An Overworked Mind Runs with Raven
(My First Raven Run)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A light rain grew stronger as my wife and I checked into our Mid-Beach hotel. Once we were up in our room, I changed into my running shorts, took a small portion of a caffeine pill, and then ate a bit of a granola bar. I reclined on the bed and stretched a bit. I was a little worried, nervous that my legs wouldn’t hold up for eight miles of beach running because I’d overdone it two days earlier by going for an eight-mile morning run and then a four-mile afternoon run (we’d just arrived in Miami to start our vacation the night before, and I’d had some extra adrenaline to work off, I guess). 

I was also anxious about running in a group, since I’d never done that before. My runs were always solitary affairs, solo journeys fueled by whatever dreams and demons I harbored that day and by emotionally stirring music from my MP3 player. A few years back, shortly after quitting antianxiety medications, my office job, and cigarettes (in that order), I began running in earnest. A half mile at first, then a 5k, then a 10k, and then a little more. Daily runs became very private and meaningful crucibles for me, challenges with high stakes that only I could truly understand. My runs became soul-cleansing journeys that I could embark on at any time. And I did embark on them at any time, weather be damned. I ran in scorching summer heat, torrential rains, shrapnel-like sleet, dizzying winds, and even a tornado. My runs were like mini adventure movies that I was writing, directing, acting out, and then storing in the archives of my mind and soul for all time. They were filled with passion, anger, tears, hope, and creative inspiration. Much like the actual Hollywood movies that I enjoyed the most, my runs were, to steal an oft-used phrase from cinema reviewers, “life affirming.” 

Maybe I was hoping to find life affirmation on this thing called the Raven Run, although that sounded overly dramatic. Maybe I just wanted to meet the man whose story had resonated with me in such a strange way when I’d picked up the book Running with Raven from my local library a year earlier. Although separated by age and geography and various other life circumstances, this Raven and I seemed to have things in common.

Like Raven, I possessed the soul of both an artist and a runner, a sensitive soul that needed creativity, freedom, and daily shots of inspiration and adrenaline. Raven was passionate about writing and so was I. He penned country-western ballads and I composed short stories, spiritual devotions, and novel attempts. Also, we both knew the ineffable value of a workout streak, the emotional connection a person could forge with it. In 2016 I didn’t miss a day of cardio or weightlifting, and Raven, well . . . his ongoing running streak was nearly beyond comprehension. 

 I was looking forward to meeting the South Beach legend. But what about group runs, I wondered. What was the protocol for a group run? 

“Do you think it’s okay to listen to music?” I’d asked my wife. “I only saw one other person wearing headphones in the pictures I found online. And how am I supposed to carry on a conversation if I’m out of breath? Everyone talks during these runs, I think. Raven asks questions about your life so that he can give you a nickname if you complete the entire eight miles. How, exactly, am I supposed to talk if I’m out of breath?” 

With these and run-related wonderings swirling through my head, Claudia and I exited the hotel. The sand was slightly damp when we stepped out of our Uber ride and onto the beach entrance near the Fifth Street lifeguard stand, which is the starting point for every Raven Run. 
“Is there a bathroom anywhere?” I asked. Aware of the importance of proper hydration, I’d been drinking bottled water all afternoon, and I knew that a certain piper would be calling me shortly to demand payment. 

“No,” my wife answered quickly and with certainty, her tone sharp with spousal assuredness. “There aren’t any bathrooms on the beach. I remember that from our Miami trip last year.” She seemed a bit harried, perhaps worn down from my ceaseless run-related questions, our quick hotel check-in, and our last-minute debate about whether to take an Uber or a pair of Citi Bikes to the run’s South Beach starting point. “Are you sure this is the lifeguard stand you were talking about?”

“Positive,” I answered, although I didn’t see any other runners within fifty yards of the littoral yellow, white, and blue tower that read “Miami Beach.” But I wasn’t overly worried. Since it was only 4:20 pm, we still had ten minutes until Raven’s supposed arrival time (the run begins at 4:30 pm every day, until daylight savings springs the clock forward, then the start time is 5:30 pm). “Wait, here comes another guy.”

The newcomer approached the vicinity of the lifeguard stand hesitantly, looking as tentative and uncertain as I felt. He was about my age, wore a visor and running shoes, and was also traveling with his wife (and with his grade-school-aged son). “Here for the run?” we asked each other, and then we made awkward small talk and stretched as our wives began to chat easily, as women—even upon meeting for the first time—are often likely to do. We tossed a small football around with his son, and every sixty seconds or so—from the corners of our hopeful eyes—we scanned up and down the beach, looking for signs of Raven. But nothing. 
4:28 pm. 4:29 pm. Still nothing. “I wonder if this will be the day he finally doesn’t show up,” I joked nervously. 

But then a familiar-looking figure—a figure I recognized from his book cover—came jogging toward the lifeguard stand, looking a little more like a castaway than a fitness legend. He was sporting well-worn dark jeans and a weathered sable jacket that was splayed open to reveal an imposing bush of black-and-gray chest hair. He wore a headband, tinted glasses, a beard, and a pompadour mullet sort of hairdo that seemed equal parts curious and intimidating when encountered in person. This man kind of looked like Ben Stiller’s character in the movie Dodgeball, if that character had been older and more mysterious.

Raven chatted with the lifeguard about local goings-on as he changed into his running attire. He was in great shape, surprisingly chiseled for a man approaching seventy. “Looks like we have a couple of new runners here today,” he said as he eyed me and the day’s other fresh arrival. The Raven Run is an open-invitation affair—anyone can participate by simply showing up—and its founder no doubt eyes newcomers curiously most every day, wondering if they’ll be strong enough to finish his event. 

