Saturday I ran my fourth half-marathon and it was like, one thousand times stronger than I expected it to be. And probably five thousand times stronger than it should have been, considering I wiped the eff out right before the race started!!

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Foot pop with my Race Boyfriend Alan, or not putting any weight on bum foot? Sneaky, Brooks, sneaky.

That’s right. I’ll get to a formal, more traditional recap later, but mainly I want to talk about my injury. I pretty much will always want to talk about total wipeouts, digusting bruises, open wounds, throw ’em at me, let’s talk the rough stuff.

You know how in grade school you always kind of wished you could break your leg and get a giant neon pink cast for everyone to sign and you got special treatment going to and from class and lunch time and you could swing around the hallways on crutches or better yet get pushed around in a wheelchair and you didn’t think about how debilitating a real handicap would actually be, you just knew that the rich kid who went skiing with his parents over winter break and broke his foot got a bunch of signatures from well-wishers that he literally wore everywhere he went like some banner of how many people cared that he got broken?

So I’ve broken my collar bone and my finger. Neither one is very prime for people to sign. My collar bone I broke when I was six and my cast was basically fitted like a sports bra so no one could even see it! And breaking a finger is pretty lame, although at least that’s seen EVERYWHERE you go so at 13 I got to tell the story of how like a badass my soccer team was playing a team 8 league levels above us and we were crushing them anyway, and then a striker came up and was about to shoot and I hit the ground and blocked their actual foot and the ball at the same time with one hand and then they tried to kick again and kicked my hand again and my finger was BROKEN and I stayed in the game! At least, until my ugly crying was noticed and my dad took me to the hospital.

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Circa 2002. Remember how I was never a runner until 2013? I played soccer for 5 years and stuck with goalie so I wouldn’t have to run. It was just a bonus I was smart and tough, which I still claim are the most important qualities in a goalkeeper and would encourage any girl to go for that position once in a while regardless of whether she likes to run.

So those have been the extent of my “cool” injuries. Granted I have busted myself up more times than I can count but never with stories I’d be proud to tell. (“Um, this gigantic bruise on my ass is from when I slipped on the stairs and fell down the whole flight because I was looking at my phone”? Oops. And my worst dog bite scar is from my own dog, so that one’s kind of a downer.)

BUT THIS ONE. For two whole days I’ve gotten to hobble around limping with a totally wrapped up ankle. Because why? Because – okay well the first part is me being a dumbass, I fell off a curb rushing to get to my corral before the race started, because more athletic or not a klutz is a klutz is a klutz, my dad didn’t nickname me Boomers because it was cute, he did it because it was apt.

But the SECOND PART. It got worse because I’m a BIGGER dumbass, and also a REALLY TOUGH ONE. I ran 13.1 miles on a totally sprained-ass ankle! After I fell and howled out in pain and pulled myself up back onto the offending curb, a mild-mannered, quiet gentleman in a race bib bent down to help me, calmly direct me to move my foot in certain ways, bringing mobility back to the joint while I bit my lip and tried not to cry.

I usually have a pretty high pain tolerance. My ribcage tattoo? Tickled. So you know this hurt like a mother.

“Are you running today?” he asked.

“Yes,” I gasped.

“Not anymore you’re not.”

The fastest way to get me to rock something is to doubt I can do it at all. So uh, sit down, son. (Yes I just addressed indirectly a man who was helping me and had to be at least 60 as “son.” Because I am a prideful asshole.)

And that is how I ran 13.1 miles on the worst bodily injury I’ve had since I broke my finger at age 13.

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This is what my parents have to deal with in their only daughter.

More to come on how I rocked the fuck out of Rock ‘n’ Roll USA Half Marathon. In the meantime, the medic tent (I made it to the end of the race before throwing myself at the medic tent! So I got to experience what the medic tent looks like at a huge race and be fully conscious for it! Just sippin’ my chocolate milk, excitedly chattering to the hot medic wrapping my ankle that I ran the whole race on a bum foot, as he gave me the judgiest “you’re a dumbass” look and I was like “I know right!”) said I can’t run for 3 weeks but my ankle is already feeling better.

So the glory of a freak accidental injury exacerbated by my own stubbornness is short-lived seeing as now the bandage just serves to be itchy, because my ankle feels pretty stable already. Mom says the fact that I didn’t fracture it by running a half-marathon on it right after spraining it must be because of all the calcium I drink because apparently she thinks I still drink milk on a regular basis but I hate to break it to her that it’s really just a LOT of ice cream.

I dunno, somebody try and convince me to not go running on it like, today.

ROCK!

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The finish line medic tent gets the most INTERESTING stories! Also they drove me on a golf cart out of the finish line party area! Totally lame because I love The Head and the Heart, who was playing, but still, got to ride around showin’ everyone not only did I break myself but I had the medal to show for it!
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