Summer 2017 Road Rules: Toddler Edition

When my sister first proposed an RV trip out west with all of our kids, I was a bit skeptical.  Neither of us had ever set foot in an RV.  Could either of us even drive one?  Would my son, at just shy of three years old, be too young for it?  Would it be at all enjoyable with five kids all under the age of eight?

Luckily we threw caution to the wind and decided to go for it.  Thankfully, after handling the logistics of a ten day trip to Germany for 16 people just a few weeks earlier, I didn't have to do any of the planning for this trip as my sister took care of all the details.  All I had to do was show up and help drive/wrangle the kids on occasion.

Quick stats:

• 29 foot, class C Ford RV (no special license required to operate)
• Two weeks
• Five kids (Neale and his four cousins)
• Three adults (me, my sister, my sister's German au pair Nina)
• Leaving from and returning to St. Paul, Minnesota
• States: Minnesota → Iowa → Missouri → Nebraska → Kansas → Colorado → Utah → Wyoming → South Dakota → Minnesota
• National Parks: Great Sand Dunes, Arches, Canyonland, Bryce, Zion, Capitol Reef, Badlands

On July 17th, Neale and I flew west to Minnesota where my sister picked us up at the airport.  We spent a few days at her place in St. Paul, then we all boarded the RV in the afternoon and started driving south to Iowa.  We parked and slept in the parking lot of a random Walmart somewhere in Iowa that night, then headed out the next day for Kansas.

My sister and I quickly became adept at driving such a large vehicle.  All we had to do was allow for extra room when making turns, and extra time when stopping or accelerating, and we were fine.  Though my sister never did take a liking to driving through the mountain passes with steep cliffs, which she let me handle.

After spending the night in Iowa, we drove through the northwestern corner of Missouri (my first time in the Show Me State), where we briefly got lost amidst the cornfields, then into the southeastern portion of Nebraska, then finally to our destination of the day: Kansas (my first time in the Sunflower State).

We spent an hour at the Buffalo Bill Cultural Center in Oakley, Kansas where the kids finally got to run free for a bit:

We then parked at our "RV campground" on the edge of a farmer's property in the middle of nowhere in Kansas.  The campground consisted of a small grassy lot with a few water and electrical hookups spaced throughout, a locked metal box to deposit money on the honor system, and that was it. 

I went running that night under the stars and almost got attacked by a dog who came barreling out of a nearby front yard, all teeth and hackles and a ferocious bark.  The owner stuck her head out of her front door and yelled at me not to run.  A steely calm came over me as I faced the dog, backing away slowly, ready to fight if needed, but once I retreated enough, the dog went back to his yard.  I was pleased to note I could keep my calm under pressure and not lose my shit, both figuratively and literally.

The next day we were all packed up and ready to trundle onward through the heartland when we ran into RV trouble.  The back "bedroom" of the RV, which slides out at night to create more space, would not retract.  We spent hours in the blazing Kansas sun trying to figure out what to do.  We eventually got ahold of a nearby RV technician who could not fix the problem either, so we eventually just used brute strength to push the part of the RV back into place, where it stayed the rest of the trip.

Onward across Kansas and into Eastern Colorado, which is just more Kansas.

In Eastern Colorado we met a man on the side of the highway who had survived brain cancer and was walking across the country just because he could.

In Southern Colorado we stopped at Bent's Old Fort which used to be on the border of Mexico.  I bought a book there - Blood and Thunder: The Epic Story of Kit Carson and the Conquest of the American West by Hampton Sides - and spent the rest of the trip engrossed in the bloody history of this region of America.

We soon hit our first national park of the trip - Great Sand Dunes National Park - where we spent time playing in the sand dunes before retiring to an RV campground outside of the park.

The next few days were a whirlwhind of national parks in Southern Utah.  We hit the big five in the Beehive State: Arches, Canyonlands, Bryce Canyon, Zion, and Capitol Reef.  At each one, we lathered the kids in sunblock, loaded the backpacks with snacks, and set off on short hikes near the visitor center or anywhere we could park a 29 foot RV (including one trailhead that was so crowded I had to parallel park the RV - clearly the defining accomplishment of my life).

