Situational irony is great fun to observe unless, of course, you are the situation.
One New Year’s Eve, just after sundown, Blue Eyes found me in the Emergency Department at Boulder Community Hospital. At first she looked a little scared, and then she looked pissed off.
An EMT had removed my mud-covered running clothes and cleaned-up my face and hands. Then he got me into into one of those backless, flannel gowns and topped me off with a warm blanket. I’m sure I looked a good deal less beat up than when I was carted in an hour earlier.
Blue Eyes is my best friend. We have been together for a lot of years. She feels free to express her opinions about me whenever and wherever it pleases her. She looked at me with those wonderful eyes and said,
“Oh Sweetie, are you hurt?”
“Not bad, no worries.”
There was a pause, a quick survey to make sure I wasn’t lying, and then she said:
“You’re an idiot. You are way too old to be trail running on ice and snow.”
“I’m feeling pretty good.”
“You aren’t 50 anymore. When are you going to learn?”
“And there is very little pain.”
“What are we going to do with you?”
“Thanks for asking.”
There was another pause, and then she wanted to know exactly how I had trashed myself. Just then, as I was playing the “bad luck” card, Trina, a physicians assistant, came in and went to work. First, she listened to the medic’s hand-off report, checked my vitals on the monitor, listened to my chest, and then poked around my left knee pointing out to everyone who was watching that the tendon that attached my quad to the kneecap and the top of my tibia wasn’t attached anymore. She estimated recovery at six to eight weeks after surgery, with full use in six months.
Sigh. In most towns, two months with no cardiovascular workouts is a non-event. Here in Boulder, it is considered a catastrophic illness.
Boulder is a little different. It’s an outdoor sort of town, just about everyone has a sport, is training for something, or at the least gets regular exercise even if it is walking around Wonderland Lake or along the Boulder Creek path. As with most communities, when we meet, we talk about our families, jobs, and politics, but often the conversation turns to bike rides or running routes, backcountry skiing or snowshoeing, or any number of outdoor activities, where we tolerate each other’s tall tales and humble brags.
What we are really talking about is: Are you out there pushing your body to get better at this activity? Are you enjoying yourself and sharing the activity with friends? While out there, are you laughing more than you are complaining? And where Boulder is different from most places: if you get a little overly-serious about your sport—there is always someone in Boulder who is better at it than you are—someone who will be happy to reel you in, drop your ass, and also your ego.
I was four miles out on a five mile run, cresting the hill that leads down to Wonderland Lake. I was thinking cosmic thoughts. My right foot hit some ice while my left foot was still under me. I’ve been trail running for a long time and done any number of tumbles—most were embarrassing, some were funny, and some were downright slapstick. Going down on this one, I had a feeling this might be a little more damaging. I didn’t hear the “pop,” that is associated with this injury, but as I went down I ruptured the