Dear IT Band Syndrome,
Happy three month birthday! I guess it's true what they say: "Time doesn't fly when you're not having fun." I still remember the day you came into my life. I wasn't expecting you, but you came out of nowhere and stopped me in my tracks on the West Side Highway. Thanks for showing up two miles from my house so I had to hobble home in excruciating pain. It took like an hour. You know how sometimes you say, "one day, I'll look back on that moment and laugh." This is not one of those moments. Oh, how you love surprises. Remember that time when you went away for two weeks and let me run and get all optimistic? I thought you had left, but turns out you were just hiding. Such a practical joker, ITBS.
But, now that you're three months old it's time to have a serious talk. I won't belabor the point (unlike you). It's time to move out. This isn't working. I've been trying for weeks to drop not-so-subtle hints. I've poked you with needles, attacked you with creams and pills, rolled over you repeatedly with a giant styrofoam cylinder. I've counter-attacked you with stronger glutes and hips. I've strangled you with my own fingers and the fingers of at least three other people. You're the house guest that stays after the hosts have put on their pajamas. And you're not even the life of the party. When you are around, I'm a different person. You do things that hurt me. You have ruined an entire road racing season for me and you've cost me thousands of dollars. You're not a syndrome. You're a parasite.
Maybe you noticed, but I have been leaving you behind on runs lately. Today, I ran nearly 45 minutes before you caught up to me and even then, all it took was a couple of strides to lose you again. Pretty soon, I'm going to be stronger than you. I'm no fool though. I know I have to watch my back now that we know each other. You're a sly bastard and you won't let me out of your sights. I also know you have friends who are waiting to pounce on how out of shape you've made me. I'm watching for them too.
Here's the deal. You have until the end of the Olympics to pack your stuff and get out. What will I do without you? I plan on going back to the old me and working my butt off to race again.