Sunday was the longest run that I have had in months: 19km and I felt great about it. After a week of lower mileage due to cold weather, I was a bit hesitant about sticking with my plan to still run that far. Deep down, I knew that I could cover the distance but that voice of uncertainty worked its way into my morning. By the time I left, though, I had talked myself into reaching one of three goals: 16km; 17-18km if I was feeling good in the last part; 19km if I felt strong enough to add a lap around the neighbourhood at the end. After close to two hours of fighting wind and manoeuvring a few icy sections but also happily running outside on a sunny day, I proudly finished my A-goal of 19km.

As I always do, I took the dogs into the yard when I got home. One particular section was covered in ice and I was careful as I bent down to pick up after one of the fur-kids. When I stook back up, though, my foot slipped. “Help!” I yelled. I fell backwards, my left hand hitting the ground in its attempt to break my fall; it didn’t. I landed on my sitbones and rolled onto my back. My lower backbones hit the ice, and then I felt my back bones roll as far as my shoulder blades. My head snapped back and forwards as my left forearm caved under the pressure; as it went down, it stopped my head from hitting the ground. “There is no way I’m walking away from this without a break,” I thought.

I stood up and went inside, followed by two playful dogs, and noticed that my hand was covered in blood. “Great.” The icepack came out and I did what I could to prevent any swelling. By evening, there was some obvious inflammation and my wrist hurt to touch, but there was no discoloration. I had some strength in my hand but I couldn’t put any weight on it. One part of me was sure that there was a fracture but another side was more positive. “Wait until tomorrow,” she said.

The next morning, I could feel a fair amount of stiffness across my upper back, soreness around my neck and my left ankle seemed unstable; I figure it joined the pity party in the yard. My wrist: more swollen, signs of blue and yellow, hurt on the pisiform bone (bottom of the wrist). After seeing my physiotherapist (luckily, I had booked that appointment weeks ago) in the afternoon, I decided that it was probably wise to have an x-ray. Results were sent yesterday and, miraculously, there was not a fracture.

This is the third time in ten winters that Mother Nature has picked a fight with me. The first time, I went flying and landed on my face, resulting in 4 fractures along my jaw. A few years later, I was running along Lake Ontario, turned a corner and went sliding down an icy hill; that left a bruise the size of a baseball and every colour of the universe. This time, I think I got away easily.

My big take-away from Sunday’s fall is how valuable an active lifestyle can be. In the past five years, I have moved from a single sport – running – to a multisport lifesytle. As slow as I may be in the water, I know that my back and arms are stronger than ever (I’ve commented on that several times at home) and I think that is was prevented me from ending up with a fracture. My fall also made me realize that I need to do more in terms of regular strength work; after a 30 year absence, now is the time for me to get back to weights.

I believe that things happen for a reason and I think my fall was the catalyst to drive me to add some weight training back into my week. My fitness activities likely kept me from seriously hurting myself. Now I need to get back to weights so that I can keep doing the things that I love and can keep chasing my dreams.