Neale handled the trails about as well as I would expect from an almost-three-year-old.  He walked intermittently but mostly wanted to be carried.  I was pleased and proud to see that he seemed to take a liking to rock climbing.  Like father, like son.

From a young age I've always loved climbing anything and everything - trees, buildings, cliffs, etc. - and was in heaven with the rough red sandstone of southern Utah and its numerous natural hand holds.  There were many times when I scared the wits out of myself when I realized I had climbed higher than I intended and realized I wasn't sure how to get down.  No caffein for me, thanks, my adrenaline has already spiked enough.

I was enamored of the landscape of southern Utah.  I'd been there before, with my mother when I was 17, but I'd forgotten how simply breathtaking the landscape is.  The best view from the RV was in the driver's seat, so I found myself volunteering to drive as much as possible just so I could take it all in (and maybe also to get away from the chaos in the back for a bit).

Life inside the RV was difficult at times.  We were on the road for long stretches, and keeping five young children occupied was challenging.  Too often, when they became bored of the limited supply of books/coloring materials/toys they had brought, they resorted to annoying each other for fun.  Screams of "he's touching me!" or "she stole my Legos!" or variations thereof clanged around in the small space and tested all of our patience.  There were a lot of tears and breakdowns on this trip.

As we settled into a driving routine, so we settled into a campground routine.  My sister took care of the laundry, while I took care of monitoring our fresh/gray/black water tanks and draining/filling as needed.  Nina helped with wrangling the kids and food meal prep/clean up.

I think all but three meals during the entire trip were prepared in the RV.  We did a lot of grocery shopping, and on the few occasions when we went to a restaurant, we usually got pizza.

After hitting the national parks of southern Utah, we slowly started making our way north through the state, then veered east for the first time of the trip into Wyoming.  We barreled across the state until entering South Dakota, where we stopped at our final national park: Badlands National Park.

After spending the night there, we continued on to the Corn Palace of Mitchell, South Dakota.  Surprisingly, this was my third time in the Mt. Rushmore State, and my third time visiting the Corn Palace.  My first time was in 1997 on a service trip to an Indian Reservation, my second time was in 2007 during a cross country road trip, and now my third time in 2017.  I figure I'll head back for a fourth time in 2027.

And finally, two weeks after setting out from Minnesota, we crossed the border back into the North Star State, and shortly thereafter arrived back in St. Paul.  Neale and I stayed on for another two days, then flew back to the east coast.

Huge thanks go out to my sister for coming up with the idea for this trip and then planning every last detail.  I have no doubt this is something we'll be talking about for years to come.  Though it was tiring and stressful at times, it was a wonderful trip, and one I won't soon forget.  Neale had such a good time playing with his cousins, and loved playing with Kiera especially.

At each national park I bought a poster, and I plan to frame those posters and eventually hang them in Neale's room.  I also hope to make a Shutterfly book for Neale with all of the pictures of the trip.  I don't know how much of this trip he will remember, if any at all, but I do hope I have succeeded in planting the seeds of wanderlust deep in his soul.

Summer 2017 Update

There were so many things I had planned to blog about in their own separate entries over the past few months that I just never got around to, so let's put up a few pictures and move on. Here are a few life updates in chronological order:

In May I had my year-end evaluation with my principal.  This is based on Student Growth Objectives (a series of graded assessments given to two of my six classes), a Reflective Practice Portfolio (digital documents uploaded to seven different categories with accompanying written reflections) and two formal in-class observations.  This year I scored a 3.65 out of 4, my highest score yet, placing me firmly in the highly effective range.  I was pretty proud of this given all of the problems I've faced in my personal life this year.

At the end of May it was my turn to bring the beer for Who's Up?, and I once again went with the South Jersey beer theme like I did two years ago.  It's amazing how many new breweries have opened in that short time.  Pictured above:

• Lower Forge from Medford
• Forgotten Boardwalk from Cherry Hill
• Devils Creek from Collingswood
• Eclipse from Merchantville
• Double Nickel from Pennsauken
• Tonewood from Oaklyn

The variety and quality went over very well with the beer nerds I run with.  South Jersey really has an amazing variety of breweries and it truly is an incredible time to be a beer enthusiast.

