Oh yes. More than a few over the years.

Turns out that spending decades riding motorcycles, throwing yourself down hills on inline skates, and occasionally pretending gravity is more of a suggestion than a law… comes with consequences.

I’ve broken fingers.
Toes.
A collarbone.
And I’ve collected enough bruises and sprains along the way that my body now sounds like an old toolbox every time I stand up too quickly.

But the worst?

It’s my ribs.

Without question.

Because here’s the cruel joke about broken ribs — you can’t really do anything with them. No cast. No sling. No magical “leave it alone for six weeks” solution.

You still have to breathe.

And every breath feels like your body filing a formal complaint.

Laughing hurts.
Coughing feels like attempted murder.
Sneezing becomes a full spiritual experience where you briefly meet your ancestors.

And sleeping? Forget it.
You don’t realise how much you move in your sleep until your ribs decide to keep score.

The strange thing is though, despite all the crashes, falls, and moments where common sense clearly took the day off… I don’t regret any of it.

Well… maybe some of it.

But scars and old injuries are funny things. They become little bookmarks in your life. Physical reminders of the moments you were truly living — for better or worse.

Though these days I’m a little wiser.

Not wiser enough to stop doing daft things entirely, mind you.

Just wise enough to stretch first.

Stay safe,

BC