I’m a runner so I’m pretty sure my legs hate me. I take advantage of them, I use them more than they’d like me to. If you catch them on a particularly brutal day they may even try to convince you that we’re in an abusive relationship. Don’t listen to them though, because deep down they like it.
To be honest my legs don’t even really have THAT much to complain about, I mean it’s not like they are Jordan McNamara’s legs or anything. Now THOSE poor stems are getting worked; don’t worry, at least McNamara’s offered an apology via Twitter:
“I cringe to consider what expletives my legs would use if somehow enabled to speak. Truly sorry boys!#ActualSincerityMayVary”
Do you think his legs accept? Do you believe they can even try to fool themselves into believing for just one second that this professional runner is in any way going to issue forth an apology that comes with a promise to not do the very same thing again? Well, if those legs are foolish enough to give themselves false hope than I really can’t feel bad for them. Neither should you.
And you better not feel bad for your own ‘abused’ legs; I mean let’s be totally frank here: those legs complain but at the end of the day they LIKE it. Those legs were made for running, have become so adept at putting in the miles that they could function on autopilot. Heck, for many of those miles they do…us runners and our wandering minds.
That pair of running legs don’t just crave the excretion we put them through they are downright ADDICTED it. Their deep-rooted desire for those endorphins borders upon obsession, probably has crossed over to straight up obsession on more than a few occasions.
The onslaught of lactic acid that poisons them is a bittersweet thirst, one they struggle to swallow as quenched. They hate the taste BUT they crave the after-taste…the post-torturous rush of ecstasy, of times and goals satisfied.
True, sometimes even the aftertaste is a tough swig to swallow; running is wrought with highs and lows. You suck down the medicine of days filled only with mediocrity and the acrid taste of flat out despicable performances. Those epic fails sting and burn all the way through…but…
…but they make the days when you suck down the bitter lactic acid and PUSH through until you are blessed, yes blessed, with the sweetest nectar of fulfillment worth it.
Runners, we can apologize all we want to those ‘poor’ legs after the fact, but they are just insincere apologies and any promises to relent are just as flimsy. We don’t plan on changing…and those sickly ‘abuse’ addicted legs wouldn’t have it any other way.
1) If you were to issue forth an empty apology to your legs, how would it read?
I’m sort of sorry that we seem to be heck-bent on this running.
2) Do you follow Jordan McNamara on Twitter? Umm, if not, go fix that now!
3) If you could give a ‘taste’ to the lactic acid what would it be? Then what would you assign the taste of fulfillment when following?
Lactic acid: Lasagna, bananas or meat loaf. Hate both and have funny stories as to why.
Fulfillment: Pop-Tarts…c’mon did you really expect something else?