Over Fall Break this past October, I went for my first outdoor run in Randolph.
It was also the first time in my life that I ended up on crutches.
This wasn’t my original plan. I was supposed to spend that week in California visiting my brother, my sister-in-law, my two-year-old niece, and meeting my one-month-old nephew for the first time. I go see my brother as often as possible, so when I discovered BC Law had a “Fall Break,” I immediately bought tickets.
That was my first mistake.
As it turned out, “Fall Break” at BC Law is exactly one day: Columbus Day. Not a day more, not a minute less. Frustrated and defeated, I canceled my flight and headed back to my childhood home in Randolph.
During the pandemic, when we were all forced inside, I had picked up running on the treadmill. What started as a way to stay in shape and clear my head quickly became routine. Even after social distancing had subsided, the treadmill was just too convenient: go downstairs, run seven miles, shower, done.
But when I moved to Brookline for law school, I finally started running outside—and immediately understood what my outdoor-runner friends had been raving about for years. Running outside simply doesn’t compare to the treadmill. There’s nothing like trying to keep pace with the serious runners doing laps around the Brookline Reservoir, music blasting through my AirPods, the cool air and morning sun waking me up before a long day of doctrinal classes. If six miles in the morning was the hardest part of my day, getting through my professors’ lectures would be a breeze. Before long, I settled into a routine of four or five six-mile runs a week.
“Fall Break”—well, let’s call it what it really is: Columbus Day weekend—didn’t change that. Or at least, I didn’t want to become a couch potato and break my routine just because I was home for my first weekend of the semester. But that Saturday, I made what became my second, law school-inspired mistake: procrastinating until 9:00 PM before finally lacing up my sneakers.
“You’re going out this late? Just use the treadmill downstairs,” my dad suggested. I insisted I wanted to burn some energy and would much rather go outside.
“I’ll be fine! I run at night in Brookline all the time, don’t worry!” I assured him. That was true. But I’d never gone for a run in Randolph, not to mention in the dark. Nonetheless, I put in my AirPods, turned up my music, and took off.
I planned for a simple loop on streets I’ve driven through countless times. After starting on my street, I’d head south toward Avon, take a left toward Holbrook, pass the Holbrook/Randolph Commuter Rail station, and loop back toward home. About seven miles, four left turns—just like a NASCAR race.
The first mile or so was chill, smooth. Low 50s. Calm breeze. Well-lit sidewalks. Good heart rate, cadence, and pacing—about an eight-minute mile. No concerns, just me and my music.
This ease was short-lived. Turn 1 of 4 into Holbrook brought an unforeseen hazard: janky, broken, sometimes practically nonexistent sidewalks. My peaceful run became a battle to stay on my feet. Every step required focus and precision; every stride demanded extra caution so I wouldn’t trip and go from vertical to horizontal. And with sparse streetlights as the cherry on top, I couldn’t even see where I was putting my feet most of the time.
The next fifteen minutes brought no improvement—the poor conditions were endless. I couldn’t enjoy my run because I was trying so hard not to wipe out on these sorry excuses for sidewalks. On several occasions, I contemplated turning around and going back home. But mama ain’t raise no quitters, I thought to myself, turning my volume up instead.
That was probably my third mistake.
I was about 3.5 miles in and had roughly a half-mile left before reaching Turn 3 of 4. I couldn’t wait to get there, because Turn 3 would transition me back to clean, paved, well-lit sidewalks for the remainder of my route. That meant I could finally stop being so careful and settle back into a chill, peaceful jog.
I didn’t make it.
As I crossed a side street, my left foot landed poorly on a janky patch of sidewalk. I stumbled forward for several steps, trying desperately to catch myself. But I lost that battle. I landed almost on all fours—both palms and my right knee meeting the pavement, and skidded about three feet across the asphalt. By the time friction stopped me, my glasses were still sliding across the ground.
Sheesh, that’s not what I had in mind, I thought. Embarrassed and still high on adrenaline, I quickly picked myself up, intending to continue where I left off and finish my run. I hadn’t hit my head and knew nothing was broken based on how I landed. But when I stepped forward to retrieve my glasses, I felt a sharp pain in my knee.
I looked down. Uh oh. The asphalt had basically run my skin through a cheese grater. The skin on my right palm and thumb, left palm, and right knee was sheared off. Gone. History.
This isn’t bad, I thought—even though I looked like roadkill. I worked for two years in a personal injury law firm before BC Law, so I had seen real blood and gore. This is nothing. I’ll be fine. I don’t need an ambulance. But I do need a rescue.
So I tried dialing my dad, but had to call him through Siri—each time I tapped the screen, more blood dripped from my hands onto my phone. When I asked if he could come get me, he asked why. Full of shame, blood trickling down my leg, I admitted that I fell. I told him to drive toward the Burger King and call me when he was nearby. Then I sat there on the side of the road like a wounded animal bleeding out, waiting for a lifeline.
By then the adrenaline had worn off and I was in full, excruciating pain. Sweaty. Cold. Unable to bend my knee. My palms hot, searing, skinless. At times I nearly passed out. But each time I felt light-headed, I ran myself through the same thought experiment: Is this suffering right now worse than the stress of 1L? Nope. So I’ll be fine.
A few minutes later my dad finally called—he said he was at the Burger King but couldn’t see me. “I’m right past there, the one in Holbrook,” I said. He told me he’d driven to the Burger King in Randolph. “Dad, that Burger King has been closed for more than ten years! I’m in Holbrook!”
So there I remained on the side of the road for seven more agonizing minutes until he finally arrived.
My mom was horrified when she saw my condition. Nonetheless, like the loving mother she is, she put on her doctor’s hat and started patching me up—including washing my raw wounds with alcohol. Yes, I admit, I was screaming in pain, but that pain still wasn’t worse than 1L.
The next couple of weeks were agonizing, because of course I needed another challenge during my first semester of law school. I couldn’t sleep on my stomach—any pressure on my hands or knee sent radiating pain shooting through them. Trying to bend my knee was excruciating. Even the slightest contact with my knee or palms was torture.
Getting ready for class each morning now took two hours instead of thirty minutes. Dressing my palms and right knee became a daily, painful surgical procedure. And I quickly became one of Uber’s most loyal investors just to get to and from campus. My poor credit card!
After limping around law school for a few days thinking I’d be fine, urgent care scolded me for walking on a sprain and sent me home with crutches and a knee brace. It took nearly a month before I felt remotely normal again—before I could go without bandaging my hands and could bend my knee to ninety degrees.
To this day, the skin on my palms and knee is still healing—if not permanently scarred—and my right knee occasionally gives out while walking. But I did turn out fine, just like I predicted.
Sure, I learned some obvious lessons: test-run your routes, don’t run unfamiliar sidewalks in the dark, and maybe listen to your parents once in a while. But the biggest lesson might be this: if I can sit bleeding on the side of the road and still think, “This isn’t worse than 1L,” then law school has clearly strengthened my endurance.
Thankfully, these days, I’m back to running—just not in Randolph after dark.
Dave Sainte-Luce is a 1L student at BC Law. Contact him at sainteld@bc.edu.
BC Law: Impact 