A muscle is like a car. If you want it to run well early in the

Host: The sun was just breaking, a thin orange glow spreading across the industrial skyline. The city was still half-asleep, its streets damp with dew, the air carrying that metallic chill before the world truly wakes.

In a forgotten warehouse, converted into a makeshift gym, the sound of weights clanging broke the silence. Dust motes floated in the beams of light coming through the cracked windows.

Jack stood before an old bench press, his breath fogging, hands chalked, muscles tight beneath a worn grey shirt. His eyes, cold and analytical, watched his own reflection in a cracked mirror — like a man trying to recognize the body he once trusted.

Across the room, Jeeny stretched, her movements slow, deliberate, filled with the kind of grace that made discipline look like poetry.

The radio on the corner buzzed faintly, an interview snippet playing — the voice of Florence Griffith Joyner, saying with warmth and certainty:

“A muscle is like a car. If you want it to run well early in the morning, you have to warm it up.”

The words hung, soft but sharp, like a truth wrapped in simplicity.

Jack: (grunting, lifting the bar) “People romanticize this stuff too much. A muscle’s not poetry, it’s physics. You break it, it grows. Simple.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You always say that. But you don’t really believe it, do you? That it’s just about breaking and repairing?”

Jack: “What else is there? You push, you tear, you rest. Nature does the rest. No need to spiritualize it.”

Host: She walked closer, her bare feet soft against the mat, her shadow stretching over him. She watched him lift — the bar trembling, muscles straining.

Jeeny: “Florence said the muscle is like a car. You need to warm it up. She wasn’t talking about temperature, Jack. She was talking about respect — about patience. You can’t force power. You have to earn it slowly.”

Jack: (lowering the bar, exhaling hard) “Patience? Tell that to the clock. The world doesn’t wait for people to warm up. You either move or get left behind.”

Host: The metal clanged as he racked the barbell, his breathing heavy, hands trembling slightly. The light from the window hit his face, catching the sweat that glistened like mercury.

Jeeny: “That’s the difference between you and her. You chase speed, but she understood rhythm. Flo-Jo didn’t just run fast — she ran like she was in conversation with time.”

Jack: (smirking) “And you think that makes her different from me?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because she didn’t race against the world. She raced against herself.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but their weight filled the room. Outside, a train horn wailed in the distance, a sound both lonely and alive.

Jack: (quietly) “You know what I think? People like her — the ones who talk about warming up, slowing down — they can say that because they were already great. For the rest of us, there’s no luxury of warming up. You run cold until something breaks.”

Jeeny: (crossing her arms) “That’s not grit, Jack. That’s punishment. You can’t build strength on self-destruction. You just build pain.”

Host: The air thickened with tension, the smell of sweat and metal hanging between them like the echo of pride.

Jack: “Pain’s part of it. Ask any athlete. Ask any worker who gets up at five to build something they’ll never own. Warm-ups are for people with options.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s forgotten that his body isn’t a machine.”

Jack: (sharply) “And you sound like someone who’s never had to prove hers could work like one.”

Host: The words cut, sharper than steel. Jeeny flinched slightly, but her eyes stayed fixed on him — not angry, just searching.

Jeeny: “You think strength means pushing past pain. But Florence understood something deeper — that power without care collapses. You have to listen before you lift. That’s not weakness, Jack. That’s wisdom.”

Jack: (laughing bitterly) “Listening doesn’t win races.”

Jeeny: “Neither does breaking yourself.”

Host: The sunlight had grown brighter, spilling gold over the floor, illuminating dust, shadows, faces. The warehouse suddenly felt alive — like a sanctuary for those who worshiped discipline and doubt alike.

Jeeny: “Look at this place. Look at you. You train like you’re trying to outrun something — not to reach it. What are you running from, Jack?”

Jack: (turning away) “Regret.”

Host: The word hung, heavy as a dropped weight.

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe it’s time you stopped running cold.”

Host: The silence that followed was long, filled with the sound of distant traffic and the slow pulse of their breathing.

Jack: (after a pause) “You know… I used to watch videos of Flo-Jo when I was a kid. The way she’d move — effortless. Like the track itself wanted her to win. I never understood how she made it look so easy.”

Jeeny: “She didn’t make it easy. She made it graceful. That’s what happens when you respect your craft — and your limits. She knew that warming up wasn’t wasting time. It was honoring the process.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer, her voice calm, her presence grounding. Jack sat down, hands clasped, head lowered.

Jeeny: “You’ve been burning your engine too long, Jack. One day, you’ll stall. That’s what happens when you forget that strength begins in gentleness.”

Jack: (looking up at her) “You sound like a philosopher with a gym membership.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe Florence was both.”

Host: He chuckled, the tension easing, a faint smile breaking through his tired expression.

Jack: “You know… maybe warming up isn’t just for muscles. Maybe it’s for people too.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t just stretch your body; you stretch your mind. Your heart. If you rush into anything — work, love, life — without preparing your soul, you tear something you might never repair.”

Host: The light shifted, now fully gold, flooding the space. The old weights, the mirrors, the dust, all shimmered, as if the morning itself had decided to applaud.

Jack: (softly) “You think it’s too late for me to warm up?”

Jeeny: (touching his shoulder) “Never. The body forgives. The heart even more so.”

Host: The warehouse filled with quiet energy — not of strain, but of renewal. Outside, the city awoke in earnest: the roar of engines, the thrum of people beginning their day.

Inside, Jack stood, rolled his shoulders, and stretched — slow, deliberate, respectful. The gesture was small, but sacred.

Jeeny watched, her eyes soft, as if seeing the man beneath the armor for the first time.

Host: The radio crackled again, replaying Flo-Jo’s voice, bright and confident, as if echoing across time:

“A muscle is like a car. If you want it to run well early in the morning, you have to warm it up.”

And in that moment, the words weren’t just about running, or training, or even body.

They were about life itself — the discipline to slow down, the humility to listen, the wisdom to warm before the race begins.

Host: As the light poured in, the day began, not with speed, but with grace — two souls, finally remembering that before you run, you must learn how to breathe.