I’ve been limping down the trail for about an hour when I see my Jeep in the distance. The moment of relief that the sight gives fades pretty quickly. I can see my car, so what? I think of the old Western movies where the cowboy would whistle for his horse and the trusty steed would come running. If only I could whistle for my trusty Jeep…

If this were television, this is where it would say TWO HOURS EARLIER…

The day is beautiful but unseasonably cold. Early summer should be shorts and tank top, but I’m in tights with a couple of warm tops, beanie, gloves. Later I will appreciate my habit of overdressing. The first two and a half miles are a climb, not extreme, about 1000 feet to the summit. I reach the top and start down the other side. It’s a typical Utah landscape, with scrub oak, sage brush, and the occasional Juniper tree towering over the rest.

The trail down is more secluded, the sounds of cars and civilization are muffled here. It’s also shady, and a bit chilly. I stop to put on my brand new waterproof jacket, my only extra layer. The trail is new, cut just this year. It’s close to homes and roads, but also close to my home, so it’s perfect when time is limited, which it is today. My daughter is expecting me to watch her two daughters later this morning. I figure I have time for 8 miles if everything goes well.

When I run here, because the trail is so new, I stop frequently to throw bits of cactus from the trail. To protect dog feet. The cactus bits, I assume, are from whatever machine they used to cut the trail. Also, because the trail is so new, there are a lot of roots. A lot. My husband, daughter and I have falls pretty much every time we run here.

So I’m careful. I pay attention.

Downhill is awesome. I love downhill. And this downhill is leading in to a beautiful little valley strewn with house-sized stones. A tiny stream trickling down the hillside makes this the greenest part of the whole run. I’m appreciating the beauty, then suddenly I’m not. I’m on the ground, it feels like my knee is shattered, and I’m using words that cannot be repeated here. I used to have a list of words that I would never use, but I was younger then. On this occasion, I use all the words.

I’ve hit my knee in a similar way before, the pain so bad that I’m sure I’ll be leaving the trail in a helicopter. Experience tells me that I’ll be okay, I just have to lie here until the pain stops. This time it really takes a while, but it does gradually ease. Once my knee isn’t demanding all the attention, I check the rest of me. My right elbow, the one that seems to take the brunt of everything I ever do, hurts pretty bad, but the tear in my brand new waterproof jacket is what really hurts.

After sitting for a while, I feel okay. I get up and start walking, then try a few running steps. I think I’m good. I should still have time to get to four miles and turn around. I pick up the pace slowly, making sure everything is good. Yep. I’m good. Disaster averted! Again!

I run for a minute, maybe two. My knee is a little stiff. I walk. Run a little. Stop. Maybe I’m not entirely okay. I decide to call it, maybe half mile shy of my plan. “Call it” makes it sound like I’m done, but actually I’m about three and a half miles from my car. I have to go back up over the hill and back down. And this trail is single track to the car, there is no “hey mom can you pick me up?” midway rescue option.

I’ve always known that a really long, really slow, really painful hike out is a possibility. I’m prepared for a true emergency. I have my phone, I have a Spot Tracker. If I really needed a helicopter to bring me out, I’m prepared. I even have emergency blankets and hand warmers so I won’t freeze while waiting for said helicopter. But this isn’t a true emergency. This is that possibility that I always knew existed. I’m going to have to get myself out.

Uphill, like I said, isn’t bad. I reach the summit again and I’m relieved that it’s all downhill to my car. Two and a half miles. I start down at a slow jog, but I only make it about three steps. My knee isn’t bending very well. So I walk as fast as I can. I’m doing okay, moving pretty fast, but I can tell that my knee is swelling more and more. At some point I call my husband and let him know what happened. He suggests I take off my jacket and wrap my knee. I say okay, but actually I’m really cold moving at such a slow pace and no way am I taking off my jacket.

Another mile down and things really start to get slow. I pull up my tights and take a look at my knee. It doesn’t look like my scrawny knee, it’s a big knee. Like a football player’s knee. It’s huge. No wonder it won’t bend.

By the time I’m a mile from the car, my pace has devolved into a slow side-step. My knee won’t bend at all, so I’m sending that leg down the trail and following with the other. I pass a couple of people, but either they don’t notice my struggle or they choose not to ask. I mean, there’s nothing to be done any way. Unless somebody came along with a horse, there’s not a good solution here.

The last mile is crazy slow. The last mile takes over an hour. The wind picks up and I’m really cold. The last mile I can see my car most of the time. It gets closer with every step, but only a step closer, you know?

I think of my first months as a runner, when the stop sign down the road was so far away, when a mile was a huge accomplishment, when a 5k made me feel like I was going to die. I mean, a mile is far, and on a day like this, as I blaze down the trail at almost 1 mph, I really appreciate what I’m able to do on a good day.

I’m slow, even on a good day, but on this extra slow day I try to keep my thoughts in a good place. I think of the hundreds of miles of trail I’ve explored. I think of all the adventures, misadventures and near disasters that I’ve had, all self-propelled, sometimes alone, or with family, or with dogs. I keep my eyes on the trail and only look up every ten steps. The car is getting closer. I know I will get there, even if it seems unlikely right now.

When I finally reach my car, I let my daughter know I’m just barely heading home. I choose to not cancel the time with my granddaughters, hoping it’s not a bad decision (because they are crazy toddlers). At home, I’m sitting on the floor with a kitchen towel under my way-too-cold ice pack when the kids arrive. My oldest granddaughter, almost three years old, takes one look at me and figures a way to help. She brings all the kitchen towels and layers them carefully on my knee.

And you know, it actually helps. It really does.

Toddler medical care

In the end, perhaps thanks to the rapid toddler care, I only miss about a week of running. The swelling lasts for most of the summer, but now I’m good. Disaster averted… again!