Dear Legs
Dear Legs,
You deserve a high five, an afternoon out for frozen yogurt or perhaps a birthday massage. You’ve really stepped up to the plate lately and deserve some public praise. I feel like we’ve gotten to a point in our running relationship where we can drop the formalities and maybe even make rapper-inspired nicknames for each other (you can be Lil Hammies And The Wonder Calves, no? You don’t like it? Ok). It took a little while to get you on board with the idea of this half-marathon, and I totally get that. We didn’t really have a primary election over the topic, and I’m sure you were banking on some R&R after the holiday run streak I roped you into. So, we had a couple of jaunts at the start that felt more like a hobble, limp and crawl around town than a run—and Legs, I forgive you for that.
But we’ve also had some awesome, monumental runs where you seem to wake me up even earlier than planned—alert, rested and ready to kick some asphalt. Sometimes you feel so good I could swear you’re more interested in the run than I am. And you’re one hell of a competitor, too. I like a Sunday long run as much as the next runner, but sometimes on Thursdays I little fear bubble starts to grow in my belly about the whole thing. But you—you never seem phased. You seem like if you had your choice, you’d go out there on Thursday night and own those 11 miles right then and there just to say 'Booyah little bubble of fear, I can do this whenever I want. Why don’t you give me a challenge and toss in some crazier hills next time?'
Lest we act like every training run has been sunshine and flowers, though. Sometimes I can tell you’re just not into it; you’d rather be in the couch with a DVR full of Project Runway: All Stars like last night. On those runs—like this morning’s—I miss your enthusiasm. We went for a long, slow and labored seven miles that were so long, slow and labored that it almost made me late for work. You weren’t in the game, and when I didn’t listen to your pleas to turn around, you instructed my left hip to do that twingy thing that makes me ache and get all nervous a debilitating injury is headed by way. Finally, as a last ditch effort, you almost rolled my right ankle after a funny foot landing. I don’t like to do this, Legs, but I yelled at you, right then and there. We were still about two and a half miles from home and I wasn’t going to army crawl all the way back to please you.
But maybe that’s what keeps our relationship real—I push you on days you’d rather be set on fire and tossed to wolves than run and you give me a push on days the rest of me is feeling as strong and confident as a bowl of Jell-O. Thanks for being a good sport since this half-marathon idea came to my brain. I think it’s made us closer, or at least more incline to spend quality stretch band and foam rolling time together, don’t you?
You deserve a high five, an afternoon out for frozen yogurt or perhaps a birthday massage. You’ve really stepped up to the plate lately and deserve some public praise. I feel like we’ve gotten to a point in our running relationship where we can drop the formalities and maybe even make rapper-inspired nicknames for each other (you can be Lil Hammies And The Wonder Calves, no? You don’t like it? Ok). It took a little while to get you on board with the idea of this half-marathon, and I totally get that. We didn’t really have a primary election over the topic, and I’m sure you were banking on some R&R after the holiday run streak I roped you into. So, we had a couple of jaunts at the start that felt more like a hobble, limp and crawl around town than a run—and Legs, I forgive you for that.
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| My first 11 miler |
Lest we act like every training run has been sunshine and flowers, though. Sometimes I can tell you’re just not into it; you’d rather be in the couch with a DVR full of Project Runway: All Stars like last night. On those runs—like this morning’s—I miss your enthusiasm. We went for a long, slow and labored seven miles that were so long, slow and labored that it almost made me late for work. You weren’t in the game, and when I didn’t listen to your pleas to turn around, you instructed my left hip to do that twingy thing that makes me ache and get all nervous a debilitating injury is headed by way. Finally, as a last ditch effort, you almost rolled my right ankle after a funny foot landing. I don’t like to do this, Legs, but I yelled at you, right then and there. We were still about two and a half miles from home and I wasn’t going to army crawl all the way back to please you.
But maybe that’s what keeps our relationship real—I push you on days you’d rather be set on fire and tossed to wolves than run and you give me a push on days the rest of me is feeling as strong and confident as a bowl of Jell-O. Thanks for being a good sport since this half-marathon idea came to my brain. I think it’s made us closer, or at least more incline to spend quality stretch band and foam rolling time together, don’t you?