After a much-needed rest from running, I decided to "break" myself back in with an easy 4-mile run after work. About half-a-mile into my run, I was just settling into my rhythm when I stumbled. I guess I didn't pick my left foot up high enough or something because the sidewalk was smooth as glass. Milliseconds later, I was sprawled on the rock-hard cement in a Superman pose. Fortunately, my chin broke my fall. I picked myself up, a bit shaken from the impact of my brain reverberating inside my skull.
Embarrassed, I looked sheepishly around; luckily, there were no witnesses. brushed myself off; thankfully, my legs were uninjured. Phew! I could still run! I palpated my face--all my teeth were intact. A second, phew. I touched my chin; it stung a bit. My hand came away with blood. Shoot! I tried to stop the bleeding with my shirt but the flow was very stubborn. I started to head back but became increasingly depressed about missing my inaugural run after my hiatus. This was the only chance I was going to get over the next 2 days to run. I didn't want to skip it! I decided a bloody chin was not a big deal. I turned back around and resumed running.
The first 10 steps were painful as the pounding sent shockwaves through my chin. After that, everything went numb. I figured I had a good 45 minutes or so before the swelling really started to complicate matters pain-wise...perfect for a 4-mile run! And so I ran. Periodically, I dabbed the blood off my chin with my shirt. By the 3-mile mark, I noticed other passerbys were staring at me in nothing short of horror. What's the big deal? It's just a little cut!
I finished my run and stopped by the bathroom to assess the damage. I was shocked at the reflection in the mirror. My shirt was covered in large dark bloody stains. A thick, bright red stream of blood had run down my chin, neck and chest as if I had spit up a 7-11 Slurpee. My gory run had probably reminded people of something out of Halloween.
I wiped my chin and noticed my little cut was actually more of a deep gash. Ugh. Stitches? But I HATE hospitals and doctors! Like the plague! Much to the dismay of poor Brent, I refused to go to the ER, resorting to good 'ole Neosporin, butterfly band-aids, ice, and ibuprofen. And would you believe it? The stuff worked like a charm! My gash is now a little scab. Stitches, smitches. Psheesh!
Guess I was due for my annual fall (I had a similar incident this time last year). Have I mentioned I'm kind of a klutz? Maybe it's karma for my last post (which, by the way, was NOT meant to be taken seriously. It was more of a tongue-in-cheek post...just to clarify).