A few Raven Run “regulars” arrived—at 4:30 pm precisely, it seemed—and after greetings and some casual stretching, Raven gave the okay to begin the day’s main event. 

We started jogging at an easy pace in the direction of the South Point Pier as Raven officially kicked things off with his daily roll call, a ritual where he gives a shout-out to veterans who have already earned their nicknames and then acknowledges the presence of any newcomers. He jovially introduced two men, Hitter and Lobotomy, and two female runners, Poutine and Plantain Lady (all Raven Run veterans are known by their nicknames only). Plantain Lady had her own song, which Raven smoothly and soulfully crooned as a part of her introduction. I can’t recall all of it, but it went something like this: “She doesn’t run in wind, she doesn’t run in rain, she only eats plantains, sheeee’s Plantaaiin Lady.” 

“And from Wisconsin, hoping to complete his first run, we have Mike,” Raven said. I smiled and gave a small wave to our group as I felt the need to urinate creeping up inside of me. No big deal, I told myself. Only 7.8 miles to go. Just don’t think about water too much. But I knew that such advice wouldn’t be easy to follow, given that we were running alongside the Atlantic Ocean. 

“So, I’ve got to ask you something,” Lobotomy said as he moved to run alongside me. “About those cheese heads in Wisconsin? Do they come in different sizes, or is it a one-size-fits-all deal?” He gave a good-natured laugh and then waited for my answer with a mischievous-but-warm smirk on his face. Throughout the run, Lobotomy always seemed to be smirking, laughing, and joking. “He sometimes says inappropriate things,” Raven later admitted to me, “but he means well.” 

“I honestly have never worn a cheese head,” I told Lobotomy. “I’m familiar with them, but I’ve never worn one. And I really hope that everyone outside of Wisconsin doesn’t get their impressions of our citizenry from watching Packers-game crowds on TV.”And just like that, I’d engaged in my first bit of group-run conversation. It hadn’t been so difficult after all. 

As the run would proceed, conversation and banter would become easier and easier. Baseball trivia would be played (I would throw the other runners a softball question about Wisconsin’s own Bob Ueker), anecdotes about other Raven Runners and South Beach personalities would be told, and personal stories—some revealingly personal—would be shared. And through it all, Raven would act as the fulcrum of the interaction and the undisputed master of ceremonies. 

“You might have read about this in the book, Mike,” Raven would say before launching into a story about Killer or Butcher or some other colorful figure who had become a part of his run over the years. And I would return the conversational volley by asking Raven to follow up on something I had indeed read about in Laura Lee Huttenbach’s 2017 narrative about Raven and his running streak. “I couldn’t believe the story of Handshoe,” I would say, nudging Raven to tell the story about how this borderline personality from Nazi Germany had once run down South Beach with a dead rat in his mouth. “Now is that the guy that was in prison for drug dealing,” I would ask after some other story, “or was he the bodybuilder?”

Raven talked about all of these unique personalities with humor and fondness, and he talked about himself, too. He lamented, more than once, the absence of a strong father figure in his life. The son of the day’s other newbie runner had tagged along with us for our workout, and Raven made sure to remind the boy to cherish this time spent bonding with his father. The man and his wife, both Navy people, had left their home in Hawaii to travel around the Continental States in an RV, and they were homeschooling the son, bringing him along on all sorts of adventures (everyone on the Raven Run has a story). “It’s really great that you guys are doing this together,” Raven said. “You’re going to remember this when you’re older.” 

As the miles slowly moved into my rearview mirror—Raven runs at an easy pace these days due to chronic pain—and as the endorphins filled my body and the sweat moved down my forehead and back and legs, something opened up inside of me. Something about the ocean air and the easy-but-challenging pace of the run acted as a social lubricant, much the same as alcohol might in another situation. I began to talk to Raven about more personal topics, such as our shared astrological sign (our birthdays are a few days apart in October). 

“You know, I never really believed there was much to that stuff,” I admitted, “but then I read something that you said in the book that changed my mind.”

“Oh yeah,” Raven said. “What was that?”

“You said that Libras have a hard time making decisions. That’s me, for sure. Sometimes I feel paralyzed by the prospect of making a decision, even if it isn’t something big. Sometimes I’ll even need to have a couple of beers before I can make one.”

Raven nodded. “Years ago I simplified things so that I don’t have to make many decisions,” he said. “I never have to decide what I’ll wear on any given day, because I’ll always wear black. And I never have to decide what I’m going to do with a day, because I’m going to go running.”

I laughed, but I knew that within this “joke” of Raven’s there was mostly just truth, a truth about Raven’s life that might strike some people as lamentable but that I found both peace-inducing and inspiring. A person really could simplify life instead of just paying lip service to this fashionable idea. You don’t like complications and making decisions? Then just nestle into a comfortable routine and stick to it. Stick with what makes you happy: You don’t have to justify it to anyone.

Some people would say that Raven’s story is a bit sad because his every day is “enslaved” by routine with a capital R—the routine of his run. Those same people might say that Raven’s world is a shrunken one because of how geographically limited it is: He absolutely must be on South Beach every afternoon at a certain time, no exceptions. He can’t travel the world or even travel to a restaurant on the other side of town between the hours of 5:00 pm and 8:00 pm. 

But who cares? I say. This man doesn’t need to travel the world to find fulfillment and adventure. Because of what his daily eight-mile run has inspired in others over the years—because of what his dedication and fitness devotion have inspired in others—the world now travels to find him. His Raven Run is adventure. It is fulfillment served with a big slice of humanity. He is constantly meeting new people from all around the globe because they are routinely seeking him out to be a small part of what he has created. And these strangers often turn into quick friends and take Raven on poignant journeys by sharing their life stories in revealing detail as they run alongside him. Who among us has such diversity and human connection in our daily life? 

