Running with a Police Escort

  Copyright © 2017 by Jill A. Grunenwald

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Tom Lau

  Cover photo credit: Jill Grunenwald

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-1279-9

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-1280-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Ben.

  Life is a marathon and I’m so happy I get to run it with you.

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  1. Running from the Past

  2. One Foot in Front of the Other

  3. Hills Like White Elephants

  4. Homecoming

  5. Twenty Seconds of Insane Courage

  6. Everything’s Bigger in Texas

  7. Eat, Sleep, Run, Repeat

  8. Lucky Number Thirteen (point one)

  9. It’s a Major Award

  10. The Longest Four Miles of My Life

  11. Will Run for Bling

  12. Forward Is a Pace

  13. Walk the Talk

  14. Trust the Process

  15. The Hero’s Journey

  16. Three Times a Charm?

  17. Rita Hayworth, the Shawshank Redemption, and Me

  18. The Tortoise and the Hares

  19. Finding My Voice

  20. How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Dreadmill

  21. Forward Is Still a Pace

  Photo Insert

  Postscript

  Acknowledgments

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Memoirs are works of nonfiction and I have tried to make this story as true and honest as I can, often relying on blog posts I wrote at the time of events to assist in jogging my memory (pun intended). In some instances, timelines have been compressed and characters combined. Dialogue has been recreated to the best of my knowledge.

  Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up.

  It knows it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed.

  Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up.

  It knows it must outrun the slowest gazelle or it will starve to death.

  It doesn’t matter whether you are a lion or a gazelle:

  When the sun comes up, you’d better be running.

  —African Proverb

  I don’t care for the damage that’s been done,

  but I don’t mind the woman I’ve become.

  Who is this woman I’ve become?

  —Maura Rogers & The Bellows,

  “This Woman”

  INTRODUCTION

  The decision to wear a one-piece Batman bodysuit to the race seemed like a brilliant idea until the moment I had to pee.

  I’ve always had a strange affinity for Batman. Well, not so much Batman as Batgirl. As far as comic books and graphic novels go, my knowledge is limited and mostly gained through the osmosis of dating fellow self-identified geeks. But Batgirl, under her Barbara Gordon alias, worked as a librarian, like me.

  I had entered the Running the Bridges Race with zero expectations. I’d really only registered because it was being hosted by Harness Cycle, the indoor cycling studio up the street from my apartment. Ever since they opened in the fall of 2013, I’d been a regular fixture in the early morning spin classes and had made a visit there a weekly part of my training when I ran my second half marathon back in the spring of 2014, a half marathon that ended with me walking the final third of the race because of a tweaked ankle.

  That was May. It was now October and my relationship with running had been on a break the past six months. I’d wake up and see my neglected New Balance shoes eyeing me mournfully from the closet, and I’d assure them that I was just having trouble sleeping and this was just a case of insomnia, only to then sneak out and go to spinning or yoga instead of going for a run. After, I’d come home and they’d still be sitting in the exact same spot, tongues wagging in admonishment, and I’d promise them that I’d never, ever do it again; until, of course, I did it again.

  Eventually like any amateur cheater, the guilt got to me, so when Harness Cycle announced they were hosting the 3.5-mile road race, Running the Bridges, I immediately signed up.

  My hometown of Cleveland is a city of bridges, a veritable Venice of the Midwest. It is a city divided by the grand Cuyahoga River, which bends and breaks its way through the downtown district, creating fierce lines of loyalty depending on which side of the river you call home. The Running the Bridges course started at the studio and took runners over several of these bridges, from the fierce Veterans Memorial to the stoic Lorain-Carnegie, looping back to the studio, which is located in the Ohio City neighborhood.

  It was at the start, standing in the stall of the on-site bathroom, that I realized the fatal flaw in my decision to dress in costume. It wasn’t just that I had to unpin my bib to pee, it was that I had to unpin and then zip and strip in order to pee. I was basically wearing the adult version of footie pajamas—not a garment meant for a serious runner to wear to a race. I mean, there was a fucking cape attached, okay? And this was certainly not a garment designed to be worn by a runner as well-endowed as myself. The cheap zipper, which ended up completely breaking about a month later, kept creeping lower and lower as I ran, which meant I spent half the race tugging it back up, lest I flash the entire security team along the route.

  With apologies to Billy Idol, and comparisons to Janet Jackson aside, it was a nice day for a wardrobe malfunction.

  So there I was: running in a race I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to run, dressed as a caped crusader, in a costume that was constantly on the verge of unleashing my own personal superpowers with each bounced step.

  At the course marker for Mile One, my friend Gina stood with a stopwatch, calling out numbers to let us runners know what our time was. She waved as I passed and I took the opportunity to sneak a peek over my shoulder. Call it silly and maybe even a little bit petty, but as a slower runner I always like to gauge where I am in relation to the rest of the pack. This race, however, the only thing back there was the police escort car as it slowly crawled behind me.

