Crash Test Dummy

I just returned to the tundra after a long weekend in Phoenix - gambling, drinking, sightseeing, and four-wheeling.  All of the above were quite fun, and I boarded the return flight Sunday morning hungover...and injured.  The injury was not caused by the gambling, drinking, or sightseeing.  That, of course, leaves the four-wheeling.  Tearing around dry riverbeds and trails on a four-wheel ATV is a helluva lot of fun, and I had plenty of it until I ran outta talent and drove my 500-pound quad straight off an eight foot drop.

By the time I saw it, I realized there was no time to stop.  Try to turn, and I'd lose two wheels over the edge, and the quad would roll over on top of me.  Try to ride it off the edge, and it would go ass over teakettle and land on me.  Since neither of those options sounded particularly inviting, I chose option three, which was to leap sideways off the quad like an epileptic kangaroo, hoping to get as far from it as possible.

That worked, as when both the quad and I came to rest, we were eight feet apart.  And, about eight feet from the drop, meaning that my total airborn trajectory was more than twelve feet.  Unfortunately, lacking a parachute, I hit the ground hard, rolling to my side, and my ankle rolling up under me.  Instantly, I knew this was not good - judging by the weapon of mass destruction that seemed to have exploded in my right boot.

My buddy Rick came charging down the hill, opting not to take my shortcut, and pulled up next to me.  He leapt from his quad and shouted "Dude!  Are you OK?"  In typical guy fashion, I responded "Yeah, I'm fine."  After cursing, spitting, and sucking enough wind to fill a blimp, I staggered to my feet and discovered, with no small amount of delight and surprise, that I could put weight on my foot.  Cool, it's only sprained.

Later, after having determined that the quad was not wrecked, and that I wasn't in imminent danger of dying, we cruised back to his house, where I iced up the now swollen ankle.  After considerable hemming, hawing, and consultation of various faux-medical websites, we were pretty convinced it was just a bad sprain.  The rest of the party inquired whether I still wanted to hit the bar that night, to which I responded (again, in typical guy fashion), "Hell yeah!"  The party ended at roughly 2 in the morning, hence, the hungover return flight on Sunday.  I opted to use a wheelchair to get around the airport, and finally hobbled into my home Sunday night.

When dawn broke on Monday, the swelling had increased, and my foot and ankle were now roughly the size of a Buick Electra.  They were also quite colorful, exhibiting a fabulous array of colors, and resembled a set from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  I had a go at walking on it, which only reminded me why I never wack my feet with a golf club.  So, off to the hospital I went, where they poked, prodded, and X-rayed me.  The diagnosis?

Broken.

Twice.

Watch out, Evel Knievel, I'm comin' for ya.

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