Running with a Police Escort

by Jill Grunenwald

  I was right on schedule.

  As I turned the corner from Abbey onto West 14th Street, my eyes were looking up and over, towards Missy’s balcony. Many, if not most, of the single family homes in Tremont have been turned into apartment buildings and my friends had all found apartments in the same single block.

  I was hot, I was tired, and I was only halfway through my first half marathon. If there was a moment when I needed some positive reinforcement to keep going, this was it.

  From her balcony on the second floor of a barn red home, Missy waved and called my name. A homemade poster was attached to the railing. As I passed in front of her house I happened to glance down and saw a series of messages written in chalk on the street, my favorite being Jilly-Bean! You Go Girl!

  My friend Lauren, having had to work the day of the race, had gone out the night before and written the encouraging words of support for this very moment.

  Now grinning and with a renewed sense of energy, I waved goodbye to Missy and kept chugging along through the next several miles.

  I had done well for the past eleven miles of the race but here I was, with two miles or so to go, and I was starting to lose a little steam. Running was become less and less easy, not helped at all by the blisters I was starting to develop, and by the time the course reached the Lorain-Carnegie Bridge and was headed back towards downtown, I was walking more than running.

  I was about halfway across the bridge when the racing van pulled up beside me and the driver asked if I was okay.

  It’s an interesting question to ask a runner right near the end of a long-distance race, Are you okay? I’m a fair-skinned natural blonde who had spent the better part of her morning exposed to sun, making my face pretty much match the fake red hair I’ve been sporting for over a decade. I also am one of those women blessed (or cursed) with overactive sweat glands. Some women claim to “glow” when they work out. I make no euphemisms. I sweat. Hard. Join me in spinning, or yoga, or Zumba, and by the end of class I will look like I have just taken a shower, with my hair soaked all the way through.

  So I’m sweaty and beet red and I certainly don’t look like a woman who should, traditionally speaking, even be running a half marathon at all. I was also walking slowly and perhaps a little funny thanks to the blisters.

  When that driver asked me if I was okay, I knew that he wasn’t just checking up on me—he was offering his services. The services that would entail me putting my tired tail between my legs, climbing into his van, and allowing myself to be driven the two more miles it would take to get to the finish line.

  When he asked me if I was okay, I’d already been out there for close to three and a half hours. The majority of runners had finished hours ago and at this point in the day were probably having a big brunch and on their second post-race celebration cocktail. Those of us left were walking, or running very slowly, or some combination of both. My post-race celebration cocktail would have to wait, because I still had two miles to go.

  That was one way to look at it. The other way to look at it was I only had two miles to go.

  Three and a half hours ago I stood in front of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame with 13.1 miles ahead of me and now I only had two miles left. Two miles. That’s less than a 5K.

  So I turned to the driver in the van, gave him a smile, and waved him off. Yes, I was okay. I was more than okay and there was no way in hell I was going to arrive at the finish line of my very first half marathon in a van.

  And that’s about the moment when I looked up ahead and saw my dad about a quarter mile away waiting for me. Knowing it was going to take me a couple of hours to complete the course, I had given my parents a rough estimate of when I expected to finish, and also had taken the additional step of signing my dad and sister up for the mobile tracking so they would be texted as I crossed certain mile markers. This meant that not only my sister, who lived 400 miles away in Alexandria, Virginia, would know the second I finished, but also my parents could keep an eye on my progress and know when to start heading downtown to meet me at the finish line.

  I ran up ahead to greet my dad. As he gave me a high five, I asked how much further. (Actually, I’m pretty sure I asked, panting, “AM I CLOSE TO THE END?!”) He waved ahead up Ontario Street and said it’s just up and around the corner to the right, on Prospect Street.

  A quarter mile. That was it. That was all that stood between me and the label Half-Marathoner. One single, solitary, small little quarter mile out of thirteen.