As we continued to move along the mostly packed sand on Raven’s Back and Forth South Route (he alternates among four different running routes each week), I continued to surprise myself by talking with candor. I shared with Raven how much running meant to me and why. I talked about how I’d begun using running like medicine once I’d quit the antianxiety pills (Paxil and Xanax) that had been prescribed to me in college. After stopping those medications in my mid-thirties, I’d suffered a years-long withdrawal that had wreaked havoc on every portion of my body and mind, and running had been like a desperately needed anti-venom for the bite of that withdrawal. 

Sometimes, it felt as if running could anything, everything. When my days looked black and I felt all depths of blue, running could lift me out of the fog. And when I was angry or stressed or disillusioned with life, running could bring me back to a level-headed place of balance and hope. Maybe I didn’t relay all of these thoughts to Raven as passionately or succinctly as I’m remembering them, but the fact that I even touched on any of these private experiences with a group of strangers is a testament to the feelings of camaraderie that develop during the run, and to the aura of trustworthiness and empathy that emanates from Raven. 

You feel that you can tell him anything without being judged. 

And by the way, you have to tell Raven something about yourself. There is, after all, that matter of a nickname to be taken care of at the end of the run. If you complete the entire eight miles. 
“So Mike, what else do you want to tell me about yourself?” Raven asked as we approached the five- or six-mile mark. “I still don’t have anything nailed down yet for your nickname.”

“Hmm,” I responded, aware that I had to proceed with a bit of caution here. The nicknames bestowed by Raven usually lasted forever, or so I’d read; few changes seemed to be made after the fact. There was that one guy I’d read about, Cadaver (or was it Corpse?), who had successfully petitioned to have his nickname adjusted only to have it reverted back to its original form per Raven’s later judgement on the matter. 

I thought hard. Given the everlasting state of Raven’s nicknames, I probably didn’t want to talk about the burning need to pee that was still assailing my insides. Since the run’s first miles, that troublesome sensation had moved upward and transformed into a steely knot in my stomach. While it might be a certain badge of honor to be known as the man who survived a persona battle of the bladder for eight miles, I really didn’t want to go down in Raven Run history as Flomax or Piss-tol Pete (I had played a lot of basketball as a youngster, after all).

I’d already told Raven the story of how I’d run through a Wisconsin tornado the previous summer. I’d told him about my singular, orange-and-black calico cat, Benjie, whom my wife and I had driven through a snowstorm to adopt nearly fifteen years ago, and I’d admitted to him, tentatively, that this was my first group run. 

“Maybe we could call you Antisocial,” Raven had suggested after hearing that last fact, but I’d let that idea twist in the salty breeze until it mercifully died.

I’d also told Raven about my affection for writing, and I’d shared, when asked about any previous nicknames I might have carried, the fact that my mother used to call me Pokes.
“How did you get that nickname?” Raven had asked. When I answered that I didn’t really know, the runner known as Hitter surmised that perhaps it was because I’d been slow to follow my mother’s instructions—so I was “pokey”—as a little one. 

“Do you want to stick with that nickname, or would you like something different?” Raven offered. 

“A runner isn’t going to want to be known as slow,” Hitter intervened. 

“Unless it is one of those nicknames that is the opposite of reality,” Raven said. “Like Curly for a bald guy.”

“Or like Tiny for a big guy,” I added. “But no. I think I’d like something new.”

As the sun began to drop in the South Beach sky, inching closer to the shimmering waters of the Atlantic, I wracked my brain for another personal anecdote, something that could perhaps be forged into a nickname that I could not only live with but fall in love with. Hmm, falling in love . . . love stories. 

“I proposed to my wife in a movie theater,” I said. “I did it as the credits rolled down the screen.”
“Oh really?” Raven said, his curiosity peaking a bit. “Was that planned?” 

“It was,” I said. 

“And what movie was it?”

“A Beautiful Mind,” I answered. 

“That might be a good one,” Raven said. “We could call you Beautiful Mind.”

Wow, I thought. What a nickname that would be—flattering and regal. I smiled, pleased to imagine myself accepting Raven’s “beautiful” sobriquet in a couple of short miles. 

And then, for some inexplicable reason, I added “I’m pretty sure it was A Beautiful Mind. I mean, we were also watching the movie Traffic around that time. But I’m pretty sure.”

“Well, we can’t give you that name if you aren’t totally sure,” Raven said. And I could tell he wasn’t kidding. 

Raven takes the nickname process very seriously. I’d read that he hadn’t even granted his ailing and elderly mother a Raven Run nickname when she had been pushed the eight miles in a wheelchair. He loved his mother infinitely, but she hadn’t technically run the run, so no nickname. 

And the grade-schooler who so bravely tagged along with his RVing father and the rest of us? He didn’t end up getting a nickname either because he’d occasionally lapsed into walking for portions of the eight miles. Raven didn’t deny people nicknames to be surly or difficult, I guessed. But for him rules were simply rules, and it would have never even crossed his mind to bend them for sentimental reasons (even though he seemed like an obviously sentimental person). 

“I’m ninety percent certain it was A Beautiful Mind,” I said. “I remember seeing the ticket stub in one of my wife’s scrapbook pages the other day.”

“Maybe we can confirm it with his wife when we get back to the lifeguard stand,” the other newbie runner suggested. But I could tell that Raven’s mind had already moved on from the “beautiful” nickname that would have so glamorously enshrined me in Raven Run lore. 

“I’m too honest,” I said a short while later, after engaging in some private stewing about my lost nickname. “I shouldn’t have said anything about not being sure of the movie title.” But how could I have helped it? The run and the sun were acting not only as social lubricants for me but as truth serums. 

