I went out for a run after work today. It was my first run of the year. I felt good as I started off, went up the first hill and continued past the park. I felt good. I knew I’d be improving my time and even thought about extending my run despite the fact that I don’t like doing long runs in the dark.
Still, I ran up the hill, to the park, past the park to the golf course and then turned. As I ran on the sidewalk, I tripped slightly but caught my balance. I remember feeling lucky. It was close, and a fall would be bad. Actually, I was surprised that in half a year of running, I hadn’t tripped over my own feet given my recurring bouts of Cindyitis.
I must have jinxed myself. Three steps later, I tripped as I stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street. Once again, I caught my balance, but only temporarily. A second later, I was on the asphalt. My right elbow took the brunt of the impact.
A driver passing by slowed down.
He rolled down his window.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I replied as I stared at my scraped and dirty palms. Each one had small cuts already. I wanted to ask if he had a first aid kit in his car, but figured I was the only person accident prone enough to carry a kit.
“I think I’m just scraped up, but I’m okay.”
“Good,” he said and drove off.
I stepped to the sidewalk and inspected my injuries more closely in better light. I cleaned off my palms a little with a tissue in my pocket and then took off my windbreaker to see the damage to my aching elbow. It was scraped up and already swollen, but not bleeding.
“That’s going to be a bad bruise,” I said to myself, but felt thankful I’d chosen to wear the windbreaker even though it wasn’t too cold.
As I put my jacket back on, I felt like crying. My elbow hurt. I regretted not asking the driver for a ride. I was still about two miles from home.
But I didn’t cry. I walked a few steps, started my iPod again and then continued running — though more carefully — to Ely Guerra’s Júrame. It wasn’t as good as “Sana, sana colita de rana,” but it did the trick.