  Thirteen is a heavy number. The fear of it is so strong that there is an entire phobia—triskaidekaphobia—built around it and woe if a Friday falls on that day during a normal calendar month. Things that come in sets of thirteen: The Original Colonies. A Baker’s Dozen. The number of cards in a single suit of a standard deck.

  Miles that I run? LOL.

  Yet, here I was, the finish line literally around the corner. I took a deep breath and kept pushing myself. When my dad saw me pick up my pace, he picked up his own, too, and hurried up the street to take a short cut to beat me so he’d be there when I finished.

  As I rounded the corner, I saw the big finish line sign hanging high above the city street. Because this particular Run Rock ‘N’ Roll race only had the half marathon, those of us finishing past the three hour mark were the very last of the bunch. By now, the crowd of spectators at the finish line had thinned out and they were starting to pack up some of the finisher’s food and drink, knowing there were only a smattering of people still left on the course.

  One of the spectators still waiting was my mom, who had managed to already snag me a bottle of water and a banana. She waved and snapped pictures as I hustled towards that finish line and crossed, finishing my very first half marathon in 3:37:53.

  So I didn’t meet my 3:30 goal but, really, it was okay. I may have been slow. I may have had to walk more than I would have liked. I may have even been so slow that there were faster runners capable of running twice that distance in the same amount of time.

  But none of that mattered because I had just become a half-marathoner. I had joined a club that has only one entry requirement: complete a half marathon. Run, walk, whatever, just crush those 13.1 miles and membership is given.

  At 311 pounds, I never in a million years would have ever conceived that I’d be able to call myself a runner, let alone a half-marathoner. And when the volunteer put the medal around my neck I couldn’t stop smiling.

  My goal had been to lose weight. In the end, I ended up finding myself.

  9

  It’s a Major Award

  In case it somehow isn’t yet clear, I love Cleveland. And when I say I love Cleveland, what I really mean is that I FUCKING LOVE CLEVELAND.

  Ask people what they know about the city of Cleveland and they’ll probably say that our river once burned. Well, that and a certain basketball player. What they may not know is that Cleveland is a bit of a Midwest Hollywood, with several movies filmed here.

  Next to my sheer adoration of Cleveland, I love watching movies. Along with major Hollywood blockbusters Cleveland often plays host to a small smattering of independent films and I even have been an onscreen extra in one of them.

  So, needless to say, my three favorite things are movies, races, and Cleveland. Not necessarily in that order because I pretty much love Cleveland more than I love anything else in the whole entire world. But, if you combine all three of my favorite loves, what do you get?

  The Christmas Story 10K.

  Oh yes, A Christmas Story. That annual holiday film that appears pretty much around the clock on Christmas Day about Ralphie and his Red Ryder Carbine Action 200-shot Range Model air rifle was filmed right here in good ol’ Cleveland, Ohio. (Cue chorus of “You’ll shoot your eye out, you’ll shoot your eye out.”) While the interior of the home where Ralphie lived with his mom, The Old Man, and his little brother Randy was located on a soundstage, the familiar exterior of the house is in the Tremont neighborhood. In the twenty-odd years since the
film had been released, the home had gone through some cosmetic changes, including a new roof, new windows, and new siding. Driving past, it would have been hard for even the most devout fan to recognize the iconic home.

  Then, in 2004, the owner put the house on eBay.

  Because, really: when you are living in a filming location of a beloved holiday classic and want to sell it, where else would you post?

  It was no surprise one of those devout fans bought the house. This was a fan that loves the film so much, he built a business around it, selling imitation leg lamps to other devout fans, complete with fishnet stockings and black high heels. He took the revenue from that small business to put a down payment on the house, buying it sight unseen off the internet. The house now stands as a museum.

  My love for A Christmas Story is too numerous to name and like most Clevelanders, come December my halls are decked with leg lamps. (I actually have about a dozen all lined up together as a set of string lights.) Drive around the city during the holidays, and the Tremont neighborhood in particular, and the soft glow of electric sex gleams from window after window after window.

