They say love is patient.
Love is kind.

But they don’t tell you that love is also what happens
when your inner thighs become mortal enemies at mile 47
and you still have 53 to go.

Chafing isn’t a condition.
It’s a relationship.
One built on proximity, friction, and persistence.

Everything is fun. It’s play. An Escape from “real life”, even.
Sure, bad things still happen to us, but they’re easy to ignore.

Then it starts.

You barely notice it at first.
Just a brush. A warmth.
The whisper of skin-on-skin violence, waiting to bloom.

You think, “Nah, I’m fine.”
You’re not.

It always happens when you’re too confident to protect yourself.

At some point in every ultra,
you feel it—the sting.

The raw realization.
The “Oh no… this is happening.”

But that’s what love is, right?
Running through pain you absolutely could’ve avoided,
because part of you believes it’s supposed to hurt.

You don’t stop.
You don’t walk away.
You commit.
You double down.

You apply lube.
You apply more lube.
You re-tie your waistband, change your shorts even.
Hell, you throw on some fresh socks while you’re at it.

You cry in an aid station porta potty and whisper,
“I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

But the damage is done.
Now it’s about survival.
Just like your first heartbreak.
You say, “Let’s just get through it.”

You peel off your underwear the same way you thumb through a murder mystery.
You wince in the shower.
You swear you’ll never be that reckless again.

And then, two weeks later,
you do it all again—
because you miss the fire.

You miss feeling something.

Chafing—like love—doesn’t ask for permission.
It just happens.
Messy. Raw. Uninvited.
And somehow, when it’s gone,
you’re better for it.

Stronger. Wiser.
More aware of where the soft spots are
and how important it is to protect them.

So yeah.

Everything I know about love?
I learned from going long, sweating hard,
and realizing too late that I should’ve lubed up.