Many of us girls have a soft spot for bad boys. We see a handsome, dangerous bad boy and we think we can change him. Because we believe that, deep inside, his heart is soft, aching to sing rock ballads and watch Julia Roberts movies. We just have to give him a chance.
But then, of course, bad boys rarely change in reality. They break our hearts and stomp on them, and it takes a long time for them to heal, because it's not just the bad boys we miss, it's the idea that love conquers all, including bad haircuts and misspelled tattoos.
Running is my bad boy. I've given it many chances, thinking that this time it will be different. This time it will work. And every time it breaks my heart, and more importantly, my body. Except this time. Because now I've become so jaded that I just feel indifference. Another injury. Yeah, you know what, running? Screw you. I can't be bothered with you any more. I'm over you. I'm gonna find me a nice boy who treats me right.
That nice boy's name is cycling. After more than two weeks of doing little to no training thanks to my foot, I'd had enough. The sun had finally made an appearance after a week of rain and I wanted to be outside in its warm embrace. Warm might be stretching it; it was only 5 degrees outside. I dragged my bike out of the basement and, with a vague plan of where I was going in my mind and a map in my pocket, I headed towards the sea.
Cycling is faster than running. My speed was almost twice as high as when I run (I know, right? And I don't even use steroids). Yet I never seemed to get there. I was cycling in slow motion, which was even more evident when I was on a 90 km/h road and a lorry overtook me. Halfway on my round I crossed a bridge overlooking the Skellefteå river running towards the sea. That might have been the highlight of my morning.
|Somewhere in the distance: the sea|
The way back was slightly more interesting, as I cycled through sleepy villages where the maple trees were still hanging on to their red and orange leaves. My legs were getting tired and I had headwind, so my previous slow-motion speed turned into next-to-none-motion. When I finally got home after almost 36 km, my thigh muscles refused to carry my weight and I nearly rolled down the stairs to the basement, along with my bike. Once there, I had to break the news to my nice boy that I didn't think it was going to work out between us.
There's another reason why girls pick bad boys. They're more fun.