  2013 marked the thirtieth anniversary of the iconic film and Cleveland was celebrating. One of the big events was a 10K. A 10K that I, kind of surprisingly, did not sign up for right away.

  Here’s the hard truth about themed novelty races: they tend to be more expensive than a usual 5K or 10K. Sometimes significantly more expensive. In Cleveland, a run-of-the-mill 5K averages about $25, a 10K maybe $30. The Christmas Story 5K/10K was $45 for early birds and $55 for everyone else.

  I debated. I agonized. This was a race, in my city, themed around one of my absolute favorite movies. But ouch, that registration fee.

  Then I saw a Groupon ad for 50 percent off and well, I do love me a good deal.

  At the time of the inaugural Christmas Story 10K, I hadn’t yet given into the fad of dressing up for races. Like dressing up, as in, y’know, costumes. It wasn’t because I was worried about looking silly or anything: during the winter I often say (and many runners will back me up on this) that you know you’re a runner when you don’t care what you look like as long as you’re warm.

  I speak from personal experience on this one—I wear brightly colored running pants with whatever top I can find, sometimes layered with a long sleeve shirt underneath. Add a jacket and a set of earmuffs or a hat and who knows how ridiculous I appear to other people. But color coordination isn’t exactly a priority—not freezing is all I care about.

  That said, when I was planning my race day outfit for what was sure to be a very frigid race day, I realized I owned a pretty significant amount of pink athletic wear. Bright pink jacket. Bright pink knee high socks. Bright pink gloves. Hell, even my New Balance running shoes were a shade of neon pink so electric they practically glowed.

  Everyone who has seen A Christmas Story knows that Ralphie, the main character, has an Aunt Clara who spent several years under the impression that Ralphie was not only four years old, but also a girl. Super awkward, especially when her gift to him one Christmas is a one-piece pink bunny costume. While Ralphie’s mother finds the costume absolutely adorable, the Old Man (rightly) says the costume makes his son look like a pink nightmare.

  Naturally, given the sheer amount of pink in my running wardrobe, I needed to represent that pink nightmare on race day.

  And one of the benefits to having a mother who is a preschool teacher is being sure that there’s a very good chance that she has a set of bunny ears available. A set of bunny ears that she’ll be happy to let you borrow.

  And thus, my first race day costume was born.

  When planning the routes for the 5K and the 10K, the race committee opted to feature as many locations from A Christmas Story as possible. As it turns out, the Christmas Story house, which is located in the Tremont neighborhood, is three miles from downtown. Not just three miles from downtown, but three miles from Tower City Center which is home to the old Higbee’s building.

  In A Christmas Story, Higbee’s was featured as the iconic storefront window from which Ralphie first spies his beloved BB gun and is also home to the department store where Ralphie goes to visit Santa Claus to ask for said gun. Santa, continuing the reaction shared by Ralphie’s mother and teacher, tells Ralphie he’ll shoot his eye out.

  That these two locations are so close is magical—I can’t even. It’s as if the racing gods just knew that one day a race would be designed based on the film.

  Or it could just be one big Hollywood coincidence called budgeting. But I’ll let you be the judge.

  I arrived at Tower City Center with lots of time to spare, mostly owing to the fact that I had no idea what the parking situation would be like and always a Type A, I wanted to give myself plenty of wiggle room. The indoor shopping center was bursting with runners, most in costumes familiar to even a casual fan. We crowded together in the atrium near Public Square because ZOMG IT WAS SO FUCKING COLD. BODY HEAT PLEASE.

  I suddenly envied those runners who had chosen to dress in the adult-sized version of the pink bunny pajamas that the museum sold in their gift shop. Those were some damn smart runners, let me tell you.

  With maybe twenty minutes until the gun went off, all that coffee I had consumed prior to leaving the house was starting to catch up with my bladder. Unfortunately, it seemed like everyone else’s bladders were feeling the same way because the lines outside of the shopping center’s public restrooms were crazy long. Even that one restroom off to the side, all the way down that one corridor that almost no one knew existed had been discovered.

