Pincushion Man

Yesterday was my fun day at the doctor's, where I got my fourth CHICKEN SLUDGE injection in my knee. So far; so good. I ran a couple of miles before I went to for Fun With Dr. Andy, and it worked pretty good. Plus it didn't wake me up screaming in the middle of the night.

As long as I was there with Dr. Andy (if you're a cyclist, read his book), I had him whop me with a shot of cortisone in my left elbow. As a rule, cortisone sucks, and I hated like hell to even suggest it. It postpones dealing with the problem — my elbows are suffering from 10 years in a dojo and half-a-million rounds downrange, coupled with the inevitability of getting older — and adds a whole host of problems on its own. That's why this was only the second cortisone shot I've ever had in my life.

BUT BUT BUT BUT BUT...I've got a week at Gunsite filming next week, including a lot of time with submachine guns. I know from experience that a thousand rounds with a buzzgun with it's short, sharp recoil impulse will translate into a couple of hellish Advil nights and enough Ben-Gay to clear the sinuses of the entire population of Milwaukee. So I took the Coward's Path and got my elbow shot. Coincidentally, for the first time in a year I slept the whole night without waking up and nursing my miscellaneous yeechy joints.

Of course, the Glock 18 will still rattle my teeth.