A Trail, A Margarita, And a Broken Foot

Have you ever had one of those days where everything goes wrong (and I do mean everything…)?  No? Well then, go away.  We can’t be friends.

Thursday was the kind of grounds in my coffee, car full of kids with no key, my pants feel a little bit snug kind of day.  Just when it seemed impossible for anything else to go wrong, it most certainly did.  Morning dragged into the early afternoon and by 4pm I was dreaming of wine and whiskey.  I sent a text to my running buddy to make sure we were still on for 6pm and a quick reply read, “I’m counting down the hours”.  Sitting on the porch at 5:30pm, using my mind to control the clock to move faster, I heard a smash, boom, crunch of a car accident and knew that meant that traffic would stop and the husband would be sitting mere miles away, stuck to his car like gum on the bottom of a shoe.  I tossed the little buns into the stroller while the not so little ones walked and we followed the sound of the sirens to observe the scene.  After my 3 year old jumped out of the stroller and went running for the main road, I quickly redirected them back home and waited for my prince to sweep me away to an enchanted land of beaches and free alcohol husband to take over diaper duty.

By 6:30 Quick Feet (a pseudonym because I have not yet asked her permission to talk about her openly on here) and I were at our favorite trail’s head and ready to vent about our days to the gravel and sweat out all of our frustrations.  The weather was crisp, the humidity low, and we picked up speed early on.  It was the kind of run where you forget that you’re exercising.  Breathing is easy, your legs are happy and the intensity of the conversation leads your thoughts away from any physical strain.  We were powering up and down the hills without slowing and I remember thinking that I could keep running like that all night.  Good company, great conversation, a fast and steady pace, it felt so good.


My left foot caught a root and I landed face down on the ground.  A bloodied knee and hand were nothing compared to the pain that was oozing from my ankle.  Immediately I sat up, straightened my leg, and said to Quick Feet, “It’s not good.”.

After I was able to breathe through the worst part of the pain, I worked on hopping one-legged the one and a half miles we had to get to the parking lot.  Neither of us had a phone, and even if we had, what good would it have done?  Fellow runners and walkers were more than gracious with their offers to help carry me or “do something”, but after I realized I could put weight on my foot, I was able to lean on my buddy and we fought the mosquitoes and watched the sun go down as we set off on a new tortoise-slow pace.  A faithful friend was she, whom not only sacrificed the rest of her run, but allowed me to bitch and moan about how upset I was the entire way back.

My pride was fuming as people widened their eyes and proclaimed, “Awww, wow, that must really hurt”.  I knew that they thought I was limping from the gash on my knee and I wanted so badly to yell, “This?  I could run through this any day! It’s my stinking ankle that’s hurt!!!”.  Gah.  After reaching our cars I had two choices.  Go home to Ibprofen and a bath, or go out for a Margarita to dull the pain.  Quick Feet and I enjoyed some hearty laughs and great guacamole before the reality of what just happened set in.

As with any injury, my sleep was fitful, but the pain subsided considerably while lying down.  This morning led me to a doctor, a couple of x-rays, and a diagnosis of …

An Avulsion Fracture of the Distal Fibula and a partial tear of the Anterior Talofibular Ligament.


A prognosis of hilarity ensued:  A splint and crutches, CRUTCHES, until I can get thee to the Orthopedist.

Meet my new friend…

I think I’m going to write a book, “A tale of a woman and her crutches, oh and the four young children that she tried to take care of while keeping all the weight off of her foot”.  Catchy title?    Yes, yes, I think it will do.

And so the day that everything went wrong will forever be burned into my memory as the day that sucked monkey butt.  I mean, come onnnnnnn!

I’ve been through injury many times, so I know the drill.  I’m going to bypass “most” of the whining and maybe only invite a selected few to my pity party, and focus on the most important thing at hand.  Recovery. Oh, and cross-training, however that may be, in an attempt to keep up some level of fitness.  Push-ups sans the left leg, upper body weights, one-legged interval training…

“Hey Honey, there goes that crazy lady crutching around the neighborhood again…” ….

It could have been worse.  It could have been snowing, I could have been alone, I could have fallen and caught hypothermia and lost my extremities to gang green.  Granted, that probably would never even be possible in the southern state of Georgia, but I’m going to force myself to have a glass half full attitude and hope for the best news possible on Tuesday!


After all, who cares if the glass is half full or half empty?  As long as it’s got a twist of lime and a rim of salt!


2 thoughts on “A Trail, A Margarita, And a Broken Foot

  1. Seriously?! Sheesh, woman, can’t you EVER catch a break? oh wait, I mean..not catch a root and BREAK your foot, not that kind at all!

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