  Then it occurred to me that I could just pop into the Horseshoe Casino and use their restrooms … only about a half a second later, it also occurred to me that in my attempt to pack light, I had left my driver’s license at home, so I had no way to verify I was old enough to even enter the casino.

  My only option was to just suck it up, and hope I could make it through the race without having to stop and use a porta-potty.

  With a few minutes left on the clock, all of the runners started the mass exodus out of Tower City and into the streets surrounding Public Square. A large film screen had been set up on one of the sidewalks and was showing the film on a loop while we waited.

  Unfortunately, because we were all crowded into such a small area, it created a bottleneck when the race officially started. Tucked in the back as usual, it took a lot longer to get up to the start line than I had anticipated, and there were lots of faster runners dispersed in the back because there was no easy way for them to get up front where they belonged.

  It was, in some ways, a bit of a clusterfuck.

  Eventually, though, it was my turn and my race started. The course turned left onto Ontario Street, one of the major roads in the city. We passed the Quicken Loans Arena home of the Cleveland Cavaliers and Progressive Field home of the Cleveland Indians, before turning right onto the Lorain-Carnegie Bridge.

  Of course, despite how many times I’ve driven across the bridge, I always forget how long it is. Just months before, I’d run across the bridge for the Run Rock ‘N’ Roll Half Marathon and yet I somehow had forgotten that it’s a beast of a bridge, over a mile entirely on its own.

  At the other end of the bridge, the course turned left onto Abbey Road. Sadly, no Beatles were in sight. But we ran along Abbey Road another mile or so to West 11th Street.

  This is the same street all my friends live on—the same friends who were out with signs and cheers back in October during my half marathon. But for some reason, they weren’t out at 8 a.m. on a cold, chilly December morning. Gosh. How shocking.

  For those of us running the 10K, this marked about two miles into the race, or a little less than a third of the way done; on the other hand, the 5K runners were nearly finished, those lucky bastards. The snow had started to fall—thick, heavy, huge white flakes that stuck to my pink jacket instead of melting away.

  Now the race committee definitely had fun planning this race. Along the co
urse were white A-frame posts that included bits of film trivia, like the fact that Jack Nicholson had been sent a script of the film for the role of the father. (That would have made for a very different film, amirite?)

  Being that this was an out-and-back course, as I ran along 11th Street towards the house, the faster 10K runners were running along 11th Street in the opposite direction. From my vantage point, I was able to see lots of really clever costumes. My favorite was a woman with red hair wearing a dress similar to that of Ralphie’s mom carrying a turkey on a tray. Like, with both hands. That takes a special level of dedication. It’s one thing to run carrying, say, a phone or iPod in your hand. Then a runner can still pump his or her arms while he or she runs like a normal person. With this bird, the runner’s hands had to be outstretched in front of her, and not only were they outstretched in front of her but she had to use them to carry something for the entire 6.2 miles. Did she have to practice this before? Train while carrying the tray? SO. MANY. QUESTIONS.

  Right around the Mile Three mark, the course turned from 11th onto Rowley Avenue. The Christmas Story House and Museum is tucked way back in this little neighborhood. It’s really the last place a person would expect to find a museum, which, I mean, makes sense when you consider that part of the house’s appeal to the filmmakers probably was the fact that it is tucked away in a little neighborhood. In fact, the first time I went looking for it years ago, I almost nearly drove right past it because I think I was just looking for something a little bit more … well, fancy. I mean, HELLO. This is the house from A CHRISTMAS STORY. How are there not many big signs and flashing lights and a red carpet? THIS SHOULD BE A MAJOR TOURIST DESTINATION FOR FILM LOVERS EVERYWHERE.

  Turning the corner, I spotted the finish line for the 5K up ahead. The house was a backdrop to a balloon arch and finish line. A crowd of spectators had gathered around to cheer on the 5K finishers.