Look, you little bastard.
I've never had any trouble out of you before. The left one, yes. Years and years of trouble, of icing, foam rolling, PT, ART, even surgery. But you've always been well-behaved. Until last week. I know you weren't happy about the 8 miles. I know you'd rather be on the couch, watching TV. You let me know, after 6 miles. I heard you.
So I've iced you. A lot. I've gone through buckets and buckets of ice. I sat in the bathtub shivering. I've stretched you every night. I've started doing those really obnoxious one-legged squats again. I've spent hours trying to foam roll without leaning on my shoulder. And today I'll take you back to the gym.
I know you're not happy. I cut my run this morning short by 2 miles for you. I cried as I sat and iced. Tomorrow I'll let my sadistic massage therapist spend an entire hour with you. In exchange, could you please stop hurting after 1 mile? Could you please let me get through 10 miles on Sunday?