Global Running Day, as always, was on the first Wednesday of June, and as always, Dave Welsh of the Haddonfield Running Company outdid himself.  He put on a mini expo right on the sidewalk outside of his store, and raffled off 12 pairs of running shoes (runners were eligible for the pair they wore to the run).  Because I wore my Nikes to the run, I put a ticket in the Nike box and won myself a free pair.  I can't tell you how many times I've entered a raffle for a free pair of shoes over the years, and this is the first time I've ever won.  I was ecstatic.

Just a few days after school ended, I left for Germany with 14 students and one other chaperone.  As usual, we spent ten days in both Berlin and Munich, staying in hostels while visiting museums, churches, parks and plenty of beer gardens and beer halls.  Unlike many high school language teachers that plan trips abroad, I don't travel with a tour company, but instead plan the entire thing myself.  Planning the trip this year was like having a part time job, and the trip itself was no less exhausting.  But I'm proud to say we hit every single thing on the itinerary I built with no major snafus of any kind.  I'm pretty sure my kids had a blast while learning a little about German history, culture and language along the way, and for that I would do the trip again in a heartbeat.

While in Berlin, I got to meet up with Christina, an old high school friend whom I haven't seen in ten years.  She now lives in Berlin with her husband and dachshund, and we spent a night at a beer garden catching up.  Also my t-shirt says "it's lit" which was a present that day from my students, because teenagers are hilarious.

While in Munich I got to meet Henrik, who first started reading and commenting on this blog many years ago.  We spent a few hours drinking beer in downtown Munich while talking in German about running, politics, and life in general.  It's the first time I've ever met a blog reader in person, and he was an absolute pleasure to spend time with.  Henrik, if you're ever in Philly, let me know!

Just one day after returning from Germany, I joined some friends for the annual July beer mile.  Because this year's beer mile fell on Canada Day, I decided to go with Molson Canadian beer.  Last year I drank luke warm Budweiser because I had read it was easier to chug, which ended up being a terrible decision because it was so disgusting and was so hard to stomach, and I ended up finishing DFL in well over twenty minutes.  Ice cold Canadian beer was the perfect choice this year, and I finished just 22 seconds off my PR in 11:07.

Last week I took advantage of free passes for teachers and weekdays off in the summer and took my son to the Adventure Aquarium in Camden.  We had the place almost to ourselves for the first twenty minutes until the day camps took over, and it resulted in one of my new favorite pictures of Neale, trying to give a two ton hippopotamus a kiss on the nose.

Erik told me that the website Athlinks now lists your friends on the site as your "rivals," and lists any races together as wins and losses.  The one "loss" I have against him is the 2007 Distance Run which I ran in 1:49.

And there you have some updates from the last few months.  I hope to write more regularly in the future, but who knows if that will happen.  Until the next time, run hard, friends.

Running in West Virginia

Spring break only lasted 6 days this year, as opposed to the ten we've had in years' past. Stevie and I wanted to go somewhere during the break, just to get out of Jersey for a bit, but didn't want to break the bank doing so.  We settled on an Airbnb on a farm in West Virginia.

Cue the John Denver...

We had an entire house to ourselves that sat opposite a pasture with four enormous draft horses.  They were very friendly and we were allowed to feed them apples and carrots.  There were also four bloodhound puppies that belonged to a neighbor which frequently came over to say hello.  There were only a few other houses in the area; it was otherwise nothing but farmland and hills.  The town was about a mile down the road with a few basic amenities like a gas station, a grocery store, and a theater.

Almost heaven?  Sounds like the real deal to me.

On our first full day there we went hiking in the state forest surrounding the farm, and took in both waterfalls and cranberry bogs.

On another day, we spent the entire day hanging out on the farm, during which our hosts let me drive the tractor with Neale in my lap.  Just another day in West Virginia.

We spent a good hour that same day trying to catch frogs and rolling down a hill.  When in the company of a toddler, it's easy to slow down and appreciate the little things.

