I recently lost my old fitness band, so I researched several new ones before settling on the Fitbit Charge HR. I originally wanted the smart watch version, but it got horrible reviews, so I decided to go with the smaller band that included a heart monitor. The model had yet to be released, so I had to wait patiently (HA!) for it to hit the market.
It finally arrived last Sunday. There’s something about a shiny plastic box with good package design that makes me happy; I admired the box for several minutes before tearing it open and playing with my new toy. It took several minutes to synchronize it with both my computer and my phone, but I finally figured it out.
I ran to the bedroom to change into my running clothes, checking the time on the new band every few seconds. As I tied my running shoes, I scrolled through the display again.
I took 58 steps already!
I called to the girls, who wanted to join me on their scooters. As they got ready, I walked around the kitchen, watching the pedometer. 77. 78. 79. 80. Finally, they appeared at the door. 95. 96. 97.
We walked to the end to the driveway as I synchronized my playlist with my Runkeeper app (which also feeds into my Fitbit app), and we were off. Meghan Trainor set a happy beat for my feet to follow (you lie, lie, lie baby!) and it felt awesome to get moving again. The weather was perfect. I pressed the button on the stats again: .04 miles and counting!
We reached the end of the street, and turned right. The road slopes ever so slightly, and the spot where the asphalt ends is somewhat treacherous, so the girls gravitated towards the middle of the street. I called ahead and warned them to move closer to the side, in case traffic came. I realized I needed to heed my own warning as well, so I moved slightly right.
I could feel my legs wanting to stretch and break out into a full run, so I looked down and pressed the button again, trying to see where my heart rate was…
… and promptly face-planted straight into the asphalt.
My right ankle gave out, pitching my body to the left, where I landed simultaneously on my left hand and knee, the tiny rocks embedded in the asphalt ripping through my skin. I laid there for a moment on my back, stunned, until the pain set in. The girls immediately scooted back over to me, both cringing as the blood started running down my hand. My ankle hurt so bad I couldn’t stand up, and when I lifted it, I could see it had already swelled to the size of an orange.
Meghan Trainor gave way to Taylor Swift. I’m sorry, Tay Tay, but I can’t shake this one off. I called D to come get us.
About a half an hour later, I lay in the bed, ankle wrapped and iced, scrapes bandaged, and realized my Runkeeper app was still going.
And this is why I shouldn’t be allowed to have technology while I run.