When I got back to my building, I saw that the expanding spots of darkness on my palms were, indeed, pools of blood (I'd tried to ignore them during the last half of my run). I also saw that I was covered in mud and leaves, with a tear in my running tights. Naturally, I kept as much of the blood and debris intact as possible before climbing into the elevator with my neighbors as they came home from work. There's a certain macabre glee that comes from bleeding in front of people and pretending as if everything is okay -- they become so disconcerted. (That was the key lesson from my last major face-plant, which involved a bicycle, a garbage truck, two lanes of traffic and a rainstorm in Rennes, France, leaving me with a scraped face and blood running down my knees -- it was truly spectacular and very public.)
|Out, damn'd spot; out, I say.|
P.S. [The next morning] I feel decidedly more ambivalent about the bruises and scrapes on my chest after having tried to sleep on them... It's one thing to look gruesome; it's another thing to feel like you have something drilling into your sternum all night.