I went running Provo Canyon again last night, with the intention of finishing 8 miles.
Three miles up the canyon path sits a beautiful, secluded park called Nunn’s Park. It is nestled at the bottom of a bowl-like landscape, surrounded by a steep hill to the south, on top of which sits the highway, hills to the east and west, and cliffs to the north, on the other side of a swollen summer river. To enter the park from the east or west, you have to go downhill.
It was here, in Nunn's Park, that a skateboarder coming off of the east hill came zooming around the corner, entirely in my running lane, and crashed right into me. Now I had seen him coming around the corner, so I had moved over into the bike lane to give him room to pass by. I then looked ahead to the curve to make sure no one else was coming.
Suddenly, I heard "Oh fuck!" and turned to see the skateboarder coming directly at me. Knowing we were going to collide, he curled up, began falling onto his side. As he did this, his feet had flipped the skateboard in such a way that it became a flying projectile, heading at me at an amazing force. I immediately leapt into the air, trying to jump over the skateboard. I didn't clear it. It hit me square in the lower shins, just above the ankles.
The force of the skateboard's hit made my upper body spin forward so that when I began to fall, I was coming down hands and face first. As I came down, I watched the skateboarder slide to a stop right under me. Watching from afar, this meeting of body and ground probably looked like a crumbling; it felt to me like that. The palms of my hands hit first, then gave way when they couldn’t hold up the force of the fall, and so my elbows hit the asphalt. At some point, my hips and then knees reached the ground. My torso ended up on the skateboarder.
Somehow, I don’t remember how, he was suddenly on his feet, standing above me, apologizing, trying to help me up. I remember turning over and sitting on my butt; I brought my knees up and placed my arms around my knees. I hung my head there.
The skateboarder was very apologetic, thank goodness. I said very little--"It's okay.""I'll be alright." My tone wasn’t convincing, not even to me. I was reeling, half in shock, half in anger. I never looked him in the face, not once.
He picked up my glasses and the car key that flew away from my grasp at impact. I took them from him, said "thanks" for that kind gesture. He offered a litany of more apologies. But I walked away.
I wasn’t more than ten feet away when my left hand, thumb, and two fingers began to swell, tingle, then turn numb. "Fuck" I uttered aloud. I headed to the park’s lavratory.
After letting the cold water from the sink run over my injured hand and fingers, I continued running east, up the hill and onto the Bridal Veil falls where I would turn around and run back down the canyon.
I ran the whole 8 miles, even pushing myself the last mile. Running helped keep the swelling down. And pushing myself at the end helped me run off the anger; it helped me not feel the pain nesting in the swollen shins that looked like round eggs under my ankle socks.
Medical Note: I go to the doctor tomorrow to get x-rays. Me thinks my index finger is broken. I might have a fracture in my left hand. I'll keep you informed, of course.
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