  Oh, look. I was in last place.

  Cleveland is a city that likes to sleep in. Especially on the weekends and especially in the fall and winter when the cold wind snaps at our windows, leaving us cozy and cocooned beneath the warm blankets on our beds.

  This meant that for the next two and a half miles I had the entire city to myself, save for the police officers who stood along the sidewalks like centurions guiding me home.

  If you ever want to feel like a superhero, I mean really feel like a superhero, figure out a way to shut down an entire city street and just run your little heart out with Gotham’s finest standing guard. Bonus points if you dressed for the occasion, and it’s a windy day, and you actually get some height on that
cape.

  It was during this moment of nirvana that I happened to see one of the policemen on the street gesture to get my attention and point to the car following me. I pulled out my earbuds and from the sidewalk he called out with a supportive smile, “You must be a very important person to have a police escort!”

  With a grin, I popped my earbuds back in, gave him a thumbs-up, and continued on my way.

  Around Mile Three, with only half a mile left until the finish line, I turned a corner and spotted Gina on a bicycle heading back towards the finish line, her volunteering done. Because this was my first real run in months, I found myself needing to walk more than usual, especially towards the end. When she saw me, Gina hopped off her bike and asked if she could walk with me.

  Gina is a fellow runner, and she actually looks like one. She’s petite, but has an athletic build and is a certified indoor cycling instructor. She literally works out for a living. On the other hand, I’m the voluptuous Batman. While walking at a quick clip we chatted about running and racing and life, the police car still slowly following us. Then, with maybe a quarter of a mile left, I looked up ahead and saw my boyfriend and dad waiting near the finish line. With a wave of goodbye, I picked up my pace and bolted towards that finish, channeling my inner superhero, cape flying high behind me.

  I soon learned that out of the 169 entrants in the race, I was the last one to cross that line.

  The thing about coming in last place is that all it really means is that of all the people who showed up that day, I just happened to be the slowest. That’s it. Sure, I technically maybe may have “lost” the race, but that doesn’t mean I’m a loser or anything. I still ran the same distance as the top finishers, it just took me a little bit longer to do it.

  And here’s the flip side of all of that: That race? The big event that everyone paid and showed up for? It couldn’t end without me. Those faster runners who consistently win in their age group, were able to finish, grab their post-race fuel and medals, and go about their day. But those of us in the back, those of us who are on the slower side, who need a bit more time to cover the same amount of distance, we’re the ones who bring that race home. Like that officer on the route said, we are very important people—at least in that context. When you think about it, we’re pretty fucking cool.

  Which is why being the final runner to cross the finish line isn’t last place: it’s running with a police escort.

  1

  Running From the Past

  She’s kneeling down in the grass to retie the laces on her sneaker, her long blonde ponytail hanging down her neck like a sleek ribbon. As she stands, her head turns slightly, peeking at my pale legs visible below the dark blue athletic shorts. Straightening, she turns to me with an amused smile blooming across her face and asks, “You’re not shaving yet?”

  I feel my cheeks burn. There are few things in life as traumatizing as the harsh humiliation of middle school mortification.

  We were standing on the sidelines of the Junior Varsity Field, field hockey sticks in hand. It was the spring of 1993. Just a few months ago, William Jefferson Clinton was sworn in as President of the United States, unseating incumbent George H. W. Bush. That summer, I would somehow convince my mom to take me and my friend Katie to see the PG-13 film Jurassic Park at the movie theater and then convince my dad to let me see Meat Loaf in concert as part of his Bat Out of Hell II tour.

  Given my taste in music and movies, my level of coolness was already questionable, but I was most decidedly not cool on that particular spring day, a few months before the end of sixth grade. No, I was an overweight eleven-year-old awkwardly holding a field hockey stick, and sporting peach fuzz on my legs.

  Situated behind the middle school, the JV field was smaller and less well-organized, and decidedly less permanent, than the varsity stadium that loomed in the distance. A patch of green grass with temporary white lines painted on it, lines that would inevitably need to be painted and repainted after enough gym classes stampeded over it. (I should say, as my peers stampeded over it. I saw the bright green grass of the JV field like a toxic waste dump and barely toed the lines and even then only when forced.)

  The blonde and I were dressed alike, wearing dark blue shorts and a light blue shirt with the school district’s logo—a large imposing ship— emblazoned over our hearts. I think her name was Jenny. But I only say that because I’m pretty sure all of the blondes of my graduating year were named Jenny. Well. All of the blondes except for me were named Jenny. Or Jennifer. Or Jen(n). This includes my best friend who is also, I might add, blonde. My little microcosm of classmates was a perfect illustration of the Most Popular Girl Names of 1981 and 1982.

  Jill was ranked seventy-eighth on the list of popular girl names the year I was born. Thanks, Mom and Dad for helping me fit in.