No trip would be complete without sampling the local beer:

And of course I ran every day that I was there on some very chilly mornings, up and down some very hilly terrain.

We returned last night, and tomorrow it's back to the grind.  It turned out to be an amazing, low-key vacation, and here's to the next one.

Everglades National Park

Happy New Year!

Last year Stevie and I barely even made it to 9pm before calling it a night.  This year we did a little better and called it quits just before midnight.  The good thing about being boring parents and going to bed early and barely drinking anything is not having to wake up tired and hungover.

We decided to start the new year off right with a trip to Everglades National Park, about an hour away from Stevie's childhood home near Fort Lauderdale.  Stevie's mother watched Neale for us while we stole her car and made the drive west.

I'm a bit of a National Parks fanatic, but being from the northeast, I don't get my chance to visit many of them.  We come down to Florida once or twice a year to visit Stevie's family, and I'd been lobbying for a side trip to the Everglades for years, and so I was pretty excited to visit today.

Our first stop was a commercial outfit that provided airboat tours, kitchy alligator souvenirs and alligator wrestling demonstrations.

I even got to hold an alligator:

Our second stop was at a restaurant that served fried alligator and frog legs.

Our last stop of the day was at an official national park visitors' center where we went for a walk and saw a lot of wild alligators, including many baby alligators.

This last stop included a brochure on the Everglades complete with a detailed map.  I realized we only scratched the surface of the park today, and I'm now a bit obsessed with coming back and exploring more, perhaps even camping on the beach sometime.

The good news is, after today's experiences, Stevie now tells me I'm an honorary Floridian.

The airport sprint

Sitting in the teachers' room on the last day before winter break, conversation naturally veered towards plans for the holidays.  I mentioned to my co-workers that I was headed to the Florida Keys that afternoon to spend Christmas with my in-laws.  I was looking forward to this, but I could certainly do without traveling at one of the busiest times of the year.  At this, one of my co-workers chimed in.

"I love flying during Christmas!  Everyone is on their way to see someone they love, so everyone is in a good mood, and I can sit and relax with a book and people watch and enjoy the atmosphere."  His eyes practically glazed over after imagining such personal bliss.

I thought about my co-worker the following morning when I finally reached the Keys, sans luggage, after 18 hours of travel, resolving this year to slap him in the face the first chance I get when back in New Jersey.

I arrived at the Philadelphia Airport at 12:30, a full four hours before my plane departed because that was the only time I could get a ride from a friend.  My flight was then delayed an hour before we ever even boarded.  Once in the air, the captain came on the intercom every ten or twenty minutes explaining another delay that kept us from landing in Atlanta. Eventually all of these delays in the air caused an unplanned stop in Chattanooga to refuel.

After a half hour of sitting in Tennessee, the captain came on the intercom again.  "Yeah folks, looks like this airport only has one fuel truck, and it was accidentally sent to the wrong airplane, so we'll have to wait for it to come back."

After nearly two hours, we took off again and landed in Atlanta at 11pm.  I had long since missed my connection, but Delta's app told me there was one more flight for the night.  There was only only one catch: it left in 15 minutes.  Knowing it was the only available flight for the next 24 hours, I rebooked myself as we taxied to the gate and told my seatmate I was going for it.  

"Do you think you'll make it?" he asked, doubt in his voice.

"I'm a very good runner," was my only reply.  "I'm also very modest," I should have added.

I shot off the plane towards the departures screen and groaned when I saw the connecting flight was in a different terminal.  With the straps of my backpack battened down close to my body, I stormed down the terminal towards the escalators.  The airport was near empty, save for a group of guys who whooped and hollered and offered high fives as I drew near.

Onto the shuttle.  Up another flight of escalators.  Down the length of another terminal.  I pulled up beside another guy doing the same maniacal sprint I was and exclaimed, "well this is exciting!" before edging him out at the boarding gate desk.  The woman at the counter looked my name up, issued me a boarding pass, and I staggered, panting, onto the boarding ramp.  About two minutes later she closed and locked the gate.

