a boat. I draft behind a couple of lithe college-aged women, reining in my breath as we trundle down the steps before tackling the next section. "Holy crapola, those are steep," one of them says. To my left, at least a hundred runners clamber up the rows in various stages of distress and concentration. To my right, easily a hundred more. "You stop moving, you're dead," the booming voice continues, "then you're no fun."

That voice belongs to Brogan Graham, known to most around here as BG. At 6' 6", he's impossible to miss. But just in case, he's dressed in a red-and-white-striped long-sleeve shirt under a green Milwaukee Bucks basketball jersey, a bright bicycle cap, a pair of coffee-colored shades, and black running shorts. In his hand, a drumstick and a cowbell. The 30-year-old is the irrepressible cofounder of November Project, a grassroots fitness group that's part flash mob, part running tribe, and all the rage in Boston. This morning's mission: 40 sections of the iconic horseshoe coliseum in Allston, Massachusetts—each 31 rows steep—sprinkled with "fire drills" of push-ups and burpees. "We're not a running club or boot camp," Graham says, "but people accidentally do a lot of running with us."

What started two years ago as a way for a pair of former college rowers to keep each other motivated during winter has turned into a year-round phenomenon, drawing hundreds to their irreverent, high-octane workouts, from recovering couch potatoes to competitive marathoners. Three times a week, from 6:30 to 7:30 a.m., between 100 and 650 freshly woken souls lace up for skin-quivering strength work at different spots around the city on Mondays; breath-robbing steps at Harvard Stadium on Wednesdays; and quad-searing repeats on one of Boston's steepest hills on Fridays. Rain or shine.

For all this, not a penny is collected. No signatures or e-mail addresses required (participants get notification of the upcoming workouts via the group's Web site and social media feeds). The only dues are good vibes and dedication. And a lot of sweaty bear hugs.

TO KNOW THEM IS TO HUG THEM

Fifteen minutes earlier, I'd been standing with Graham and about 30 other newcomers on the stadium's lower concourse while the "big kids" began their sections above. Whether you're chasing a sub-3:00 marathon or your shoes still have that new-sneaker smell, everyone spends day one in the newbie meeting. Olympic gold medal rower Esther Lofgren and then-Boston Bruins defenseman Andrew Ference began their first November Project workouts in this same spot.

"The biggest race of the day, we say, is from when your alarm clock goes off to when you get out the door," Graham says. "Just show up. Workout's effin' easy." (Except he drops an actual F-bomb.) He looks around, scanning the bleary eyes and pillow-scarred cheeks. "A couple ground rules," he continues. "At November Project, we are not shakers. We are huggers. If you're not comfortable with that, you're not going to like it here. I grew up in the Midwest. We are huggers on a daily basis. Huggers have more fun in this life. Shakers don't risk anything. If you don't risk, you don't earn the chance to live a better life. I know it sounds Hallmark, but it's true."

I'd heard about the hugging, written off by some reporters as a marker of the everyone-gets-a-trophy Millennial and Y generations. Even though the young and taut outnumber the bearded and wrinkled here, that's a misfire. Graham and co-founder Bojan (pronounced BOY-an) Mandaric are hard-core not just about fitness but about community. The hugging is both an icebreaker and an equalizer. At traditional running clubs, runners tend to seek out folks of similar speed, Graham says. November Project workouts are designed to push limits but not segregate by ability. Theirs is a shared battlefield forged by a desire to go full-tilt, stoke competitive spirits, test mettle, and have fun.

"So for the next minute, introduce yourself to one or two people and, with a lot of eye contact and repeating their name so you remember it, have a conversation where you learn something about that person," he says. Within seconds, an excited babble fills the air.

BATTLE CRY

Twenty minutes into the workout, much of the chatter fades to heavy breathing, occasional swears, and a few pleas to Jesus. Too quiet for Graham, apparently. "Are you good?" he calls out. On cue, a couple hundred voices shout back the tribe's battle cry: "F—k yeah!" Followed by clapping and hoots and hollers. And suddenly, we've all picked up our pace. On the field, groundskeepers, well familiar with the scene, tend to the lacrosse nets. After I get a high-five from Graham, I hear: "See that guy in the orange shorts? He's with Runner's World. Chase him." Crap.

Near the upper bleachers, hidden from the action, a tatted-up muscle-bound dude is bent over gulping for breath while a couple of sweaty young women in short shorts and sports bras have stopped to share water, legs shaking. They were with me a month earlier when I first started running the stadium alone. Still, with a good 15 years on them, I was chuffed.

