In the fitness industry you hear a lot of things that make you laugh, or roll your eyes so far back into your head you see the back of your skull. One that always gets me is when some psychoinfluencer is talking about nutrition and compares their body to an exotic sports car or fighter jet.
“You wouldn’t put cheap gas in a Ferrari would you?” they sneer- and while that may be true, it a) takes a lot of nerve to compare yourself to a Ferrari, and b) the car geek in me is triggered into thinking, “well if I’m not a Ferrari (and I am not) then what type of car am I?”
So here’s a Flex of a different sort, a poem. Enjoy!
My Body Is a Fiat
A Ferrari thirsts for perfect fuelling,
one drop of junk and your burning coolant
Precision engineered, no clunks or chatter,
but when fragile things break…they shatter.
No Ferrari am I, but something else—
An old Fiat Spyder with worn-out belts.
Clunky, quirky, and far from tight,
but …handsome in the proper light?
It begs for tinkering, week by week,
Bring wrenches and rags to fight the leaks.
But fixing the flaws is half the battle,
A victory in every sorted rattle.
And when it clicks, all tuned just right,
the road’s a ribbon, the sky full bright.
The ride may fade, the rattle return,
but joy’s in the miles I’ve worked to earn.
So praise your Ferraris, fast and fine,
I’ll take my Fiat—this lump of mine.
Not built for glory, speed, or show,
but patched together, on I go.
