Today, during my lunchtime run, I ate pavement.
I was passing by a construction area in which the sidewalk was closed, and I wanted to check for oncoming cars. Seeing none, I kept running. I didn't see that one of the construction barriers had a foot sticking out, and I tripped over it.
The palms of my hands bore the brunt of the fall, then my right knee, and then my left calf. I skidded and rolled over onto my back like a dead beetle. I may have uttered a four-letter word (okay, a couple) before I popped back up and resumed running.
As I ran, I took a quick inventory of my injuries. My palms were scraped and filthy and already starting to sting. My knee was lightly skinned, but the joint felt fine. My pride...well, let's not talk about that right now.
A few moments later, my Garmin beeped at the three-mile mark, and I was pleased to see I had kept an 8:58/mile pace even considering my dramatic spill. I ran the half-mile back to the office and tended to my wounds, grateful that the fall happened at the tail end of my run, and even more grateful that my knees escaped relatively unscathed.
Never mind that this whole thing happened a week and a half after my super-duper-mega-important marathon adventure on the opposite side of the country. Or that no one from work actually saw it happen.
I mean, if you're going to fall while running, take it from me: this is the way you want to do it.