Generally speaking, when I get injured, it’s in some goofy
way completely unrelated to running. I
was sadly bequeathed the gift of clumsiness on the day of my birth. Therefore, when I find myself requiring a
respite from training, it is almost always due to this same trait. For example, I have a humongous hematoma
(long since calcified) in the arch of my left foot. This was a direct result of attempting to vault
a basket of folded laundry resting in the small space between the wall and the
bed. I profoundly miscalculated (as I
often do) and wound up pulverizing my foot on the jutting corner of the leg of
the bed as I leapt over the laundry basket.
I howled, cursed, grabbed my foot, and hopped around like Tom after
Jerry would smash his toes with a hammer.
I was certain that I had broken my foot.
The good news was that, while it unimaginably hurt, I didn’t even break
a toenail. I was just going to sport a
hardened blood clot the size of a ping pong ball in my foot until I decided to
get it removed. Needless to say, my dear
hematoma, Herbert as I’ve named him, is still there… although at this point
he’s about the size of a marble.
Sometimes he causes a sore foot here and there, but for the most part,
he’s a good extra appendage.
For another example, when I was in high school, I plowed
into a tree, full speed, while playing around on a homemade tire swing at a
friend’s house. Said tire was fastened
to a substantial length of rope tied to a tree branch, and I, apparently
channeling Superman and going for the highest and fastest flight I could, heard
my name called, turned at a critical moment, and changed my flight path for one
on a direct collision course with the massive tree trunk. Too late to alter my direction, I slammed
into the trunk of the tree, boyifying my figure by flattening my hip and
sending me sprawling face first into the mud.
I misplaced the pain, having struck my hip toward my hind end, and
wailed, “OH MY HOLY GAW—OW, MY BUTT, MY BUTT, MY BUTT!” I had to have looked like the biggest dweeb
that ever lived, but the pain was so mindblowing that I can’t say I was
thinking too much about how silly I looked, bawling into the muck about my butt
and having just gotten spanked by a tree and dumped on my face. I couldn’t even pretend to be an adult (18)
and use the A word as opposed to “butt.” Worse yet, not long after, the gent for whom
I carried an Olympic-sized torch at the time asked me, word for word, how my
butt was. I could feel my face go from a
putrid green to a borscht red in a nanosecond.
“It’s fine,” I muttered, “thank you for asking that.” I carried the remnants of that same injury (part
muscle imbalance, part embarrassment) for a good year following before either
improved.
I wasn’t even safe in rugby.
During a mock play, when I was posing as the defensive line, I stuck my
foot in a gopher hole and turned my ankle.
When asked why I was hobbling around in the days following, I told
acquaintances that I had twisted my ankle felling an opponent roughly the size
of an aircraft carrier. It was a much cooler story than oops, I stepped in a divot
and tipped over like the town drunk.
I suppose it shouldn’t come as any sort of gawping shock,
then, that what threatened my performance at the 15k coming up wasn’t an injury
born of usual training wear and tear, but one of the great gift of klutziness.
Last Saturday, my dear friend and I took my daughter to the
Renaissance Festival after I got back from a run with my training group. I’d put in a good couple of workouts the week
preceding the festival, and I was in a transport of confidence and high
spirits. We went on a camel ride, bought
a butterfly hair clip, listened to some bagpipes, and then moved on to what
looked like a man-operated version of King’s Island’s Scrambler, essentially swings pushed in a wide, circular path, and
occasionally spun in individual circles by the operators. My four-year-old was keen
on going. Her aunt and I? Not particularly. I can barely do playground swings without
feeling queasy. We decided, however,
that since we were right there and it was one person to a swing, anyway, my
kiddo could go on the swings solo.
I chatted a little with the guys working the ride about what
kind of workout they got from operating the swings, and wound up talked into
riding the swings myself. Even though I
begged them to have mercy on my motion sickness, peer (and daughterly) pressure
won out and I found myself approaching the wooden contraption with serious
trepidation. I cordially reminded them
that I might find myself incapable of assisting clean-up if it became
necessary, and went to boost myself into the swings. The first effort failed. The second, I overestimated my bound, slingshot
myself in an ungraceful arch into the air, and spectacularly slammed my rump
into the unyielding, wooden back of the swing.
