I got up yesterday morning at 6:30 a.m. The plan: run from Brio to la salida (the exit) to the main road to Tola and back, before the sweltering sun got too powerful. It’s a nice 8 kilometer run roundtrip, along the semi-shaded road. Past farms and across a couple of dried up rivers, along the dusty and rocky path. I jogged down the Brio hill and turned left. Started jogging slowly. Waking up. Saw a monkey in a tree. Looked at the monkey. And tripped and fell flat on my face.
And thus have I been hobbling around Brio and Gigante for the past two days. Not only did I scrap both knees, the left one a mess that is threatening to become infected, I scraped the palms of both hands, so that even typing these words is rather painful.
Seriously. What was I doing? I was running. And I fell over. This cut is disproportionate to the fall, just as the pain is disporportionate to how it looks. And for GOODNESS sakes–I sandboarded down a volcano and walked away with a shallow scrap that has all but healed, and I try to put one foot in front of the other and end up two days later unable to bend my knee all the way.
The best part was that as I sat in the middle of the road, evaluating my injuries, whimpering ‘owey’, and watching the blood ooze out from under my dust-covered knees, several Nicas walked by, not one of whom looked twice at me. Now, seriously?! You cat-call and yelp and generally pay all sorts of attention to me when I’m healthy and walking around with a bounce in my step, but now… I’m invisible. So I picked myself up, and limped back to the hotel, defeated. Isolina gave me an ice-pack and some nice sympathy with my scrambled eggs.
Good news is that the left-knee scrap actually landed smack dab on the top of another scar I had from, well, falling, so my net number of bodily scars remains the same. And yes, I’m aware that I am a klutz.