  Right: so Jenny and I were dressed alike. Middle school was the first year my classmates and I got actual gym uniforms. Up until that point, physical education classes were held in whatever we happened to wear to school that day. But now we had graduated from the carefree days of grade school and entered the next chapter of our young lives: the tumultuous preteen years when acne, puberty, and hormones are still on the horizon, but creeping closer with each new school season. It was that age, precariously balanced between pretending to take Barbie and Ken on a date and actually going on a date, where we were all still attempting to define ourselves. We all wanted to set ourselves apart from our peers, but not so far apart that we risked being voted off the island of popularity and banished to That Table in the lunchroom.

  So it was in the middle of all this adolescent angst that our school decided to add matching gym uniforms to the mix. Gym uniforms, I should add, that were neither flattering nor comfortable. My classmates and I also got lockers to keep them in, which meant there was a locker room that we changed in before and after class each day. As if wearing the same gym uniform as everyone else wasn’t bad enough, we had to take them on and off in front of everyone else as well. And if that wasn’t enough, both the shirt and the shorts had a spot to write our names. While I’m sure this was intended to help identify the owner if garments went missing, all I saw was my unathletic anonymity being whisked away.

  That afternoon, after my exchange with Jenny, as soon as I got home from school, I locked myself in the bathroom and started digging in the cabinet beneath the sink, which was the home of my mom’s stash of personal items related to the female constitution. Being an early bloomer, I was familiar with some of the items; but others, like the razor I eventually fished out with triumph, I was not.

  Propping one leg on the lip of the tub, I rolled my pants up to my knee and applied the razor to my legs. That is, I took only a razor to my legs: in my haste to be like one of the cool girls with their smooth, shiny, peach-fuzz-free legs, I completely missed the part of the process that requires some kind of lubricant, like shaving cream or soap. Hell, even water would have been better than dragging that blade clean across my dry skin.

  My legs burned for days, red and blotchy. But at least they were hair-free.

  Because my own personal development far outpaced whatever limited elastic was included in the original gym shirt and shorts I was originally provided, the waistband on my pair of shorts eventually became tight over my burgeoning hips. One day after gym class, while I was walking back towards the school, one of the teachers came up to me and suggested I stop by her office after class to get a new (i.e. bigger) uniform.

  See, I was always a little ahead on the developmental curve. I got my first real-life, grown-up bra in fifth grade. My mom tried to sell me on the whole YOU’RE A WOMAN NOW thing but my bullshit detector went off pretty early on that one and that same warning alarm reached near shrieking volumes when the stupid jackass who sat behind me in English class kept snapping my bra straps just because he could (and because he was a stupid jackass).

  Having a matronly department store employee measure me in the fitting room of the local J. C. Penney while my mo
m waited outside was nowhere near as horrifying as having a teacher point out that I needed bigger clothes. Not only bigger clothes, but a bigger gym uniform. I mean, why couldn’t it be a cute pair of jeans or something?

  Looking back, I’m relatively certain these two events involving Jenny and my gym teacher happened on completely different days. They even might have occurred in completely different years. But in my muddled memory these two experiences have wound themselves tightly around each other, locked and knotted into one humiliating afternoon that symbolizes pretty much everything I loathed about forced physical education classes. Locker rooms, uniforms, body image, hormones. Really, it’s amazing any preteen manages to make it to high school in one piece.

  It maybe would have been tolerable if these situations had all spontaneously started to happen once puberty entered the scene, but for me it started way earlier when I was in elementary school, particularly during recess, that beloved hour of every school child. For my peers it meant an opportunity to escape the stifling pressures and education of the classroom to go run around for an hour. There were several elementary buildings in my school district, each complete with its own dedicated playground full of metal and concrete equipment, and faded squares of hopscotch, and jump rope, and basketballs. For my classmates, there seemed to be nothing worse than going down to the lunchroom and finding a sign that the playground was closed for the day due to inclement weather. The groans of disappointment would rumble over the paper cartons of chocolate milk and lukewarm chicken patty sandwiches. Nothing was worse than indoor recess.

  Those weirdos, they loved that whole exerting energy thing.

  But as for me? I mean, hello. We already had to run around in gym class. Why would you voluntarily do more of that? Especially when it’s not even for a grade?

  Recess, for me, was also an escape, but one that went into the secret worlds of the novels that lined the small wooden shelves of the school library. While I thought my peers were the weirdos for loving regular recess, I was the true weirdo who loved indoor recess because it meant I could spend the hour in the library. During outdoor recess, I was shuffled out onto the blacktop playground with the rest of my classmates. While they ran wild, I’d find a quiet corner along the brick wall of the building and bury myself in a book. My favorites were the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark series, the macabre illustrations haunting my dreams. A few years ago they modernized–that is, sanitized–those illustrations and while the text remains the same, the stories are far less scary without those gruesome images.