This time last year, I was far from awesome.

In late July, I’d flown over the handlebars of a bicycle, smashing into the pavement, chipping a tooth, snapping my right arm, and cracking a knuckle on my left hand. After a surgery — in which a titanium plate and a row of crude screws fused the fracture (fun fact: Guns N’ Roses was blasting in the operating room) – I was fed a few crackers, supplied a whole bunch of pills, and sent on my way to sit on the couch and mend.