Marriage counseling and your iliotibial band

You and your body is a union based on trust. You promise to put in junk miles, stretch sporadically, and do too much speed work. Your body – according to you – promises to stay fresh, limber and responsive. And then the injury comes, an aching hip Jezebel ruining your long-term cardiovascular honeymoon. And your counselor (who looks suspiciously like a sports med doc) bucks every tenet of impartial therapy and points a finger straight at you. Bastard. Even though you’re convinced he’s wrong, you begrudgingly follow his plan. And, slowly, the spark returns. You start to remember what first attracted you to your legs in the first place. It’s good. And then a sexy 36 x 400m workout turns your head again. And you fall. But that’s over before you know it, leaving only the jilter and the jilted forced to live together once more in a crumbling house going up in flames. And inflammation.