Sometimes you bring in the end of the year as a lion and sometimes you bring it in as a lamb; and while I won’t be pouncing into the into the new year as I imagined, my soft finish — upon deeper reflection — is actually quite hard-core and symbolic of how I’ve lived the last 11 months.
You see, last Monday, on my way out to push, I had what some might call a bit of an accident and ended up fracturing my hand (metacarpus to be more precise). At the time, I didn’t have any doubt it’d been injured — the dysreflectic shock that shot up my arm made sure of this — but I wasn’t sure as to the extent (no pain sensation has its perks), and since it’d been about a week since my last push (the holidays et al.) and I was already on my way to the track, I decided rather than turn around and call it quits, I’d do what any reasonable person would do and finished my workout.
Okay, now I know for some of you this might not qualify as something a “reasonable person” would do (and there’s even a little part of me that would agree), but for good or for bad I’m wired in such a way that if I have my mind set on doing something and I like it, I more often than not feel compelled to follow it through.
In the end, it turned out that whether or not I pushed had little to do with the degree of my injury, but for myself just getting out there and doing it left me with a certain sense of satisfaction, because as it stands now it’ll probably be a couple more weeks before I’m able to get out there again.
Ridiculous? Perhaps, but the year has been filled with such consistency and momentum, that willingly slowing it down almost seems like a sin. Doctors orders and a cast may do it, but short of that, I’m going to keep on moving.