This is the story of my first run with Ernie Pook. Named, or course, in honor of the Prophet Lynda J. Barry.
But that’s not where the story begins. The story begins in bed last night (nsfw). I was just lying there, basking in the glow of a Mirror Pond and a Tylenol PM. I remarked to Mo that my ribs were feeling better. Note to self: Never do that.
Mo rolled over, accidentally planting her knee directly into the affected rib area (which is not nearly as erotic as it might sound). I screamed like a little girl. Which apparently was Baby Kat’s cue to make her semiannual bonding effort. She jumped up onto the bed, landing in the exact spot of the rib injury. It was sort of funny except for the acute pain part.
Solution? New shoes.
I finally opened up the box that’s been parked all week next to the front door. You know you have a problem when you don’t run anymore, and your entryway still consists solely of two stacks of shoe boxes, the tub for your running stuff and the run cooler.
And inside the box was Ernie Pook. Ernie said, “Let’s go run.” So we did. Never second-guess talking shoes when you’re in pain. But then you knew that.
We went to the gym (it’s still the rainy season here.) Amazingly (and I use amazing only in the most extremely loose terms), I was able to sort of trot. I uncorked a 13:39, which for me lately is rocket gear. More importantly, it was enough to keep hr above 120, so I’m actually training again. And even if it’s just a shuffle, it’s something. Or something else. And that’s OK.
I think the shot to the ribs may have jarred them back into place. Thanks, guys. I think.
And now, off to avoid Mo’s Knee of Death and read Ernie Pook Comeeks. Because nothing says Serious Running like ’80s alternative comic strips …