There were no age group awards for this race.  No post race water or bananas.  No medals and no finishers' shirt.  But there was the satisfaction of finally having found a practical application to all those hours spent training to hone my speed and endurance.  And that felt incredible.

We spent another hour sitting on the plane before take off due to more odd delays.  I knew I wouldn't arrive in Fort Lauderdale until 2am at this point, and not make the drive down to the Keys until the morning.  And I knew that because my connection had been so close, the carry-on they made me check in Philadelphia would most likely be stuck in Atlanta for another day or two.  

But none of this mattered.  Knowing that I wouldn't be spending Christmas Eve away from my wife and son was all that did.

Running in Ithaca, NY

Ithaca is gorges.

There, I got that out of my system.  Now let's get on with things, shall we?

Stevie and I went up to New York for a friend's wedding this weekend and decided to spend a few extra days in Ithaca.  It was a lovely trip filled with hiking the many gorges in the area, beer and wine tasting, the wedding, and relaxing in our bed and breakfast, an old farmhouse on the outskirts of town.

And running.  With a runstreak that won't die and a marathon coming up in November,  I take my running clothes with me anytime I pack a bag these days.

I love to run while traveling.  It can be a hassle, especially the worry of getting lost (I never run with a cellphone), but I love the feeling of exploring new territory on foot.

Our bed and breakfast sat at the top of an enormous hill that was only the start of miles and miles of undulating roads, and I wasn't exactly looking forward to four days of mandatory hill training.  I set out on Wednesday to explore some of the side roads around our B&B and quickly found a road that ended by a forest.  I found a well-marked and well-maintained trail leading into the woods, so I decided to follow it despite having no idea how long it was or where it would lead me.

I love running in the woods and I was in heaven.  The trail was almost completely flat but had plenty of twists and turns to keep me alert.  I eventually connected with what was labeled the blue trail, which after a few miles delivered me to a YMCA wilderness day camp.  Children were spread out learning how to build fires and shelters and other outdoor skills, and I charged back into the woods for a total of 8 miles that day.  I did 6 the next day, then begrudgingly tackled 10 miles of roads and hills on Saturday, and this morning I returned to the woods for 4 miles of speedwork.

I'm happy everything worked out and my training didn't suffer during this trip, but at least during marathon training, it'll be nice to get back to a predictable routine in South Jersey.

The Raven Run of Miami

Have you ever wondered about your running bucket list?

What kind of running experiences do you want out of life before you ascend to the great trail in the sky?  Ever since a reader brought it to my attention a few years ago, I've wanted to do the "Raven Run" down in Miami, Florida.

In short, Robert "Raven" Kraft is a man who has lived in Miami almost his entire life, and has been running 8 miles on the sands of South Beach every single day since January 1, 1975. Let me repeat that.  8 miles, on the same beach, every single day.  For the mathematically challenged, that's over 40 years and 100,000 miles.  He is currently #9 on the USRSA's active running streak list, but he is the only known person in the world to streak the distance he does.

8 miles.  On the beach.  Every.  Single.  Day.

Robert "Raven" Kraft
From Spirit Magazine

A man like this naturally acquires an aura about him, with terms like "legend" and "rockstar" bandied about casually.  Much like Forrest Gump, Raven has inspired a cult following of runners that join him on his early evening runs (I was the 2,403rd runner to do so).  At the end of each run, Raven bestows nicknames upon the newbie runners.  Runners going by names such as "Taxman," "Dizzy," and "Chapter 11" head up the list of those who have logged the most runs with him.

A few more links to articles about Raven:

"Raven's Way" from Trail Runner
"The Long Run" from Spirit Magazine
"Miami Beach Man Celebrates 40 Years of Daily Run" from The Miami Herald
Documentary trailer on YouTube.

Every time Stevie and I visit her family in South Florida, I think about the Raven Run, and I finally got my chance to join last night.  Stevie agreed to take care of Neale's bedtime routine, and her grandmother agreed to let me borrow her car and drive the hour south, all so I could run with a man I'd never met before.

