Friday morning, about 3AM, I fell ill. I don’t know if it was food poisoning or a stomach bug but with body aches (though no fever), I vomited throughout the day. This thing plagued me for a full twenty-four hours. Saturday arrived with welcomed recuperation -- I slept off and on all day. Sunday, I awoke abruptly at 5AM. I had been dreaming that I was running down stairs. I flew down the steps, moving faster than I could ever imagine. Flight after flight, my feet never tangling, my step never pausing. And then finally, I hit the ground floor. I jumped down onto the road and ran up a small incline toward an underground parking lot, when WHAM. Someone took me out. With no warning whatsoever I was incapacitated, unable to see, unable to even move or fight back. I remember thinking to myself, “Oh my God, it is happening to me.” That’s when I woke, suddenly and with dread. I sat about in my pajamas a bit traumatized from the nightmare and drank two cups of coffee before finally packing my gear and heading out the door. With Calico 30k a little over a month away, I stubbornly refused to let illness or nightmare derail training. I was already behind. My destination: Trabuco Canyon, an hour's drive, for a long run (which I planned to increase two miles from 12 to 14).
Two pleasant surprises awaited me in Trabuco Canyon. First, the Forest Service paved a small portion of the rocky off-road terrain and graded much of the remaining 5 mile off-road portion. That made for some smoother driving and cut several minutes off the canyon drive (perhaps as much as fifteen). And then, two beautiful wild turkeys greeted me at the Holy Jim lot. A female and a male puffed up and gobbling, fluttered and danced their way about the dirt. The female, though smaller than her beau, but pretty enormous for a bird nonetheless, jumped up onto a truck (the same make and model as my truck), and landed on the hood with a loud clang that echoed up the canyon. The owners who prepped for a hike to Santiago Peak, laughed hysterically at that. I nervously chuckled along (relieved she didn't jump onto my truck).
I ran off on my own into the lonesome forest. Making my way out past the cabins, I came up on two hunters, their rifles secured to their bodies for the trip down as I headed up Holy Jim Trail (which I've often referred to as HolyCow or HolyCrap because of it's relentless climb). A fast walking hiker passed me at about mile 2.5. Two or three mountain bikers passed me, but overall the infamous Holy Jim Trail remained quiet. Ice cold water flowed in the creeks, something I have not seen in a while here. The weather was chilly, but I warmed up at about mile three, enough to take off the gloves, beanie and jacket. I took my time running up that five mile switchback. That’s not to say the trek was not strenuous -- I always find running up Holy Jim difficult, no matter my condition.
I felt good finally reaching The Main Divide -- five miles in and I had accomplished much of my elevation gain. The shade and cool breeze tucked in at Bear Springs did wonders for my attitude. Chatting briefly with two hikers, I took off on The Main Divide at a comfortable trot, looking forward to views of Orange County on one side, and San Bernardino and Riverside counties on the other. I caught sight of Lake Matthews, and then later, Lake Elsinore along the way. A man driving his truck to Santiago Peak stopped to chat with me but I saw no others on the long, lonely road.
When The Main Divide wound to the eastern side, puddles of ice partially blocked my passage. As usual, I delighted in cracking the ice with as stomp as I passed. I felt like a child in a giant playground -- especially with all the branches strewn about from the last storm. It was as if someone had already played here. To make it even better, my injured foot felt good, despite the miles thus far.
At mile ten, I turned off of The Main Divide and headed down the steep and rocky switch-back called West Horsethief. I gingerly made my way, careful not to trip on the fist-sized rocks that in the past have pulled me to the ground. I breathed a sigh of relief upon reaching the bottom where Trabuco Creek flows beneath a thick canopy of trees. From this spot, I only had about 2.5 miles left-- most of it downhill and fairly runnable, though technical. I picked up my pace. I was so close to the truck now, I was finished as far as I was concerned. I ran a faster still, eager to end this difficult run and rest. I tripped twice over loose rocks on Trabuco Trail, each time thinking I was going down for sure. That should have been my warning. I didn't take heed.
