See You in the Fall

Every runner falls.  That’s just a fact.  I don’t know why, but I don’t know a person who runs regularly who hasn’t taken a spill.  Some fall spectacularly, like a friend of mine who was shot off the back of a treadmill and crashed into the wall like a rag doll.  Some simply crumble gracefully to the ground, felled by some unknown footfall, ninja rock, or muscle weakness. 

I for one, believe in going big or going home.  My most spectacular fall came during a ten mile run several years ago when I was prepping for a half-marathon. 

It was a beautiful mid-September day, and I was training for an October half-marathon.  It was my third half, and I was suffering from an almost unbearably painful hip injury, which I partially blame for what’s going to happen a few paragraphs from now.  I probably wasn’t lifting my feet the way I should.

I was exactly as far away from my house as I could possibly get in my run – about five miles away, deep in the heart of an inhospitable place called Upper Arlington- and had literally just made the turn that pointed me towards home.  Five miles down Northwest Boulevard, and this run, one of the most painful I had ever endured, would be over.  And then it happened.

Before I knew what was going on, I had caught my foot on an uneven stretch of pavement, and I was falling. 

“WHOOOOOOO-OOOOOO-OOOOOOO-OOOOO-OOOOOO-AAAAAAAA!”  I yelled, arms flailing, body trying to right itself.  For a moment, I got my feet under me, but only for a moment.  “WHOOOOOAAAAAA!” I yelled one more time, and, like a long jumper who had gotten an especially impressive plant on my takeoff foot, I went flying.

I remember actually being parallel to the ground as I went flying through the air, my arms out in front of me like Superman, surveying the ground before me.  For a moment, I thought that I shouldn’t put my arms out to break my fall, because that’s how I’d broken my wrist in fifth grade.  Then I thought about the alternative, which was landing face-first, and that seemed like a bad idea, too.  So finally, as I was flying through the air, still yelling something that had settled in at “Gaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrgggggggg!!!!!!”  I settled on trying to land on my side, avoiding hitting the sharp, pointy parts of myself like my chin and elbows.  What ended up happening was that I crashed into the ground in three separate moves –shoulders first, hands and face next, and then the rest of my body.  I slid, headfirst like a drunken Pete Rose, along the concrete sidewalk, until I came to a stopping place in the middle of the entrance from the street into the Barnes and Noble parking lot. 

“Murg,” I said, not having the strength or energy to enunciate any words in the English language.  I took a quick death check.  Not dead.  Dying?  Maybe.  I had either knocked the wind out of myself, or broken a rib.  There were lots of places that stung like the devil.  I may or may not have hit my head.  I lay there for a minute to see if I would die or get hit by a car.  Neither happened, and the good news was that my hip no longer hurt.  Yay!  The bad news was that I was five miles from home, had no phone, and was lying in the entrance to a parking lot.  “Murg?” I whined plaintively, as one car after another drove right past me. 

After a bit, I realized that it was ridiculous to lie in a parking lot, and that I should probably move to a more attractive location to die and/or find a phone.  It was early enough that the Barnes and Noble wasn’t yet open, so gingerly, I began my search for somewhere that was open so I could call for help.  I knew there was a place about a half mile away – about a ten minute walk. 

Literally, after less than a minute, I decided that this walking carefully so as to avoid further injury to myself was for the birds, and I decided to give running a shot again.  My adrenaline was ramped up through the roof, and, despite the fact that I had blood running down my legs and hands, it didn’t feel any worse than walking or lying in the parking lot.  Since I could still breathe, I figured that my ribs were not broken, but my pinkie finger was starting to resemble a young eggplant.  I also realized that this was one of my last chances for a long run before the half, and that runner voice inside of me told me to quit trying to get out of my long run, and just keep going until I got home.  Which I did.  

Moral of the story?  Several.  One: running is dangerous.  Two: people in Arlington will leave you for dead in the middle of their sidewalks.  Three:  a sprained pinkie finger costs $180.00 to treat at the urgent care.  Four: if you’re going to fall, fall big.  At least you’ll get a war story out of it.