The Broken Toe Goes to Salem

Taking a quick look back at my traffic statistics, my most popular post to date was the one where my hip area was shredded to hamburger. Well Sunday, after all that hillwork up at Mount Agamenticus, I dropped a like 35-pound slab-of-granite table squarely on my toe. Edge of the slab, tip of my big toe. Hurt like hell.

But I was out on the town, and I couldn't be bothered by a stubbed toe, so I went about my business, had another drink, hung out for a couple hours, and tried not to be a baby about my little stubbed toe.

Of course I was wearing my red shoes, the ones I specifically got as podium wear because they match my jersey (it would be funnier if I wasn't joking). Later, when I got home, it with a sick curiousity that I gingerly removed my red shoe, only to find that my previously white sock was just as red--I had been severely bleeding all night. I peeled off the bloody sock and to my horror/morbid curiousity my big toe's nail was out from under the bed, and it was only half hanging on. Gross.

Wicked gross.

I mean, I'd always wondered what nails looked like under the bed, and where they grew from, and exactly how deep they went. I'd assumed they sort of tapered off or something. It's one of the mysteries of the human body, or it was. Not any more--now I know. The re-growth process will be interesting to watch, but for now, I'm just keeping it bandaged.

Hopefully it won't cause too much trouble this evening at the Salem Witches' Cup. I'll be there racing from about 5-6pm around the common in Salem. That's Massachusettes, not New Hampshire, for the record.