Then, as we jogged into the final stretches of our run and those strange truth serums continued to penetrate my defenses, I mentioned something about overthinking everything. 

“That’s it!” Raven said with a bit of “Eureka!” in his voice. “We can call you Overworked Mind.” 

I thought about it, and I couldn’t object. “My wife would probably find that name very apt,” I admitted. And so it happened, as we returned to the Fifth Street lifeguard stand and twilight descended over South Beach, that I was christened Overworked Mind. 

After the run, after my wife had taken a couple of pictures of Raven and I together in front of the lifeguard tower, I finally asked the question that had been on my mind all night. “Hey, are there any bathrooms anywhere nearby? I’ve had to take a pee since about a quarter mile into the run.” 

“Oh yeah, there’s one right there,” Raven said, casually pointing to a white building just past the nearest beach entrance. 

I squinted, processing our whereabouts. We’d run eight miles but were right back where we’d started. We were standing in front of the same beach entrance where my wife had told me, hours earlier, that no bathrooms existed. I shook my head in what I hoped was an imperceptible manner, remembering that spousal assuredness in her voice.

​

“You should have said something earlier.” Raven said. He winced in empathy. “Man, I don’t like that feeling.”

With legs stiff from eight-miles of slow-and-steady running, and with my stomach mired in the grips of a strange urinary pain, I hobbled toward the bathroom with the expectant heart of a desert traveler stumbling to reach an oasis. But alas, the relief at the urinal wasn’t what I’d imagined. Due to either dehydration or the possibility that my bladder was now spiting me for having ignored its desperate pleas over the past couple of hours, I could barely squeeze out a drop. 

Resolved to put my disappointing bathroom trip behind me, I met back up with Raven, my wife, and the other new runner and his family on the beach (the Raven Run regulars had already dispersed for the evening). In a post-run ritual that no doubt happens most every day, we broke out the cell phones and took pictures to memorialize our experience. We got shots in front of the Fifth Street lifeguard stand—the alpha and omega of each day’s running adventure—and then we walked to the other side of the beach entrance and took a couple more selfies as the nightlife began to hum on Ocean Drive. 

As Raven got ready to head back to his apartment—when it was just my wife and I alone with him—I attempted to give him a copy of the anti-stress devotional book I’d authored. During the run, we’d talked about my writing dreams and the projects I’d worked on recently, and I wanted to leave him with something special to remember me by.

Raven squinted to read the cover of my book. “The Lovely Grind: Spiritual Inspiration for Workdays,” he said, sounding a little confused, or maybe a little panicky. 

“It’s my book,” I explained. “I just wanted to give you a copy.” 

My wife held the paperback out for him, but he hesitated to take it. 

“Or not,” I said, sensing that something was amiss with this gift-giving attempt. I felt a little hurt—and embarrassed, actually—but then I remembered a few more things that I’d read about Raven. “Maybe he doesn’t have room for it,” I told my wife.

“I don’t,” Raven said quickly. “I can’t bring any new things into my apartment.” His eyes were apologetic. “I’m sorry, I can’t. And besides, I wouldn’t read it. I just have so much else going on, I wouldn’t have the time to read it.” 

“That’s okay,” I said, knowing that once again Raven was simply being himself, simply being honest. He wasn’t blithely dismissing my gift because he was a thoughtless individual. He wasn’t being mean or rude or insensitive. In the past he’d been hurt by people who were all those things, or so I’d read, and I was pretty sure that he took special care not to display such unkindness to others. Plus, I was pretty sure he really couldn’t bring my book—or any other new mementos or treasures—into his apartment. In Running with Raven, I’d read about the sentimental, pack-ratting tendencies that had caused him troubles in the past, troubles that had included mold and that had led to an interventional clean-up/organizing visit from a friend who was a fellow Raven Runner. 

Perhaps Raven had promised himself—and/or the friend who had helped him to clean and organize his living space—that items would only flow out of the apartment from now on. Not into it. Who was I to meddle with such a resolution if there had been one.  

“Okay, well, thanks for the run,” I said, feeling truly grateful. 

I was grateful that I’d completed Raven’s eight miles—glad that I’d fought through pains and nerves and doubts and had simply gotten my ass down to Miami Beach and done it. I now had an experience that I’d truly never forget, and I recognized the importance of that almost immediately. I was also grateful to God, and to Raven: to God because He had given us human beings the gift of running—that always accessible portal to quick renewal and inspiration—and to Raven because he had given us runners something transcendent to be a part of. 
I, along with so many other unique personalities from all over the world, now had my own tiny page in the running history books thanks to Raven.

“You’re welcome,” Raven said. “Make sure you come again.” 

As Raven walked away, I drank my orange Powerade Zero and took off my damp socks and overheated shoes. I hopped up onto the short stone wall across from those bathrooms that will forever live in infamy for me, and I reclined, feeling peaceful and proud. I took a deep breath of the warm Miami air, and I wondered when I’d return to attempt my next run with Raven.

​

​

​

​

WATCHING THE NEWS IN REAL TIME
(MY FOURTH RAVEN RUN)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If approached correctly, running can grant us freedom from some of our more burdensome obsessions. Like, ironically, our obsessions with time and speed. We worry about bed times and alarm times and appointment times and commute times. We drive too fast and too recklessly in some futile attempt to “save” time. Ultimately, we worry that we aren’t doing enough with our time, or that we aren’t doing it all quickly enough. We are constantly asking ourselves, “How much time is left in the day? What do I have to do get done yet?” 

