One Saturday last month, I stepped from our laundry room onto the edge of the concrete step in the garage, as I’ve done thousands of times.
Well, the garage was angry that day, my friends, like an old man trying to send back soup at a deli. I rolled my ankle slightly, heard what turned out to be the fifth metatarsal break and tumbled to the floor, uttering a few expletives as I landed.
Sadly, this was not my first experience with a broken bone. I’ve fractured metatarsals on two separate occasions running trails at Rock Cut State Park back in the early 2000-teens.
And there was the incident in 2001, jumping into a lake in North Carolina. The dark water was shallower than I thought and as I stuck the landing, I felt my fibula snap. Ten days later, a surgeon made me bionic, installing a plate and six screws, which was followed by eight weeks in a cast.
Typically, I’ve come back from these injuries desperate to translate my sedentary rage into physical activity. The years that followed have included five marathons, a dozen half marathons, short-course triathlons, two cycling centuries and, most recently, five years of CrossFit. Convalescence and I do not get along.
This latest injury is healing well, though, and I’m fortunate the break was not displaced. I’m wrapping up week six in a non-weight bearing boot, feeling fortunate I’m married to a physical therapist.
I know I’ll soon channel my rage into reuniting with my CrossFit gym family, grateful that activity is what keeps me young, both physically and mentally.
And, I’ll be fully embracing the Regina Spektor song lyrics living permanently in my head:
“Think of all the roads. Think of all their crossings. Taking steps is easy. Standing still is hard.”
Indeed.
I’m Wester Wuori, broken but unbowed. And that’s my Perspective.