Getting there was no small task.  The highways approaching Miami are challenging in their complexities at the best of times  ("I only go to Miami at gunpoint" as my father-in-law tells me), but last night I also had torrential downpours and horrible traffic to contend with.  By the time I pulled up to South Beach just before 5pm, my knuckles were whiter than snow and my nerves were just about shot.  I hustled over to the 5th Street lifeguard stand with minutes to spare, expecting to see a shirtless gentleman in black shorts holding court with a knot of runners.

I found nothing.

The beach was full of frolickers enjoying the sun, but no runners.  I paced up and down the sand, scanning for any sign of a slowly moving running herd, assuming I must have missed the group, but still nothing.  Finally at 5:15, feeling a little dejected, I decided to run a mile to take care of my own running streak.  I didn't have it in me to run 8 miles alone.  When I got back to the lifeguard stand, I thought I would take a picture before packing it in and heading back to the car.

Seconds after taking the picture, the man, the myth, the legend shuffled over to the lifeguard stand.  As it turns out, while the website gives the starting time as 5pm, the actual time is 5:30.

Normally 10 or so runners join Raven's run, but I was the only person to start with him last night (we were later joined by a few other runners here and there throughout the run).

"You saved my streak," he tells me while locking up his things at the lifeguard stand.  Raven hasn't run alone since 2005.  As we begin, Raven bellows in his deep, Johnny Cash-like voice: "Roll call!  We've got Scott from Collingswood, NJ joining us tonight!"  Raven's is a life deep seated in traditions of his own making, one of which is to announce each runner, new and old, as the run begins.  Even if we're the only two running.

The sun is alone in the sky and beats down steadily.  Despite the pace being slower than I'm used to, the sweating begins immediately.  On an average day, 8 miles will take me just over an hour.  If I'm pushing myself I can dip a few minutes below that.  But tonight, as with most nights, Raven takes almost two and a half hours to complete his run.  He's in a lot of pain, you see.  Pain that he might be able to mitigate with surgery, but he's afraid the recovery required will break his streak.  Right now running is the only thing that makes the pain feel better, even if it is slow and he often needs to stop to stretch.

Two and a half hours of running is a long time to get to know someone.  We talk about how he used to run in the soft sand in the middle of the beach, but abandoned this for the harder packed sand at the back of the beach sometime in the 90's as the aches increased.

"But I've never run in snow," he tells me, which leads to an involuntary chuckle from me and a brief recounting of the madness that was Boston Marathon training last winter.

We talk about streaking, and I tell him about my own streak, paltry in its newness compared to his, but he encourages me to sign up with USRSA since my streak is longer than a year.  We talk about the days when it seems impossible to get that run in.  Just last week he suffered food poisoning, but still kept the streak alive.

We talk about running, how he's never been into races, how 8 miles is the perfect distance. He tells me about the six runners who have been banned from the Raven Run over the years. He lists his accolades, such as the mayor of Miami awarding him the key to the city, the various articles and films about him, including a recent documentary that he was sad didn't truly capture the pain he is in.  I must stress that none of this comes off as bragging, but instead simple facts in a casual conversation between two runners.  He really is that nice and genuine of a man.

As other runners that Raven knows join us for a mile or two - one of the lifeguards, an insanely fit 53-year-old man from the Dominican Republic, two men in the restaurant business - Raven introduces me and keeps me in the conversation.  If another runner passes us, he repeats a line he often uses: "She may look great, but she ain't doing 8."

My life as a German teacher in a public high school comes up, which somehow leads to me sharing my favorite word in the German language with him.  The word for "sex" in German is just der Sex, but the word for "intercourse" is der Geschlechtsverkehr.  When literally translated, this actually means "gender traffic."  Raven gets a kick out of this and decides this will be my nickname.

"But only if you're ok with it."

It might be the most absurd nickname I've ever been given, by none other than the running legend of South Beach.  Yes, I am totally ok with it.  Gender Traffic it is.

On and on we trot, up and down the beach, making three trips to the pier at the south end. He touches the southern most point every time before turning around, and on our third trip out there, I run ahead and touch it first.

"He's looking like a veteran runner already!" Raven calls out.  I, like most runners, like Raven, like accuracy.  If Raven says that's the southern most point, then that's what I want to touch to know I went as far as I could.

