A New Wrist Accessory

            On Monday, there was an article on the front page of the sports section about a certain 60-year-old runner named Kathy Martin, who came to the sport late in life and has been setting all sorts of world records.  She gets up at 7 every morning and runs up to 12 miles a day as part of an arduous training schedule, designed by her trainer husband.

            I bet you know where this is going, right?  I, too, run, and after reading about that other Kathy this Kathy thought, “Gee, she’s older than me since I’m only 60 minus 17 days. Maybe my running days aren’t over.  I’m going to push myself to run farther and faster.”

            So today, my first day of Passover vacation, I was going to buy new running shoes. And even with all the holiday preparations and the holiday itself looming, I was still going to carve out some time to run.  Tomorrow and Friday, I’d just wake up early and hit the road. Obviously, I’d even get a post out of my new routine, building to the idea that some limits don’t really exist – except in our minds.  I’d even convince myself that 60 can be the beginning of something new and exciting.

            Well, I guess I can still write that post.  Just not today.  Because before I could get to the Sports Authority this morning, I took my dog for a walk.  I’ve mentioned him before, haven’t I? He’s a cocker spaniel who’s spooked by loud noises, baby carriages, bicycles, elevators and just about everything except else his shadow.  Typically, Casey is a quick and easy dog to walk since he has no interest in chasing squirrels or socializing with others of his kind.  But this morning, a car started up suddenly, and Casey darted in front of me, sending me sprawling. 

            It’s funny how quickly a 60 year-old (minus 17 days) athlete can become an old lady lying on the sidewalk.  Two nice young men helped me up. I hobbled home and made my way to the emergency room, icing my wrist all the while.  I told the triage nurse my pain was only a 2 or 3, since I was pretty sure I had only bruised my wrist. Turns out I was wrong.  I’ve got a break, but a clean and simple one. The doctor didn’t even think I needed a cast until he heard I was 59, and then he said, “We better immobilize it. You know, just to be sure.”

            I’m sure the other Kathy has had her share of injuries, too, but I bet she’s never typed a blog with a broken wrist.