Jun 022013
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| This is what happens when the bar you’re deadlifting gets a smidge too close to your legs on the way down. |
I’ve found myself bloodied, battered and bruised more than usual, this year.
I think that it’s an inevitable consequence of embracing the sort of lifestyle I have, with the level of devotion and effort I’m putting in.
When you’re pushing yourself, you get scraped.
You make mistakes.
You crash.
You fall down.
Callouses tear and old wounds are reopened.
These are signs that you’re pushing your limits, not signs you should give up.
There’s a strange sense of pride that accompanies my scars, scabs and bruises.
They are the badges that prove that I am daily in the arena, contending against laziness, complacency and excuses.
Against myself.
And if the only prize I can claim is watching the blood trickle down my leg as I line up for another set, so be it.
At least by it, I know I’m alive.