It started out as a beautiful Sunday morning. The sun was shining through the big, cotton-candy clouds, while a sprinkling of raindrops continued to fall—a confusing but whimsical weather occurrence. It wasn’t wet enough to keep us from riding our bikes to the Breakfast Burrito Club meeting spot just a couple of miles away.

It hadn’t been cold enough to wear gloves—I had left them at the house anyway—so I decided to pull my sweatshirt sleeves over my hands. Right one, went over fine, but as I struggled to get my left sleeve over my watch, I lost my balance and went down. It turns out your reflexes aren’t as quick when you’re in your 50s.

I had a visible scrape on my hand, and when my husband asked me to roll up my pants to look at my knee, there wasn’t any bleeding. “Oh good, you’re okay,” he confirmed.

I felt bruised, but fine enough to continue riding to breakfast. After saying our good mornings and ordering without any drama, I suddenly felt a trickle going down my arm. I pulled up my sleeve, and my elbow was a bloody mess. When I showed my husband, he responded, “I’m taking you to urgent care right now.”

“No, it’s not that bad, I just need a bandage,” I balked.

“Is your elbow supposed to look like that??” My husband snapped a picture so I could see it. I shrugged. Besides the scrape, it was just a little swollen. Certainly not serious enough to miss out on breakfast.

We made it through burritos and pancakes, thanks to a bandage fetched from the back office of the restaurant. When we got home, I was able to make a more accurate assessment of the damage. I’m currently sitting on the couch with an ice pack on my knee, but no worse for wear.