A few sections later, near a cooler of orange slices someone brought, I come upon Mandaric, also known as Bojan the Serbian. He's easy to spot, too. At 6'4" and sporting a shaved head, the former Yugoslav national team rower has a camera to his eye. I straighten up and try to wipe the grimace from my face. Mandaric is known as "the quiet one," which isn't quite fair, as everyone comes off subdued compared to Graham. The 32-year-old is sly and witty, and just as friendly. The whole operation is really his fault. One November evening in 2011 at a local bar, he lamented to Graham, his former Northeastern University crewmate, that he needed to stay fit in the winter but didn't want to pay for it. They made a pact to meet in the mornings, no excuses. They created a shared Google doc to chart their progress and named it the November Project. After a winter of just the two of them training, they sent a few open invitations and taunts into the Twittersphere. A handful of friends were the first to show up. Then they told a few friends, who told a few friends, and a movement was born.

"It almost started as a joke, we were hyping it so much," Mandaric says, a hint of a Slavic accent on his words. "'Come to the stadium with us. November Project will kick your ass!' Somehow, people just started showing. I remember looking around one morning, seeing 30 people running steps with us, and thinking, This is so wildly out of control."

That was May 2012. By the end of June, their numbers had swelled to 100. And they kept rolling with it. In September, the founders pledged to get November Project tattoos if 300 people showed for a workout. When Stanley Cup champion Ference, with his large Twitter following, showed up, the boys were inked by October. Six months later came the bombings at the Boston Marathon. "The Wednesday after the marathon was the biggest turnout we ever had up to that point, over 450," Graham says. "People just wanted a place to go, to commune. Running clubs showed up. I'm used to greeting people, but looking out into that crowd, I got tongue-tied."

Today, even on the rainiest of days, they won't drop below a hundred. November Project has grown into a bona fide community and a reality show waiting to happen.

"BG rallies the troops, starts the hype, brings the vibe up," Mandaric says. "People start running, and I'm walking around taking photos. Facebook has been one of our best recruiting tools. It's bringing 65 percent of traffic to our Web site. It's all tagging people in photos and tweeting."

Their Web site also features a section called "We Missed You." As collegiate rowers, if one oarsman overslept, the boat couldn't go out and seven guys were left facing dreaded on-land workouts. At November Project, if you "drop a verbal," meaning you say, post, tweet, or text that you'll be at the next workout and don't show, the guys reach for their holsters, trolling the Internet for embarrassing pics and ribbing the unlucky soul in a blog post. "Rowing is very much a no-excuses sport," Mandaric says. "That accountability is what drives our philosophy."

Another driver is community-building: making connections between people, spreading civic joy, something especially resonant in this still-healing city. After Graham had a family heirloom stolen, he posted a "homework assignment" for tribe members to counter the bad by doing good. "I mean like paying the toll for the car behind you, not just holding the door open for someone, stuff you should be doing anyway." And by picking random parts of the urban landscape for their Monday workout, they're opening members' eyes to the worlds of their fellow citizens. Some neighborhoods are maligned, some off the beaten path, but if you live within a 10-K distance, you're expected to run there.

"In our lives, where we just see our driveway and where we work and the one bar we go to—to visit a new neighborhood is fun," Graham says. Mandaric sums it up this way: "Every week you refall in love with the city you live in."

PEER PRESSURE

After graduating from Northeastern, both spent a few years coaching crew, Graham at their alma mater and Mandaric at Syracuse. Later, Graham cut his social and digital marketing teeth at Hubway, Boston's bicycle-share program, and he now works full-time for New Balance. Mandaric is currently between jobs, working as a freelance Web designer. Not including the workouts, they each spend about 20 hours a week on November Project business—social media, blogging, recruiting, and devising new and zany twists to juice the workouts and stir the faithful. To break their own sweats, Graham and Mandaric are usually on site by 5:20 a.m., chewing up the stairs or the hill before the tribe arrives. Well, most of them. There is now a substantial gathering—an "early group"—that joins the leaders.

While both had marathons under their belts before November Project, neither saw himself as a typical runner. "When you look at us, with our rowing background, our height, we can say to someone who is out of shape and wants to try November Project that we're not typical runner types, either. That helps welcome people," Graham says. Still, Graham logs around 25 miles a week and BQ'd a few years back with a 3:06. Both consider November Project miles especially potent. "Every time I race five- or six-milers, I shred at least a minute off of my previous time," says Mandaric, who has a 5-K PR of 19:32. In fact, one of their missions is to mold members into racers. To that end, they stage their own road race once a season, and the last Wednesday of every month is PR day at the stadium, when participants try to clock their fastest stair climb.

Not surprisingly, some describe November Project as a cult. Ian Nurse, 35, a Boston sports chiropractor who placed 44th at the 2013 Boston Marathon running a 2:25, is among the happily brainwashed. The hill work in particular has boosted his speed and stamina, he says. But beyond that, he adds, the infectious spirit behind November Project diffuses not only the seriousness that can envelop a strict training regimen but also larger cultural attitudes. "What Brogan and Bojan bring—their charisma, enthusiasm and caring, the positivity awards, the happy birthdays—it very much goes against the all-business atmosphere you see among people in the Northeast, where everyone's on their phones, not seeing one another."