Unfortunately, our preoccupation with being productive stewards of minutes and seconds can even spill into our exercise, sullying the very activities that are supposed to clear our heads and grant us momentary reprieve from our monkey minds. We suffer through mad sessions at the gym, worrying if we are doing enough each week to negate our beers and ice creams—the very sorts of pleasures that make the difficult parts of life worth being suffered through in the first place. Also, we track our running times obsessively, always focusing on getting fast enough to place at an event or beat our previous week’s “PR.” 

We are usually distracted and preoccupied, always moving in fast-forward mode. However, there exists another way. 

Running with Raven, I forewent my usual wristwear—the rather antiquated, pink-and-gray Garmin sports watch that I’d inherited from my mother and that I normally used to track my mileage and pace during runs. I figured, correctly, that Raven would simply calculate the eight miles for us, and I didn’t see any point in timing myself if I would be adjusting my pace to fit the group’s speed anyway. 

Initially I was worried that I’d enjoy myself less without the watch, but the opposite happened. Free of the that tracking device, I was free to simply enjoy the activity of running as I hadn’t in a while. I could move along the beach without worrying about how my 5K and 10K times were playing out, and that sort of inhibition was liberating; it dovetailed nicely with the fun-loving environment that Raven seeks to create on his run. 

Raven has only participated in a single formal running event, an eight-miler in 1978 that was South Beach’s first road race. This he did because he was prodded by a local reporter, a man who figured that Raven’s daily running would translate into a victory and thus a story. The reporter even paid Raven’s entry fee for the event, but things didn’t play out as either of them had hoped. Despite a respectable pace of 6:52 per mile, Raven finished 150th, and the story was never written. A worn-down Raven then decided that putting such stress on his mind and body weren’t worth it. He resolved to only run for enjoyment in the future, and ever since he hasn’t worried about regularly clocking his running times. He usually never even knows his exact pace for any given day’s eight miles. 

“The only times I care about are good times,” Raven often says, and true to that mission statement, he was a font of entertainment on the occasion of my fourth run with him. His stories, and the vigor with which he told them, could make a person forget that something as dutifully productive as exercise was even going on at the moment. 

It was a hot Monday evening, and as we jogged along the beach, dry sand kicked up to tickle our ankles and calves. Raven was taking our group, which numbered nine plus himself, down memory lane. First, he told us about how he’d witnessed a young and relatively anonymous Don Johnson filming a television start-up called Miami Vice, and later, he talked about running with famed Democratic strategist James Carville. Apparently, Mr. Carville—the man best known for advising Bill Clinton—had joined Raven’s run on several occasions. However, the lanky Washington insider had never actually completed the entire eight miles. Raven, an enthusiastic mimic, recounted Carville’s “partials” for us.

“Raven, you bastard,” he said loudly, imitating the Ragin’ Cajun’s hot-pepper bark. “You made me go over forty minutes!” 

We laughed at Raven’s impression, and I asked him why Carville had only wanted to run for forty minutes. Was it because of a jam-packed political schedule, or had he just been lazy or injured or not in good enough physical shape to do otherwise? I was truly curious to learn the why behind Carville’s time limit, but Raven couldn’t tell me because he wasn’t sure of the reasons himself. 

The only new runner in the day’s group was Cilene, a nursing assistant from Brazil who’d been brought along by her boyfriend, Chuckie Smooth. Chuckie had run with Raven several times previously, earning his nickname because of a reputation as an unflappable first responder. Chuckie was a toned firefighter with a shaved head and a deep, solid tan—the sort that takes time and care to develop. He talked a lot about how much he loved living in Miami Beach, and how devoted he and Cilene were to fitness. 

Chuckie and Cilene appeared to be somewhere between forty and fifty years old, but like many of the people I’d watched or met in Miami so far, their exact ages were difficult to nail down. Everyone in Miami seemed to be reaching for a fountain of youth, whether through exercise routine, wardrobe choice, plastic surgery, or a combination of all three. Cilene, who might have been five or even ten years younger than Chuckie, had a flat stomach and certainly dressed the part of age-defying siren. At times she even appeared twentysomething in her miniature bikini top and tiny shorts. She ran without shoes, and when her legs began to stiffen and tire in the final miles of our run, she looked as if she were flitting over the sand like some South American Tinker Bell.  

I got the impression that Cilene helped to keep Chuckie feeling young and adventurous all over—in his head, his heart, and his libido. A lot of Chuckie’s conversations revolved around the two of them having picnics and going for gelato and such. He’d often smile beneath wraparound sunglasses as he talked about the two of them living life as a vibrant Miami Beach couple.
The morning after I ran with Chuckie and Cilene, I posted some photos of the Monday night Raven Run group on Facebook. When I called home later in the day to talk to my parents, my mother asked, “Who was that girl in the pictures? The one who wasn’t wearing much?” 

“Her name was Cilene,” I answered, smiling inwardly because I was amused by my mother’s bemusement. I found her wording and slightly aghast tone humorous, but I understood where she was coming from: Wisconsin. Just as my home state didn’t allow for topless tanning, it didn’t get many half-naked fitness enthusiasts from Brazil running down its beaches, either. 

The other individuals present for my fourth Raven Run were Taxman, Poutine, Green Thumb, Sleazebuster, Red Bandit, and a couple of balding fortysomethings who were rookies like myself; those two seemed most comfortable sticking close together, and they conversed mainly with each other for much of the eight miles.  

Red Bandit, who was close to my age, had a boyish look to him. He ran shirtless and shoeless in what appeared to be gray swimming trunks. The rumor was that he painted himself crimson for the Boston Marathon each April, and in addition to that annual act of flamboyance, he was best known for the accident he’d been involved in, a hit-and-run involving his bicycle and an aggressive car. Supposedly he’d captured video of the incident on his cell phone (exactly how, no one was sure), and he had eventually received some sort of settlement due to injuries suffered. 