I dimly remember my brain shutting down a moment, my body going
completely numb, and my breath seeming to go on strike. I muscled through, however, not wanting to
seem affected by one of my common displays of gaucherie, and held on for dear
life, all the while praying I wouldn’t get too disoriented once the swings got
spinning.
Not only did I start feeling a little uncertain as to what
was up and what was down and whether the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs
have wings, but the gentlemen operating the machine spun me most impressively
and probably seven times for each one time they spun the other ride patrons. By the end, I had completely forgotten about
crushing my can and desperately wanted my mommy.
I was ejected from the ride by the same guy who seemed
kindly enough, but had preyed on my allegations of motion sickness the most
persistently, even when the swings had come to a stop.
I thought the ride was still moving, even
when the swings had, in fact, come to a halt and were merely swaying gently in
the wind. I stumbled drunkenly over to
my friend, unsure who I was, who she was, and where we were before relocating
reality. My daughter brought me back to
the earth by giggling at how hilarious I looked in my dizzy misfortune. My friend, however, was blessedly sympathetic
and took me to get a bag of cinnamon glazed pecans as a small comfort.
The rest of the day, I was nursing a little confusion as to
why I could barely extend my legs past my torso to walk. It was a humorous struggle to keep up with my
friend and daughter that would find me gimping pitifully along behind them,
calling, “Wait for meeeeeeeee!” Assuming
that I had overdone my run that morning and considering that I have a race
coming up, I typically freaked out a little and entertained all sorts of lividly
horrible injury scenarios. I harnessed
the self-made panic the best I could, kept a smile that made me look like I’d
been gassed by the Joker on my face, and after putting my kiddo to bed once we
got home, sat down to administer some TLC to my very sore spots.
As I sat pondering how long I would need to recover and
whether I would have to alter my time goals for the upcoming 15k, I recalled
the epic splattering of my posterior against the swing. And then, after mentioning the sad but
comical reality of my literal butt hurt, my husband, friend and I howled with
laughter. How I forgot such a critical
detail as an earth-shattering body slam into a swing—well. It just confirms suspicions that I am a
flake.
The good news is that while my tailbone protested loudly on the first run back some days later, it was a little quieter in its picketing in runs following, and only hurts now a little randomly here and there. I’ve decided not to fret just because I was bestowed the gift
of Klutzius Maximus on my birthdate.
Bottom line? It will happy
running from here on out, butt hurt or no!
Recipe of the month: Mini-Meatball Noodle Soup
For the meatballs:
½ pound extra lean ground beef
2 cloves garlic, minced
¼ cup finely minced onion
1 egg, lightly beaten
¼ cup milk
¼ cup shredded parmesan cheese
1 slice good-quality bread, torn into very small pieces
A good pinch red pepper flakes
1 tsp. mixed Italian herbs (basil, oregano, rosemary)
Salt/black pepper to taste
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. In a large bowl, mush all ingredients
together until evenly mixed. Lightly brush a glass baking dish with olive oil,
then form the meat mixture into small meatballs, spacing them about an inch
apart in the dish. Allow to cook for
about 15-25 minutes, until done. DO check them at 15 minutes.
For the soup:
3-4 cloves garlic, minced
½ chopped onion
One to two carrots, grated
2 bay leaves
4-6 cups beef broth (depends on how thick you want the soup)
1 15 oz. can crushed tomatoes or tomato sauce
About 20 fresh basil leaves, rough cut or torn (1 – 1 ¼ tsp.
dried)
A couple sprigs fresh oregano, rough chopped (1/2 - 3/4 tsp.
dried)
A couple sprigs fresh rosemary leaves, chopped (1/2 tsp.
dried)
A generous pinch of sugar
Salt and black pepper to taste
About ¾ - 1 cup noodles, such as ditalini (I used spaghetti
per my family’s request, but smaller pasta works, too)
Cooked mini-meatballs
Parmesan cheese
Sautee the vegetables with the bay leaves in olive oil until
the onions are slightly translucent. Add
the beef broth and warm, then add the can of tomatoes or tomato sauce and heat
through. Add the seasonings, then bring the whole thing to a boil. Throw in the
pasta and let it boil according to package directions. When it’s done, gently
stir in the finished meatballs, and serve topped with parmesan cheese. I’d serve it with garlic bread or warm,
crusty, thick bread, and a salad or greens. Do enjoy!
Sadly, once again, no picture—I lost my SIM card. *sigh*
Signed,
Kate!
