11 AM – relay race. I warm up on the 400-meter track. No cautious start. I sprint off like a maniac. After 200 meters I realize: no way I can keep this up. I stop, completely out of breath. Then I jog another lap – that works. But with a nasty feeling in my stomach. I feel like throwing up.
Then it gets serious. I’m the third runner on our team. My sister comes sprinting up and hands me the baton mid-stride. I turn, take off – and then: BAM.
I think someone kicked me. Or a hole in the ground? Something threw me off course. I look at Roli, completely shocked. I limp to the poles, grab on – something’s wrong.
Paul and Lukas rush over. Lukas takes one quick look: “It’s torn.” I go calm. Completely calm. No scream, no swearing – just emptiness. Paul checks my blood pressure: 90 over 40. I’m chalk-white.
And yet: no pain. Zero.
The emergency services are called. I get in the ambulance, half confused, half amused – and I’m even grateful for it. The laughter, the goofing around – it strips away the seriousness this deserved.
At the hospital the diagnosis comes: Achilles tendon completely ruptured. I get a cast in a plantar-flexed position. My parents pick me up. The evening? Somehow relaxed. The mood? Almost good.
I still have no idea what’s ahead of me.