Raven later told me that Red Bandit talked about his accident constantly, but the scarlet marathoner didn’t mention anything to me about it while we were running together. In fact, he was often silent, or maybe it just seemed that way to me because we weren’t often side by side. Regardless, at the end of the eight miles the two of us simply fist bumped, no stories exchanged. 

Claudia, as usual, met me at the lifeguard stand as things were wrapping up. After the run’s final stanzas had faded into a dim hum—after Cilene had been christened Green Mountain and the group had dispersed—my wife and I remained with Raven as he fetched personal items from his “locker,” the lifeguard-tower lockbox that he’d been granted access to by his friends, the lifeguards. “If you want to do the swim, I’ll wait for you,” he told me.

Apparently, up until recently, a three-tenths of a mile swim had almost always followed each day’s Raven Run. Just as he did with his run, Raven kept meticulous records regarding his swim—who completed it, how many times, in what sort of weather, and so forth. And like the run, the swim had birthed a library of interesting stories over the years. A couple of examples: A Raven Runner known as Sleeper—a narcoleptic and insomniac—had once nodded off in the ocean while doing the backstroke; and on a separate occasion, Raven’s girlfriend, Miracle, had jumped into the Atlantic naked in 40-degree weather so that she could capture the record for coldest swim. 

Although the Raven Swim was a tradition with its own record books and lore, it sadly seemed to be fading because Raven himself could no longer participate due to chronic back pain. If something had to give because of age and hurt—either the run or the swim—Raven considered the decision a relative no-brainer: The run would never cease. 

“Well, maybe I’ll just get my feet wet with Claudia,” I said, wanting to be a part of Raven Swim history, but stalling. I felt uncertain about venturing into the dark, empty waters without much of a safety net. Claudia didn’t know how to swim, and Raven’s plan seemed to involve simply hanging out by the lifeguard stand while I paddled (to where I wasn’t even sure). The sun had set already, and the worries began trolling through my mind. What if I got quietly swept away by a riptide, or not so quietly trawled away by a testy shark with a taste for corn-fed Wisconsin flesh. Who would come to my rescue?

I kept stalling, but Raven persisted. “You can swim to the next lifeguard stand and back, or you could even just tread water,” he said, his voice as calm as a glass of iced tea. “The only rule is your feet can’t touch the bottom for twelve minutes. That’s it.”

Raven was making this all sound pretty casual, so I told myself that there was probably nothing to worry about. Besides, although I was no Michael Phelps, I’d always been a decent enough swimmer. “All right, I’ll give it a shot,” I said. “The water looks a little rough right now, but I’ll try.”
“I’d just swim against the current first,” Raven advised me, his hair blowing in a wind that seemed to be picking up. “That way the return will be easy.”

“Be careful,” Claudia told me as I took off my sweaty running shirt and headed down to the water’s edge with her. She reminded me not to venture too far away from the shore, but otherwise she didn’t seem overly concerned about my safety. Why isn’t she more concerned? I wondered as I simultaneously told myself that my own concerns were likely foolish. By this stage of my life, I was aware that my overworked mind often churned out useless widgets and tried to sell them to me as productive thoughts. 

Jaws was just a movie, I told myself. 

With the moonlight as my only companion, I waded into the inky waters and tried to forget about shark attacks and Portuguese man-of-wars and devilish rip tides. Positioning myself parallel with the shore, I began swimming a front crawl toward the Fourth Street lifeguard stand. My progress was good enough at first, but when a combination of rough waters and postrun fatigue hit me, I decided to flip over and try a backstroke approach. Gazing up at that rich moon, I tried to lose myself in the romance of the moment. For perhaps the fortieth time in the past several weeks, I thought about how lucky I was to be in Miami. Instead of languishing in a Wisconsin deep freeze, I was swimming at night in the Atlantic Ocean after yet another eight-mile beach run. 

But even my sunny thoughts couldn’t calm the night’s strong winds, which were occasionally roiling the water around me, curling it into frothy half circles that crashed over my head. I suddenly felt an uncomfortable rattle of panic move through my body, and the realization that I was the only person in the water hit me hard. I couldn’t see Claudia or Raven, and with the exception of a probably drunk couple whom I’d paddled past some time ago, there didn’t seem to be anyone else on the beach at this hour. 

I was sure that Raven’s swims felt joyous and breezy if a person had some midsummer daylight overhead and a half-dozen companions joining in. However, at the moment, it was nearly 9:00 p.m. in the dark of early April, and I was alone. I wanted to prove something to myself, and Raven, by completing the swim, but perhaps it just wasn’t meant to be, at least not on this particular evening. 

As I eyed the vague shoreline and made my decision to return to land, I could feel my knees and elbows scraping bottom. Actually, my stomach seemed to be touching as well. What the hell? I thought. Just exactly how far out—or in—was I? 

Determined to remain within a safe distance of the shoreline (and staring obliviously up at that moon), I must have veered to within five or ten yards of the beach. I had indeed made some good progress toward the Fourth Street lifeguard stand, but alas, some measure of zigzagging had led me into comically shallow territory. Perhaps my travails in the rough waters hadn’t been all that I’d imagined. But whatever, I’d try the swim another night. 

I climbed out of the water, shivering a bit as the nighttime breeze began to air-dry my dripping body. I wiped saltwater from my eyes as I walked to the Fifth Street lifeguard stand, where Claudia and Raven were casually waiting for me. 

“I couldn’t finish it,” I told them, feeling a little dejected. “I came back up on shore somewhere on the way to the other lifeguard stand. It was a little rougher than I anticipated, and I was a little more tired than I thought I’d be.”

