| First blog post |
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| Written by Tyler MacNiven |
| Wednesday, 04 March 2009 00:12 |
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Bobak is flying to Iran March 9th and I will join him a week later. In these final weeks Bobak and I have been running up and down the hills of San Francisco. We are much better runners now than when we started the in 2006. And more importantly, we are even starting to LOVE running. Since we both read Dean Karnazes’s book “Ultramarathon Man,” we have been inspired to travel deep into the chambers of endurance running and experience the struggles, pain, joys, and utter euphoria that live within. We are excited and itching to feel the length of Iran rhythmically beat beneath our feet.Comments (5)
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written by EricL, March 14, 2009
I'm really going to enjoy following this adventure on this fantastic site! TTOW!
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written by Kelly, March 16, 2009
I had my first look at the website and am looking forward to seeing your progress and enjoying the adventure from CA. Good luck, be safe and enjoy every minute gentleman!
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written by Jack, March 19, 2009
Tyler!
I just sent you a message on your Kintaro E-mail, and it was with the presumption that your Iran trip had fallen through. How great that things worked out and you're on your way again! All the best!
... written by Karen millen, December 30, 2011
My social relations with my new schoolfellows were the pleasantest possible. There was always some exciting excursion on foot -- a ramble through the pine woods, a visit to
the Devil's Pulpit, a high cliff in the neighborhood -- or a surreptitious low on the river, involving an exploration of a group of diminutive islands, upon one of which we pitched a tent and played we were the Spanish sailors who got wrecked there years ago. But the endless pine forest that skirted the town was our favorite haunt. There was a great green pond hidden somewhere in its depths, inhabited by a monstrous colony of turtles. Harry Blake, who had an Karen millen outlet eccentric passion for carving his name on everything, never let a captured turtle slip through his fingers without leaving his mark engraved on its shell. He must have lettered about two thousand from first to last. We used to call them Harry Blake's sheep.
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