A Fathlete Becomes Blackfunkel

...and like the frizz over troubled foreheads, it does weigh me down.

Thus it is as a runner in South Florida, where even before the sun comes up, the brain-frying humidity is out, ready and willing to smack you silly. Thank God my hair is pre-kinked, because otherwise I'd involuntarily look like Black Orphan Annie. Or Black Art Garfunkel (Blackfunkel?)

Anyway, me and Paul Simon...er, my friend Libby, who is training for a marathon, went for a quick and sticky 3 miles this morning by the Intracoastal. We were running pretty fast, considering the wind, and that I am just getting my speed back, while Libby is healthier, younger, faster and a speed-loving nutcase. And I say that in the most admirable way possible. Man, I love a crazy runner.

It's hard to remember, even if you've spent the majority of your life in places where there are seasons, not being able to run year round. I'll call my sister in Baltimore in January and she'll say "Man, I wish I could go out and run" and I'll say "Why not?" and she'll say "Because of the blizzard and the polar bear sitting on my car eating my tires."

The thing of it is that here, it's reversed. Just when it's becoming glorious running weather up north, it's getting to be gross here. If you're planning to run any more than four or five miles, you can't start any later than 7 and expect not to be disgusting hot. Hell, it was 5:15 when we started this morning, running by the water, and you still could have boiled a tea bag in all that moisture.

So, welcome to the Thunderdome, South Florida runners! Cause your hair's gonna look like Tina Turner's when you're done!