WHAM. Just like my nightmare, I didn’t see it coming. With no warning whatsoever I was incapacitated. I don't recall tripping. I only felt the impact -- my body slamming face first onto the rocks. When you land in the dirt, there's some give. Different story for boulders. There was no give, nor roll on my part. Nor did this fall seem to occur in slow motion as most my falls do. I didn't have time to realize that I was falling. I felt blindsided. Just WHAM: Body slammed against the rocks. The impact was so forceful and violent, I couldn't focus on anything, time or place. I knew that I was in a head-on collision. That's all I knew. Pain radiated from all sides but I couldn't pinpoint injuries. Instinctively, I coiled up on the Cleveland National Forest floor. Panic quickly set in. I felt like my breaths somehow took in, or processed the pain bombarding right then. My breathing quickened in response to take it all in. Faster and faster until I felt as if I might run out of breath. Purposely I slowed my breath to match my back and forth rocking. Then I gradually stretched myself out so that I lay face down, sprawled out the width of the trail. After some time like this, I faced the fact that no one was around, nor was anyone going to happen by and help. I was alone, and I had to handle this myself.
It seemed like I lay there on the rocks for quite a while. I wouldn't have been surprised if a half hour plus passed. But when looking at my Garmin data, it appears that only six minutes passed from the moment I stopped moving forward, up until the moment I began moving again. First thing, after I got my breathing down, I grabbed my phone from my pocket. It flew out of my hand and landed beside me within reach. Zero bars. Somehow, in about six minutes, I calmed myself down and faced the fact that I would need to get up and start moving else spend the night in a cold, dark canyon. I pushed myself up from the ground into a sitting position. And then using just my legs, I stood and moved forward one slow step at a time.
I felt nauseated back on my feet. My legs ached, my arms ached. I didn’t check for blood. I didn’t check for anything (I didn’t even check to see if I hit my head, which looking back, I can say that fortunately I did not). My main goal was to get out of there. I thought of nothing else. In the back of my mind I knew that I needed to get myself to the doctor. Something wasn’t right in my left arm, it felt weird, it felt wrong, deep within. My right arm ached too. But it wasn’t the same. It didn’t have that inner-wobbly pain that my left arm had.
My sobbing stopped pretty quickly realizing the feat that lay ahead. Two miles remained of mainly rocky single track and then some truck trail before I could drive myself out of there. To get myself back I merely practiced the same technique I have always used on the trails -- that is, one foot in front of the other. I stepped over fallen branches, and I kept my left arm bent and draped across my abdomen. I could not bare the pain in any other position. I tried to run for short distances, but the jarring to my body, especially to my left arm, proved too painful.
I can tell you that this was a dang long two miles. But one foot in front of the other eventually got me back to my truck. It always does. The turkeys greeted me, gobbling loudly. I tore the pack off my back as quickly as possible -- like ripping off a band aid. Then I made a b-line to the only spot that I ever get service in this canyon by the trashcan under the posted trail map. With one bar, I texted my husband, told him that I was hurt and asked for the address to my nearest urgent care. With sporadic cell service, I couldn't wait. The one-handed drive out of the canyon was hell, with my truck bouncing about the road, even with the new grading. The nice new paving added some relief but then it was back to dirt road for a few more miles.
Out of the canyon, I phoned home and decided to go ahead and drive there. I wanted to see if I could make it through the night, then maybe see the doctor on Monday. It didn’t work out that way. As soon as my husband saw the expression on my face, he drove me to the nearest ER (in Laguna Beach). Turns out, I did break my left arm, not a bad break, but bad enough to cause a good deal of pain. I have a radial head fracture (my elbow), and my arm is in a splint cast. All other wounds on my arms and legs are superficial. Am I bummed? Quite. But it is what it is, and there’s nothing I can do about it, as I often say to soothe myself. I have lots of thoughts concerning my Calico training, and my overall disappointment. It's Christmas Eve right now, so I am going to try and turn my thoughts toward that celebration, stay in the moment, and enjoy all the good things that I do have.
Merry Christmas!
When the wounds were fresh 4 days ago (December 20):
