It sits before you, silent. Cold. Indifferent. Its unrelenting presence takes the measure of a man without saying a word. It cares for no one. With its power to humble you all at once, it knows nothing of personal bests. It doesn’t root for you. It is your utterly unconcerned opponent. Blissfully unaware of the adversarial tug-of-war in which you engage, the iron mutely beckons, daring you to step up to the plate.
You take up the challenge laid before you, for you are made of sterner stuff. Week in and week out, this battle of wills brings you back for more. The ever-present afflictions, born of your grapples with the iron, will not leave you undone. Callused hands, bruised shins, tormented muscles, are but small badges of honor, won along the way to the golden trophy that is a personal record.
Loyal to a fault, the iron will always be found where you left it last, its existence tipping over into the boundaries of obstinance. This one constant in your life, dependable and trustworthy, will never stand you up. Instead, the iron faithfully awaits the punishment you bring it, ready to endure whatever torture you inflict.
On this day, the iron lays yet another seemingly-insurmountable task in your path, silently calling. You heed the relentless call, intent to dole out torment, and prepared to take it in return.
And so it goes.