“Oh, well, I think we can give it to you,” Raven said without irony or charity in his voice. “I think you were out there long enough.”

I was pleasantly surprised to hear Raven’s offer, but I didn’t feel that I should accept it. Maybe I had been out in the water long enough to warrant an official entry in his books—maybe things had carried on for twelve minutes—but I knew that my palms and feet had touched the sand several times as I’d moved into shallow waters. Although Raven allows for the occasional, accidental touching of sand during the swim, something about the whole of my effort just didn’t feel official.

“No, I don’t want it like this,” I said, preferring a sincere failure over a forged success. “I touched bottom a couple of times. I’ll do it another night.” 

“He’s very honest,” Claudia told Raven. 

“That’s a good thing,” Raven said, and something in his voice told me that I’d earned his respect, which pleased me. Whether or not he decided to add me to his swimming records was almost irrelevant. 

I wrapped a towel around my shoulders as the three of us walked up to the beach exit. We sat on the coral wall at Lummus Park and chatted—Raven and I occasionally tipping our running shoes upside down, or banging them together, to clean sand from them—and after a few minutes a very tan and smiley blonde approached us on a bicycle. She was wearing a tennis skirt over spandex, and I had the suspicion that I’d briefly met her at Raven’s picnic a couple weeks back. 

“Do you guys know Chili Pepper?” Raven asked, and then he reintroduced us all as Chili began bringing everyone up to speed about the current affairs in Miami Beach. She came bearing updates, some gossipy, about everything—businesses, lifeguards, and city council votes. She spoke a lot and laughed even more, and something about her bright clothes and bubbly spirit reminded me of Sara Jessica Parker’s character in L.A. Story.

 

Chili Pepper seemed to be the consummate sun-bleached beach personality, almost to the point of cliché, and Raven later confirmed to me that she indeed spent much of her time bicycling around South Beach while getting tan and snapping photos. 

It must be noted that the photo taking with Chili Pepper was next level. Her camera snaps were as rapid-fire as her news updates and giggling surges. She was a virtual Annie Leibovitz behind the lens, utilizing both the professional camera around her neck and the photographic capabilities of her cell phone to capture the scenes of the night. Sometimes her shots seemed to be for personal use—to share to her own or Raven’s Facebook page—but sometimes they seemed destined for some other sort of use, something more official.

 

Later, after becoming Facebook friends with Chili Pepper, I would accept her request to like a page she administered called Paz Safety. Based on the contents of that page, it appeared that she indeed rode her bicycle around every inch of South Beach, snapping photos like a midnight news stringer in order to document instances of crime, disrepair, and general drama. She obviously liked to be involved in the community, and she felt that it was up to her to keep Miami Beach clean, safe, and informed. While chatting with Claudia, Raven, and I, she would occasionally act as a walking visitor center for the passersby, telling them what time the beach closed (ten o’clock) and what type of beverages they could have (no glass). 

When a car entered the small parking lot in front of us and veered up onto the sidewalk while turning around, Chili Pepper took pictures of the vehicle (most likely, I now know, for posting to Paz Safety). 

“Hey, do you believe that!” she said a few minutes later when another vehicle, a van, completely hopped the curb on the other side of the turnaround that sat between us and the lot’s parking spaces. The van stationed itself half on the grass and half on the sidewalk. Obviously, something was amiss. 

“Maybe they’re with the news or something,” Raven calmly suggested. “Sometimes they park up there.”

“Hey!” Chili yelled to the spindly man exiting the van. “Do you guys have a permit to park up there? Are you with the news or something?”

“Actually, we are with the news,” the man answered casually. I’d been worried that Chili’s aggressive questioning might earn her an equally aggressive “F You!” from the van’s occupants, but this man appeared accustomed to such inquiries (or possibly even accustomed to dealing with Chili Pepper specifically in the course of his work). 

“Oh,” Chili said, her tone softening but excited. “What channel are you with? What’s going on?”

“There was an assault last night after the gay pride parade,” the man answered as he removed lighting equipment from the van. “A couple of guys were coming out of the restroom when someone said something to them and started punching. A Good Samaritan tried to break it up, but he got assaulted then, too. The security camera by the bathroom got it all on tape. No one’s in custody yet, though.” 

“It was probably a couple of guys drinking too much,” Raven said quietly, his eyes lost in some faraway stare that lamented both bullies and the demons that alcohol emboldened in them. “They maybe got sloshy and saw the gays and started punching on them. The homosexuals are vulnerable.” Raven shook his head, and we all watched with interest as the rest of the news crew assembled to film their live report. 

I grabbed a protein bar from the small cooler that we’d brought with us to the beach, and Claudia opened up a snack bag containing peanuts and pretzels. We all scooched down the wall about ten yards so that we could see the reporter better. “Might as well have snacks if we’re going to watch the news,” I said. 

“Good food and good company,” Chili Pepper replied with a smile. She was obviously enjoying the action. 

“Oh, I recognize this guy,” Raven said as the reporter, who was young and dark-haired, got ready to film by putting on a sport coat and adjusting his earpiece. “He always says everything in a way that makes it sound more dramatic. Know what I mean?”

“I love how they always look dressy from the waist up,” Chili Pepper added, nodding toward the reporter’s blue jeans. 

On cue, the television camera whirred to life and the narration began. “A gay slur was yelled, according to police, and men were beaten badly.” The reporter was talking in that dramatic tone that Raven loved, and as he spoke, he hammered the air sharply with one hand to emphasize certain syllables; I recognized this technique as something Bill Clinton had used during speeches, and I now wondered how many professors, businessmen, and reporters had pilfered bits and pieces of Slick Willy’s oratory stylings over the years.

