It was a slow fall. After a long day - the first day - of skiing in Aspen. For the first time all day, I fell down the mountain (instead of up) and when I did, my right leg landed under my left. And I knew. My right knee threw up. It felt like: BLIP. And I knew that something was wrong.

It was the perfect recipe for an injury. We had been up since 3AM (which was my normal 5am wake-up on the east coast). We’d been in boots since 8:00, on the slopes since 10:00. We’d been on three buses. We had a late champagne lunch. I’d danced at C9. It was the last run of the day. The ski patrol was all around. They’d been skiing all around me for the last mile in their red coats. Backwards. I remember Timmy. I know he meant well, but his encouragement felt like he was rushing me.

I was 200 yards from the bottom of the mountain and I knew better than to get on my skiis and within a few sideways steps, knew better than to walk down the mountain. I humbly asked for the snowmobile.

I was able to walk, but knew that my knee was already swelling.

That afternoon, determined not to break my one-mile-a-day run streak, I headed over to the condo fitness center and climbed on the treadmill. I ran 100 meters and walked 100 meters until I reached a mile. I think it took me almost 30 minutes.

That night I stayed in while everyone went to dinner. I iced my knee. And made scrambled eggs. In the process, I closed the freezer drawer on my thumb. I laid down in the kitchen and cried.

The day after, we woke at 3AM again. I cried more to Ace. I was embarrassed and angry and mad and sad. He told me to hold tight…that we’d find out more when we got home. It was sore and swollen, but I was able to walk and run on it.

I was able to enjoy the rest of the trip (without skiing) and continued my mile-a-day streak on the treadmill each day. I was hopeful that I had just bruised it and that even if it were an ACL or meniscus injury that it was low grade and I’d be able to train and race as usual. The waiting began.

WIPE OUT!

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