Then the worst case scenario came to him. What if Ernie Pook never came?
The last time Mister Pants had heard from him, he was somewhere between San Luis Obispo and Atlanta. What if he was left standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona? It IS a fine place to be, after all. The world was shutting down. Would Ernie go down with it?
Was the Moose OK, hunkered down somewhere in Italia? Can meese get the vermin? Is meese even a word? Goose. Geese. Possibly.
Mister Pants stared at the course elevation profile. All unrelentingly uphill, and steeper by the day.
But what can you do? Uncle Hal’s plan provided refuge. How far, how fast, how often. No need to think. Just show up and run.
Mister Pants waved at the people on the trail, a mix of walkers and cyclists and runners suddenly surveying each other with caution. Exactly how far is 6 feet?
He finished his run as the rain began. A metaphor or five. He looked again at that elevation profile.This was going to be a long, hard race.
i like margarine 
I’m doing ok, Gary. Locked in and slowly getting into that feral mode. Be careful out there – I’m still planning a holiday in the US. My choice of 2020 was clearly a flop, so I’ll make it 2021.
dang. you must be going crazy. i hope you and the hokas are back on top of a mountain soon.
BTW 1 moose —> 2 moooooooose, if I remember correctly. You’re welcome.
i KNEW there was a way to say it correctly. thanks!