I'm good at it. I have the knack. However, not since marathon training last fall have I sustained a tumble. And not since 2019 have I banged myself up so neatly.
Running two miles uphill on asphalt, I elected to tackle a substantial hill along narrow walking trails. Lizards scuttled out of my way. But it didn't take long to note that the trail was covered in scree—small rocks—over more substantial rocks. My shoes were not designed for trail running. Slipping, I scrambled up a 40 degree slope realizing I'd need to return the same way on a surface without much purchase.
Rising up before me was a sixty degree slope. I turned around.
Too late.
The way back down was like roller skating on plexiglass. You couldn't slow down. At one point, I felt myself accelerating. Seconds away from losing control and landing on rocks, I chose the lessor of two hurtful evils: I feel into the chaparral. The tangled thorny bushes cushioned my fall but left me with the interesting markings displayed below.
No more unknown dirt trails.