 

“Lacerations to the face,” the reporter continued. “Stitches needed. A Good Samarian tried to help those two men who exited that bathroom. That Good Samaritan jumped in, too. And that person was also beaten.” 

“The homosexuals are vulnerable,” Raven whispered. 

I nodded at his statement as I ate a couple of pretzels from Claudia’ snack bag. Chili Pepper was right: This was nice. It kind of felt like we were watching the news together in Raven’s living room, which I guess we kind of were, since we were sitting oceanside at the Fifth Street beach entrance.  

 

​

​

​​

​

You Versus You

 

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

 

“It is simply you versus you.” That’s really what it comes down to in running, as it does in so much of life. 

“Just you versus you.” Perhaps you’ve heard this phrase before, likely in the context of an inspirational scene in some sports movie or YouTube workout video. Maybe you’ve even heard it so much that it has become cliché for you, lacking in substance. 

Or maybe it never really rang true for you in the first place. 

“Me versus me?” you’ve asked yourself. 

“Bullshit,” you’ve likely answered. “It’s me versus the outside world. It’s me versus coworkers and traffic and a-hole bosses. It’s me versus inflation and bills and a government that can’t be trusted. It’s me versus illness and unforeseen calamities in life.”

I must admit, I’ve had versions of the above conversation with myself, too. 
However, every time that I reach a true crossroads in life—places that even feel like bottom—I come back to two truths. 

One: I need to put God and my spiritual life first. 

Two: It really is me versus me. That is the way forward. This is what I was thinking about as I was running today. 

I haven’t been feeling well the past couple of weeks. Okay, maybe the past couple of months—for various reasons related to life stress—but for the past couple of weeks it has been easy to point a finger. I’ve had some sort of virus. I’ve been battling fatigue, brain fog, body aches, head pressure, chest congestion, and as is often the case during illness, some emotional downs. 

Today my wife and I took a roadtrip so that she could visit with a friend whose husband had recently passed. I’d had plenty of caffeine during morning packing and then the two hour drive, enough to combat the fatigue of the bug. But as they say, when you are truly sick all of the caffeine in the world can’t make Humpty Dumpty feel alert and well again. So after we checked into our hotel and my wife left to see her friend, I sat down on the bed to enjoy a grilled cheese sandwich with HBO. The Intern was on, and as sick as I’ve become of Robert Deniro’s strange political tirades, I still enjoy him as an actor. 

I ate my sandwich with a few pretzels, and then almost resigned myself to the fact that rest just might be better for me today. 

Or was it really?

 

Wouldn't I really feel better if I simply put on the quick-dry  shirt, laced up my Brooks, and got outside? Even for a few miles?

So that is what I did. I got into my running uniform and got myself outside.

 

It was hot, it was windy, and the terrain near the hotel was hilly. My legs had that strange sick "identity crisis"—for a few minutes they’d feel as heavy as lead, and then for a few minutes they’d feel light but as weak and shaky as a baby bird's legs. 

Still, I plowed forward. One step at a time, one hill at a time. And lo and behold after a mile and a half I began to feel just a little bit alive again—even with a grilled cheese sitting like a rock in my stomach. 

And speaking of baby birds, they were on my mind during the run as well. 

Why? Well, because I kept jogging past a dead one at my turnaround point.

​

We’ve all seen this lamentable sight. Perhaps an egg falls from a nest - maybe via weather, but maybe because of a treacherous predator animal - and one cute little baby bird, just about to be born into the world, lays in the fetal position dead on the ground instead. Passed into eternity before he or she even had the chance to experience the wonder of flight and the exhilaration of fresh air. 

My heart went out to the bird, as it does whenever I pass a dead animal while running. I asked God to be with its spirit, or soul, or however we are supposed to refer to the neverending part of an animal’s life (which I believe exists). 

I asked God to be with my beloved cat and best friend, Benjie, who had passed away two years prior. I asked God to be with my wife’s friend’s husband who had passed. 

And then I thought about how running honors our life while we are still here on this earth. It honors God, as if saying thank you for the gifts of our legs and heart and lungs. It is us using our wings to fly while we are still blessed with life and breath in this existence. It is us honoring the wonder of our body’s creation by taking care of it with exercise. 

Us honoring us, and God. 

You versus you. 

So do you decide to lace up the shoes, put on the shorts, and get one in, even if just a mile? Even if it is raining or windy? Even if you are feeling sick or tired or depressed?

Do you honor your wings and use them to fly—even if slowly—for a half hour, and then feel more alive afterward?

Or are you like the other baby birds? Not the dead ones, but the people ones who say no to flying. 

I think we’ve all met a few of them. The people who refuse to grow into adult birds. 
They sit in one spot and chirp and chirp, not using their legs or wings—making excuses—and simply waiting for someone else to bring them a piece of a worm and then do it again. 

They are always whining, always feeling like a victim, always saying there is nothing that can be done about their circumstances because the world is out to get them. And that is why they remain in the nest, maybe not ever planning to venture out even just a little.

 

They chirp and chirp, waiting to be brought another piece of a worm. But that piece of worm never really provides the right nourishment - the proper satisfaction and nutrition - because they didn’t get up and get it for themselves. 

And eventually, because they never venture out of the nest to get the worm for themselves, their legs atrophy and their wings lose their capacity to learn flight. And the helplessness and victimhood all becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy. 

Those sorts of baby birds are always seeing the outside world as the challenge, as the competition, as the Goliath who just can’t be beat. It isn’t fair, and it never gets any better. 

 

Probably we've all felt like those helpless baby-bird people at times. However, once a person realizes that a) that attitude is the enemy and can be beat (i.e., it really is you versus you, and you can win that match) and b) rising to that challenge absolutely feels like flying, then the sky is the limit. 

​​