Kersplat

I had a text conversation with a friend yesterday afternoon about a twilight trail race she participated in over the weekend.  She said it was a lot of fun, but footing was an issue.  It was so dark and the path was so uneven that runners were falling over like flies, including her friend who took a nasty spill.  I responded that at least if one were to hit the ground, far better to do it on a soft dirt trail than a rough city sidewalk.  I also humblebragged that I almost succumbed to gravity on my last trail outing but managed to stay upright by strategic arm flailing and sheer determination.  I couldn’t remember the last time I went down.

So, guess who fell on her run last night?

I’m not sure if I stubbed my toe on a sprinkler head or just tripped over my own hubris, but I knew the minute I broke my stride I was hitting the pavement.  I broke the fall with the palms of my hands, which I learned ten years ago is a pretty good way to crack an elbow.  Fortunately I avoided a repeat performance and instead tipped to my side and landed on my left shank.  I’m told that a cow shank is a pretty lean cut of beef, but on a person – at least on my person – it’s a pretty well-cushioned point of impact.

I couldn’t believe, after just discussing it, I took a header.  It reminded me of the time I attended an office party where prizes like sports tickets and restaurant gift cards were being raffled off.  A coworker just finished telling me how he never wins anything when his ticket was pulled for the best door prize of the night: a brand new Apple laptop. 

I’m not sure if either case is karma, kismet, or coincidence, but I know two things are true: 1) a bruised shank is better than a broken elbow, and 2) I never win the lottery.