At around 7:30, we finish the run just as we started: just the two of us.  By now the sun is close to setting and obscured by thick layers of clouds, the crowds on the beach thinned but still a presence.

Raven used to complete a 1/3 mile swim in the ocean after each run, but the motion hurts too much now.  He encourages me to complete the swim, but I decide that I need to head back to the Mrs.  I leave all of my running clothes on and take a dunk in the warm ocean while Raven watches my things, and just before I leave he gives me a copy of Spirit Magazine, the one in which he is featured.  We shake hands, he gamely obliges my request for a selfie, and I tell him I hope to run with him again someday, perhaps when I return this December for Christmas.

I walk back to the car and change out of my clothes and drive an hour north, this time along empty highways under the gleaming stars.

I loved running with Raven.  I loved that he was one of the nicest men I've ever met, so open with his story even though I'm a complete stranger and he's told it a thousand times before.  I loved feeling the camaraderie not just with Raven, but with the South Beach running community.

I could never imagine such an unwavering routine, running the same 8 miles on the same stretch of beach every day, crippling myself in the process while paradoxically saving myself from the pain at the same time.  It might seem odd that I find in Raven a kindred spirit, but it's precisely the temptation of calling him crazy, the disbelief at how he chooses to live his life, that cements the feeling.

I think the true badge of honor in being a runner is to be called crazy.  How many times have I laced up on a particularly heinous winter day and received side eye from friends and family? How many times have I described my running streak or the final miles of a marathon and the listener looks like he wants to shake me out of my senses?

While there are certain aspects of Raven's lifestyle I wouldn't want to emulate, I have nothing but respect for this man who found something that works for him, something he is passionate about, and did it.  One man's "crazy" is another man's "dedicated," and Raven is the most dedicated man I have ever met.

Raven lives in a condo he bought in 1988 just two blocks from the 5th Street lifeguard stand. One of the runners tonight joked that Raven will have to sell him his condo someday, but Raven told him he plans to have it turned into a museum about his life and runstreak after he dies.  This is the legacy he has chosen to live and wants to leave behind.

My experience with Raven begs the question: what will my legacy be?

If you can't take the heat...

... get the hell out of Florida.

I love visiting Florida.  I love the palm trees, and the sun, and the beaches, and spending time with Stevie's family where there is never a shortage of laughter, not to mention good food and booze.

But man do I hate running down here.  Especially when I come visit in August.  The humidity is so overwhelmingly oppressive that it's a miracle I get in any miles at all.

The suffocating humidity makes the running torturous, while the absence of hills or trails just make it boring.  Add the vexing nature of Stevie's neighborhood and the whole thing begins to reek of futility.

When I first started visiting here in 2012, I was confronted with a neighborhood so complicated that an out-of-town runner was almost guaranteed to get lost.  My first few runs back then were a nightmare and only lasted 20 - 30 minutes.

While her overall town is situated on a grid, the individual neighborhoods are anything but. Streets twist and curve like the varicose veins of the elderly residents, with each new curve completely renaming the street, following a pattern known only to the original cartographer. This is a neighborhood that names four different streets, all within a quarter mile of each other, the names NW 19th Manor, NW 19th Pl, NW 19th Str, and NW 19th Dr.

Not confusing enough?  Let's name two main streets a mile away from each other Coral Ridge Drive and Coral Springs Drive.

And there are canals.  Canals everywhere.  It's hard to remember which canal each one is and which side of it you're on.

Through all this nonsense I ran 12 miles today.  I methodically ran laps around the area while stopping back at Stevie's dad's place for water every few miles.  I didn't leave until about 8:30am, and I'd set out to do 10, but surprisingly I felt ok enough in the heat and humidity to knock out 2 more miles.  Dare I say I am acclimating to Stevie's insane neighborhood and the ridiculous humidity?

When I finished I was of course soaked from head to toe in my own sweat and enlisted Stevie's dad to take some pictures:

I figured since my clothes were already soaked, I may as well jump in the pool with all of them on.  So that's what I did:

Nothing better than finishing a long run with a dip in the pool.

I guess Florida ain't all that bad after all.