Of course, there was no cell reception.

I grabbed my satellite tracker and texted my coach. The message just sat there, spinning—unsent.

So I started hobbling. Slowly. Oddly enough, there wasn’t much pain—just the dull shock of it all. What really hit was the weight: my plans for the day, for the Rideau Trail, for the fall… all of it unraveling.

A few hikers passed. Smiled politely. No one stopped. I didn’t ask for help. I was fine—really. The only help I wanted was a teleport back to my car.

Eventually, I caught a blip of reception. I called Derrick. He barely heard, “I fell, I’m okay,” before the call dropped. Later, he got my location by text and jumped in his car—an hour away.

When I finally reached the parking lot, I collapsed onto the ground, legs stretched out in front of me. I stared at the mess: the blood-soaked Wet One, my favourite buff now shredded as a tourniquet, and what looked like a chunk of flesh stuck to my gaiter.

So I sat there, sipping filtered lake water, eating Sour Patch Kids and Skittles, just waiting.

Eventually, Derrick rolled in. His wife Sarah had packed a care kit—snacks, drinks, ginger beer. I grabbed one and some nuts and started telling the story, probably a little too casually for what had just happened.

“I’ll drive myself to the hospital,” I said, still in problem-solving mode. “Winchester ER should be quiet.”

Derrick shook his head. “We’re going to Napanee. Trust me—better option.”

Then came the kicker.

“Oh, by the way—I texted Sean after you called. I was seeing if you got a hold of him to see what was going on.”

Oh. Shit. There went my shot at Best Wife award. Not that I was ever in the running.

I still hadn’t told my husband. I planned to get to the car, clean up, and then call. I had it under control. No need to make him worry or give him fuel for a “I told you so” about how this stuff isn’t safe.

I held my breath and called Sean.

“I fell,” I said. “I cut my leg. I’m going to the hospital for stitches. It’s not bad. I’m fine. Really.”

A lie. It was a four-kilometre hike that took over an hour. 

I rambled on during the drive about everything under the sun. Probably still in shock. 

We swung by my car at Frontenac so I could grab my ID—and, of course, my laptop, notebooks, and textbooks. I figured I’d use the waiting room time to catch up on work, because that’s what I do. Keep moving and grinding.

We got to the hospital and sat in triage. Sean showed up—quiet, stoic.

“I’m sorry,” I said, holding back tears.

He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. He wasn’t mad about the injury. He was mad he was the last to find out.

I had called my coach first because he gets it—the trails, the risks. Sean, on the other hand, loves safety, structure, predictability. Ultra running doesn’t check any of those boxes.

The triage nurse cleaned the wound and listened to the story. She knew the park. Then she mentioned something that gave me hope:

“The doctor on duty is an ultra runner.”

Thank God. Someone who might understand instead of scolding me.

Eventually, we were taken into a room. I sat on the bed. Sean sat in a chair. Quiet. Tired. Tense. As the hours passed, the tension was broken with his usual wisecracks about random stuff. 

The doctor and nurse came in and out, checking in. Small talk about running. We were a break, I think—a distraction from the chaos of the ER.

When the doctor finally sat down to stitch me up, the ultra talk kicked in.

I told him what happened.

“Oh yeah… the Frontenac Perimeter. One of the women I run with tried to break that FKT. Missed it by minutes.”

We traded stories while he worked—three internal stitches into the fascial compartment. Fourteen external.

“You’re lucky,” he said. “Cut’s in a good spot—right between the muscles.”

Then he added, “Stitches can come out in ten days.”

Pause. I half-joked:

“Just in time to run the Rideau Trail.”

He gave me the look. You know the one.

Then he fitted me with an air boot—not for function, but to slow me down. To remind me that even the best plans can’t outrun the unexpected.