This Dented Klutz

I am accident-prone. My eye-hand coordination isn't that great, and I'm also easily distracted. I literally don't see the obstacles in my way. I bang my shins against a chair, crack my elbow on the doorframe, and whack my arm into my desk so often that I've fractured the face of my watch--all while puzzling over whatever is currently on my mind.

I wasn't always this klutzy. In fourth grade, I loved recess. We played jacks and kickball. Our soundtrack was a mix of the bubble gum hip hop that filled the 1980s—Salt and Peppa, DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince, Queen Latifah, TLC and LL Cool J.

I felt invincible listening to that music flood the playground as it was my turn at kickball. When the kickball sailed toward me, I felt like I could kick it over the field, above the outfielders, maybe into outer space. The ball never flew that far, but I always felt glorious as I rounded the bases.

I also liked to go fast. As a kid, I crashed everything I rode—bikes, scooters, and express wagons. I have the deep scars on my knees and elbows to prove it. I once took a corner too quickly in an express wagon and skidded down a gravel driveway on my mouth, twisting the adult teeth sitting in my gums so that they emerged cockeyed. I wore my first round of braces in elementary school to straighten them.

In fifth grade, I wore another brace—a back brace. My mom, my sister, and I were hit head on by a drunk driver at 10 o'clock one March morning. We were stopped in the turning lane waiting for the light to change when a man who had spent the whole night partying crossed the center line and struck our car head on. He pushed us into the pick up sitting behind us and compressed our car so completely that the fire chief couldn't believe anyone survived the crash when he arrived on the scene of the accident.

We were unspeakably fortunate. I had a concussion, broke my jaw in four places, stripped the enamel off the interior of most of my teeth, lost two teeth completely, and fractured two lower vertebrae. My mom had a severe concussion, but recovered quickly. My sister, who had bruises from her seatbelt, was the only one of us who was conscious the entire time. She collected our glasses and directed the emergency crew as they cut us from the car.

I recovered without any pain. I learned to walk again after six weeks flat on my back in a hospital bed. Soon I was riding bike, swimming, and moving without fear. I wore my second round of braces in high school because scar tissue from the accident had shifted many of my teeth.

For the next dozen years or so, I joined various gyms and experimented with different forms of exercise, rock-climbing, kick-boxing, and yoga to name a few. But nothing really quite satisfied that piece of me that craved that amazing power I felt when my foot connected with that kickball and sent it sailing while music pumped on the playground.

Then a few years ago, shortly after I turned 30, I took my dog, Sam, out for a walk. It was February and the ice and snow from a winter storm was still melting. One minute I was moving along at a careful clip; the next, I was twisting on a patch of ice, snapping a bone in my ankle and my leg.

It took eight weeks for the cast to come off and another several months of physical therapy for me to walk normally again. But this time my body was battered enough that I developed arthritis in my hip. The only way I could control that ache was with regular exercise. I tried everything from riding bike to yoga. Nothing quite worked until I began to run.

I have long admired runners. They seem to be the antithesis of me—lithe, graceful, physically powerful. I watch them run through my neighborhood at full speed and at ease in their bodies. I'm slow and not very smooth and easily winded, but I love that moment in the middle of a run when I finally hit a rhythm and my mind relaxes and I feel almost invincible again. 

I also rediscovered the hip-hop music that fueled my earlier kickball successes. Now M.I.A., the British-born star who mixes south-east Asian music with traditional hip-hop sounds, narrates my runs. She's crass, talks trash, and urges me on during those last few minutes when I think I might collapse.

I'll never win a race. I'll likely never complete a marathon. But most days when I hit my stride in the middle of my run, my iPod blasting, this dented klutz feels unbeatable and unbreakable just like I did on my elementary playground. It's a great feeling.     

 

Kate Good lives in Lancaster City, Pa.  She is a member of Blossom Hill Mennonite Church, Lancaster. She is assistant publisher at Good Books.