Patrick Burke, the director of player safety for the National Hockey League, has also drunk the Kool-Aid. Logging a few solitary miles a week, and never in the morning, the last thing Burke, 30, would have called himself was a runner. His pal Ference goaded him into trying November Project last fall. After seven months, Burke was running the Boston Marathon for charity. "It was very much out of my personality range to work out three times a week with a big group of random people," he says. "I thought the hugging was the dumbest thing in the world. I'm like, 'Don't touch me. It's 6 a.m. I haven't had coffee.' Now, it's something I rely on. It gets me out of bed in the morning. I've bought in and made a lot of really good friends and pushed myself to the next level in the training. I'm now someone who describes himself as a runner."

Graham and Mandaric would love to see the November Project replicated around the country, if not the world. There are free fitness and racing groups in different states, but few with the same head of steam. Already, six additional chapters have sprung up: One in Madison, Wisconsin, run by Graham's older brother, Dan, a professional swim coach. Another in San Francisco, headed up by former Northeastern University track standout Laura McCloskey. In September, Ference helped launch a Canadian chapter in Edmonton, Alberta, where he now plays for the Oilers. And in late October, November Project announced three new tribes in San Diego, Denver, and Washington, D.C.

Turning their creation into a full-time gig appeals to Graham and Mandaric, but both are adamant about keeping the workouts grassroots, spirited, and free. They look at what they're doing not as a way to fatten their bank accounts "but to make better an already amazing city and country and world," Graham says. "We need to find ourselves an old, rich runner who wants to do good in this world by financing us."

In the meantime, they are getting noticed. In July, Boston-based New Balance launched a global ad campaign called Runnovation, which features November Project in both print and video. (New Balance does not sponsor November Project, and Graham was hired after the campaign launched.) "The campaign showcases how social and participatory running has become, and November Project is the perfect articulation of that," says Josh Rowe, a senior marketing manager with the company. "Many of our associates at New Balance participate in November Project workouts, and the excitement, camaraderie, and grassroots approach is refreshing."

GROUP LOVE

I'm cooked by section three. Graham's boom box sits throbbing with a hip-hop bass line. A wispy young runner named Lindsay Smith in a spray-painted November Project shirt catches up to me. "Okay, Caleb, you and me," he says. "Let's go! Go, Caleb, go!" Others join the chant. I haul ass and worry about catching my breath later. It works. At the top, I thank Smith, and, of course, we hug.

By the time I crest my final step, I'm so spent you could drape me over a railing. And I still have to run two miles back home. Over the past 40 minutes, the perception that marathoning had made me superfit has crumbled. But looking across the 1,147 steps I've just conquered, I can only describe the feeling as, well: F—k yeah! I stagger to the upper concourse, where I find 49-year-old Boston firefighter Jeff Whitman, wearing a lobster bib of sweat. He drives an hour from Mansfield, Massachusetts, with his wife, Marsha, who is training to qualify for the Boston Marathon. "It keeps me fit for work," he says. "I'd like to get one of the academy classes here so they can see how out of shape they are."

Every workout ends with hugs and a group photo. At least 250 sweaty bodies fill in the concrete rows of section 19 as the hands on a clock tower inch toward 7:30. Before Mandaric lines up the shot, Graham invites down a participant. "Tribe, this is Sara Wild. She has the fastest stadium time for women in November Project: 23 minutes, 27 seconds. I take full credit. Today is also her birthday." Graham, who holds the men's record with a blistering 18:42, asks everyone to stand and raise their hands. "Listen carefully, or Sara will get hurt. I want us to sing 'Happy Birthday' on a loop and be finished by the time we pass her to the top."

And with that, Graham hoists a giggling Wild to the waiting hands and she is body-surfed while we all serenade her. This one the groundskeepers watch. Suddenly, we are no longer individuals with work pressures and insecurities and demanding touch screens, but a glistening, 500-armed creature of joy. Mandaric smiles as he films. Graham tosses his head back in laughter. Raucous applause bursts forth as Wild is at last lowered to the ground.

"It takes a lot for me to say this, but that's the weirdest thing we've ever done," Graham says, still grinning. "Now, everybody, get the hell out of here!"

* * *

For more about the November Project, read David Willey's editor's letter from the December issue. Also, view our slideshow of the various November Project tribes around the country reading their new copies of Runner's World.

The following changes were made to this article after it was published in the December 2013 issue of Runner's World:

UPDATE: The November Project has announced three new tribe locations: Washington, D.C., San Diego, and Denver.

CORRECTION: We mistakenly reported that Bojan Mandaric was hired by New Balance. Instead, Brogan Graham is working for the shoe company.

Caleb Daniloff is a Boston-area freelance writer and author of (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2012).

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