“Pop,” I heard. “Crap,” I thought. The pain followed a split second later and tasted like a high-voltage arc. My hand shot out to grab my toe, presumably to keep it in place and/or the pain from spreading.
“And this little piggy slammed into a bookcase.” I had become a statistic, just one of the millions of people (I’m assuming) around the world whose toes fall victim to unfortunately positioned furniture every day. And although I had escaped with my life, I knew immediately I would not be “toeing” the start line of the race I had coming up.
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You’re reading 100 lessons, a newsletter about ultrarunning and a broken toe pain mental “toughness.” The days are now getting shorter. Except for Monday.
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Sitting on the floor with one hand still clutching my rapidly swelling and reddening toe, I reached for my phone to tell it what had happened. The browser opened to the race website. Sigh. I typed in my new reality. There were 279,000,000 search results for “broken toe.”
“Usually heals within six to eight weeks” (yep, there goes the race). “Usually doesn’t need treatment.” Advice included rest, buddy taping with a neighbor toe, and seeing a doctor if the injured digit was crooked or bent at an unnatural angle. I didn’t think mine was, although at this point it was more convincing as a strawberry than a toe, so it was hard to tell.
Despite what I used to think when I was eight, injuries aren’t cool. That said, some are cooler than others. Kicking a rock while going full speed down some scenic technical trail would’ve made for a better story than my foot missing the empty space in my own living room.
For the record, I did consult a doctor. She agreed—kicking a rock would’ve been way cooler. Also, the toe was broken in two places. You should see the other guy.