The first time my physical therapist wrapped electrodes around my quads, I nearly laughed out loud. Little sticky pads? A battery pack? This was going to help me recover from two decades of hammering my body on the track? I’d spent years trusting ice baths, compression boots, and massage guns — equipment that cost thousands and took up half my living room. Now this tiny device was supposed to compete? Two weeks of daily use later, I wasn’t laughing anymore. I was walking down stairs without wincing for the first time in months. My muscles felt flushed, loose, almost brand…
