Teddy Roosevelt, who used to ride the Dakota prairies, used to promote “the strenuous life.” I tend to think he’d approve of my sojourns in Minot once a year, because they feel pretty strenuous. I get to spend very little time alone, have to relate to people, and fight with swords three times a day. Not to mention the setting up and tearing down of our camp that bookend the event.
On the other hand, Roosevelt despised “hyphenated Americans,” so he’d probably have hated Hostfest altogether.
It makes me laugh–and wince–every time I think of it. There I stood, with blood pouring down my face, feeling my hand swell up to match the exact contours of my battle glove, deciding that I definitely couldn’t do another bout. So what did I tell the audience? I did my little safety speech, about how we’re carefully trained to avoid anyone getting hurt.
My injury did get me out of helping to tear the camp down, so it wasn’t a total loss. Instead one of our members drove me to the emergency room, where I sat watching “Harry Potter and the Chamber Pot of Secrets” on the communal TV until I got in to be X-rayed. As previously reported, it was just a broken blood vessel. Slightly painful and a nuisance, but no biggy. (By the way, I don’t think I have the flu. I seem to have a bad cold.)
Afterwards, Ragnar came and drove me home. He told me he had a sore place on his side, and thought I might have broken one of his ribs.
I said, “Gee, if I broke your rib, and you didn‘t break my hand, that makes me…”
“The winner!” he said.
We both laughed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I bet that hurts.”
“Oh man,” Ragnar replied, “it sure does.”