Gemotions

The weight room smelled like failure and old dreams. I pushed a barbell above my head, each repetition a physical expression of my inner turmoil. I, a power lifter, a man forged in the crucible of heavy iron. Now, my coach, in his infinite wisdom, wanted me to join the endurance team for the upcoming marathon. I nearly choked on the air as he told me about their "need."

My muscles screamed in protest, not from exertion, but from the indignity of it all. Each breath felt shallow, the air thin. The familiar grit of the chalk on my hands felt like sand in an open wound. I felt like an alien in my own body, an intruder in the temple of my strength. The thought of running, of the long haul, made my vision blur.