That’s right. I got hurt on a run again. Not the usual bloody fall or rock falling on me. This time, the part of me bleeding, bruised, and needing to be iced is…
I like to do long runs on this trail that goes on forever. It’s gravel, pretty flat, removed from roads and traffic, there are lots of dogs on walks, and it explores parts of Denver Metro with houses I’ll never be able to afford, which I love to ogle.
Behold this beautiful trail.
Another huge bonus to this trail is the smattering of random farmland property . Anyone knows I love to see animals no matter what I’m doing. I’ll shamelessly wave, talk to, and grit my teeth at any animal I see while I’m running and said animals usually acknowledge me with a “move along crazy lady” steady and unsure eying as I slowly pass by.
On yesterday’s run, I was in the last bit of my miles and noticed one of the farmland’s horses were not just near the fence, but had their heads over the fence. The fence is just a few rows of wire…nothing indicating that folks passing by couldn’t stop for a quick hello with the horses.
I was THRILLED!
I approached slowly the nearest horse and she didn’t seem at all bothered by me. So I put my hand out flat for her to have a sniff. She sniffed and tried to nibble my hand and I told her I was sorry I didn’t have any treats for her.
I’m not a huge fan of selfies. But in this instance, I thought I’d get a selfie with this friendly beast so I could prove to BOCO gear, goodr, and Ragnar that I was proudly out advertising their products as a good ambassador should.
I mean, if you have to take a selfie, might as well take it with a majestic animal, right? Obvy.
As I was reaching for my phone, out of nowhere, the horse lunged at me fast as lightning.
Shit! That fucker’s gonna bite me!
Her bite took hold and I yelped out in pain and fell backwards, ass suddenly in the dirt of the bank behind me.
She held on for what felt like, well, forever, and when she let go, I was terrified she’d come at me again and I scrambled sheepishly back to the path trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened to me.
That’s right. This majestic beauty. This friendly beast. This motherfucking asshole of a horse had just bitten me HARD on the boob. Her aim was phenomenal. She nailed me right where it’s meant to hurt the most: the nipple.
I’M SORRY I DIDN’T BRING YOU ANY TREATS YOU FUCKING BASTARD HORSE! BUT WAS THAT REALLY NECESSARY!?
Once standing again, all I could do was hold my throbbing boob in my shaking hand, moan because of how much it hurt, and walk in circles on the trail while I tried to decide what to do.
The first thing I had to do was to make sure she hadn’t done significant damage, so I worriedly pulled open the neck of my shirt and sports bra(s) and had a look.
Whew, all was still attached, though there was definitely a pretty distinctive mark and the beginning of some bleeding and bruising.
I was grateful for the four layers I had on at that moment. Thank you Ragnar for the jacket…it’s officially been broken in, I’d say.
It should also be know that that morning, I’d gone with two sports bras instead of one because my monthly “time” had dictated that my boobs would be a size bigger and suuuuuuuper sore, which is never fun for running.
That’s right, a horse had just bitten me in the boob DURING my time of the month when my boobs were already in an unfair amount of pain.
I thanked myself for the double-bra choice, knowing that the more layers between my boob and that fucking horse’s teeth could’ve been the difference between some significant bruising and bleeding and another one of my fun freak accident trips to the ER.
Can you imagine trying to explain this to the ER’s front desk person, then the nurse, and then the doctor?
“Uh, yeah, uh, a horse bit off my nipple and I need it to be stitched back on pretty please and thank you.”
So, touche Aunt Flo…thank you for inadvertently saving my boob from a random run-in with a vicious asshole horse.
The next thing I did is take a picture of the horse. This time, safely moved away from it, I wanted evidence of the assault suspect.
This is the piece-of-shit who tried to bite off my right boob.
I’m not sure why I did what I did next, because it’s not like anyone could physically do anything for me, nor did I really physically need anything from anyone at that moment. But I knew I needed emotional support. So I started calling people. And I never call people. In order of calls:
- Mur, my unofficial mental health run coach to see if a horse assault/boob injury should indicate that I should finish my run then and there.
- Brenley because she and I had considered running together yesterday and she’s always game for one of my ridiculous stories.
- Steve because he’s my man and shouldn’t you call your man for support?
- Brenley again.
- Kayde because she’s a fellow runner chick with a lot of experience with horses and horse-related injuries.
- Santa because he’s another of my unofficial run coaches.
It appeared that everyone was enjoying their Sunday afternoon because no one was answering.
Then, Steve called back.
Steve: Hey, what’s up?
Me: Um, well, I just got assaulted by a horse.
Me: Yeah. Well, actually what happened was it bit me on the boob.
Me: What should I do?
Steve: You should run it off.
Me: So, my boob is bleeding and boobs bounce. Running it off sounds super painful right now.
Me (being stupid and stubborn about still getting my workout done): I guess I’ll try to run it off anyway.
Steve: Okay cool.
I started along the trail again and realized to my delight that the uneven packed snow conditions I’d been fighting for most of my run could now be to my advantage. I walked to the next patch of snow, grabbed a fistful of clean looking, untouched slushy snow, and packed it into my sports bra where I felt the most pain.
Viola! Pain lessened! And I could run without much issue!
That’s right, after the vivid horse assault, I did what my mother would do: I put my boob on-ice and set off to finish my planned workout.
When I got home, still in disbelief that a horse had come after my boob in the first place, I started texting my inner circle to tell them about it.
Which resulted in a necessary drawing of the damage:
One of my friends thought this was a drawing of a uterus. But she’d also been day drinking.
This morning, two of my besties texted within 15 minutes of each other to see how I was doing.
I was greeted by back-to-back texts:
“How’s your boob?”
“How’s your nipple?”
That’s some good friendship right there.
Out of context “how’s your boob?” and “how’s your nipple?” are weird and hilarious enough, but even in context are, well, still so awesome.
Because, let’s review…
A fucking she-devil horse bit me in my boob yesterday.