A Science Guy's Almanac: How to break your ankle without really trying

How to break your ankle without really trying

Twice each week the soccer team started practice with a run of about two miles on the streets around Monte Vista. In a post about coaching track and field, I described how we used the significantly inclined slope that ran down to the right of the school’s entrance. These soccer runs went left.

I ran with the team. Not because I like to run distances. The best part of every long distance run is the end. I ran for two reasons.

1.            It was good for me.

2.            It kept some of the less dedicated troops from cheating by cutting the course.

I had only one rule.

You had to beat me, or you had to run again.

 On this particular day, three of the ne’er-do-wells were 30-yards behind me after about 400-yards of the run. I knew what they were planning. Stay behind coach until the last minute and sprint past him to obey the letter of the law.  For some reason—probably our W/L record—that strategy did not sit well with me that day    .

The street was at the tipping point where the downhill slope increased dramatically. Without stopping, I turned around enough to see the laggers.

“This isn’t what I meant by beating me,” I hollered. “If you don’t keep in front of me the whole way, you will run again anyway!”

An aside. My youngest son would run with me on occasion. On this particular run, we had our dachshund along and were running laps of the middle school’s oversized athletic fields. We also had one of his buddies with him.

We took off. Well, they took off. I did what I always do, I started jogging. Within seconds, I overheard the following brief conversation.

“What’s up with your dad’s pace?” the friend asked.

“That's his starting, middle, and ending pace. It won’t change.”

My son was right.

Fast-forward, actually, it’s fast-backward, because the event I’m describing in this blog happened at least 12-years before the brief dialog just reported.

The recalcitrant soccer players looked shocked. I swung back around to continue my run. I never quite made it 100% back around.

Spring Valley, the unincorporated area of San Diego County in which Monte Vista is located has paved streets. With no municipal government to oversee such details, the maintenance of those streets can best be described as spotty.

My left foot found one spot on the street that needed attention but didn’t get it. A chunk of asphalt had broken loose and was lying on top of the pavement. My foot hit the chunk. It rocked to the right. I rolled my ankle and crashed to the ground.

 

Not the same hole, but an admirable representation of the infamous spot on Sweetwater Springs Blvd.

I was more worried about my hip and back than any other body part as I hit the ground. I’d had spinal fusion twelve years earlier, and I did not want that damaged. Besides my hip aching, my left forearm and elbow were bruised and scraped.

The slow-running soccer players sped up and clustered around me.

Briefly.

“Are you okay, Coach?” I’m not sure whether the motivation for that question was altruism or fear.

“Keep running,” I managed through tightly clenched teeth as the pain from my ankle finally registered in my brain.

The trio ran off down the slope.

I sat for a couple of minutes contemplating the stab of pain that flashed through my brain as the arteries in my outer ankle contracted and relaxed with each beat of my heart.

When all the soccer players were out of sight, I struggled to my feet.

I took one step.

It really hurt.

I limped slowly for about 75-yards.

When the street leveled off, I decided to give slow jogging a try.

That worked pretty well until my left foot hit the ground.

I limped the last 300 yards to the steps leading down to the football/soccer field. There are 45 steps in the stairway. Holding on to the handrail with my right hand, I managed to make it to field level. By then, the first of my cross-country runner/soccer players had arrived back at the field.

I started them on a passing drill, limped over to the bench, sat down, pulled up the left pant leg of my sweats . . .

And saw that someone had stuffed a softball into my sock.

Okay, so it was really my swollen ankle.

I knew better than to take off the shoe, so I went ahead with practice. After all: no pain, no gain. Right?

Practice lasted all of about 25-minutes. That’s when I couldn’t stand the pain any longer.

The coaches’ office at Monte Vista is one level of  steps—at least 25 risers—above the 45-step staircase. It took some time, but I made it.

Once inside, I grabbed a five-gallon bucket, tossed in a generous amount of ice from the ice machine, and added some water. I limped over to a chair and sat the bucket down. Then I sat down and removed my left shoe and pulled my sock down to expose the ankle.

My leg immediately achieved the same circumference from mid-calf to my toes. The skin now stretched tightly over my ankle area was multiple shades of purple.

I pulled the sock back up and stuck the foot into the ice bath.

I sat in a state of oscillating pain from the injury and pain from the icy water for about ten minutes. The door to the coaches’ office opened. The girls’ varsity basketball coach entered.

“Whatcha doin’?” he asked.

“I rolled my ankle. I’m icing it.”

“Looks painful,” he said.

“It is,” I answered.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

I started to answer when he continued.

“You not going to get any sympathy here. You should go home.”

With that, he went into the coaches’ locker area to change.

It took me maybe 5-seconds to make a decision. I dumped the ice water into the deep sink. I limped into the locker area, got my “biology teacher” clothes, and limped out the door heading for my car.

My biology room was about one of the furthest-distanced rooms from the PE area. I parked in the faculty lot closest to my classroom. I limped quite a long time/distance in one shoe and one cold, soggy sock.

At the time, I drove a 1968 VW Bug. It was yellow with red Naugahyde interior to mimic Monte Vista’s crimson/gold motif. It had a 4-speed manual transmission. [That sentence is italicized for a reason.]

I opened the driver’s door and tossed my clothes onto the passenger seat.

I climbed in.

I shut the door and put the key in the ignition.

I pushed in the clutch.

. . .

The next thing I remember is snapping my head back while awakening after passing out from the pain from my left ankle while pushing in the clutch.

There’s more.

But not until another post. Click the title below.

Next Almanac: Confirmation of ankle damage and just plain weirdness

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