Running with a Police Escort

by Jill Grunenwald

  After snapping a quick picture of the festive house with my phone, I turned and continued on my way. The house was only my halfway point.

  There was a small loop around the neighborhood that put me back on 11th Street. Being a slow runner, the view from this side of the street and course was different. There was no line of runners on the other side of the street heading towards the house; it was simply those of us in the back of the pack heading downtown.

  Around Mile Five, I succumbed to the curse of runners everywhere—my bladder started to catch up with me. I had a mile to go, but that was almost all going to be on and over the Hope Memorial (aka the Lorain-Carnegie) Bridge. If I didn’t stop at the row of porta-potties on this side of the bridge, I wouldn’t have another opportunity to stop.

  I weighed my ability to hold it for another mile and change against how distracting and uncomfortable it would be to hold it in for another mile. I decided to stop.

  Stepping out of the porta-potty when I was done, I set my sights on the final stretch of the race: up and over the Hope Memorial Bridge, then down Ontario for a stretch, before turning back towards Public Square and the finish line.

  The snow was falling pretty heavily by now and the fat flakes were sticking to the ground. The bunny ears were proving to be a less than stellar choice on my part, as they worked against the wind rather than with it. After having to adjust them more than once, I ended up taking the bunny ears off and tucking them into the pink jacket until the end of the race.

  The back of the pack had thinned out considerably by now, and I’d been alone for a while, the only runner in sight. As I turned that final corner and looked up ahead towards the finish line, I saw my parents waiting up ahead for me. I reached into my pink jacket and pulled out the bunny ears. Planting them firmly on my head, I just hoped they’d stay in place long enough for me to finish.

  Crossing the finish line, I breathed a cold sigh of relief. It was freezing and snowy and I hadn’t run my best, finishing well over an hour and a half. That porta-potty stop didn’t help and the cold surely slowed me down some.

  The volunteer handed me my finisher’s medal, which proudly displays the iconic A Christmas Story leg lamp in a running position with a large wooden box marked FRAGILE on it. On the bottom it was written IT’S A MAJOR AWARD.

  As I posed for a picture with my dad in front of the famous Higbee’s building, the medal hanging around my neck, I remembered there is more to running and racing than time. Sometimes there is a really cool fucking medal, too.

  10

  The Longest Four Miles of My Life

  As I slowly pulled my shoe off my right foot I grimaced. There was sharp pain stabbing my heel and once I extracted my foot from my shoe, the first thing I noticed was a bright red spot of blood on the back of my sock.

  Fuck.

  It was mid-May 2014 and I was a week away from my second half marathon and had just completed ten miles, the longest long run of my training plan. Anticipating that the ten miles was going to take me a while, I had gotten to Edgewater Park by 6:30 that morning. From my vantage point on the top of the hill, I was able to watch the sun rise over the Cleveland skyline three miles away.

  With this final long run completed, my tapering phase was about to, thankfully, begin.

  As all smart runners know, there are a few universal rules when racing: one is don’t ever wear anything new on race day. Those fabulous new shoes bought on sale at the expo? Keep them in the box until after your half marathon. That free shirt that came with the packet? Save it for later: it’s the perfect way to brag about the race just completed at a post-race brunch. Also, I know the capris or shorts you just had to have make your lower half look awesome, but keep them packed away for just a few more days.

  The downside to this is that if you’re me, and find that my running shoes all of a sudden hate me a few days before your big race, I’m kind of out of luck. I’d been wearing the same style of shoe for several years now, just buying a new pair every few months or so, and I’d never had this problem before where the back of the shoe was rubbing up against my heel and ankle. Being so close to race day, this was not the time to change horses—or shoes, as it were—midstream. The alternative was to buy a new pair of the same style, and just hope that I happened to have a faulty pair, but even then, because I was tapering, I didn’t know if I’d have enough time to both break them in while also giving my body the much needed break it required after so many months of training. I was kind of screwed.

  The thing is, three months ago, the Cleveland Half Marathon wasn’t even on my radar, but when someone provides you with a free race entry you shouldn’t let it go to waste.

  Like many race organizations, the Cleveland Marathon takes advantage of social media–savvy runners by naming them Ambassadors. In exchange for a comped entry and fun swag, these racing Ambassadors chronicle training and race progress on their blogs, thus encouraging other runners to register. Some races only give the free entry if and when an Ambassador drums up enough registrations, but Cleveland gives it as part of the package. Ambassadors also are provided with an additional free entry that they can give away on their blog, which is how I found myself with one such Golden Ticket in February 2014.

  A year ago, in the spring of 2013, I followed up my successful ConocoPhillips 10K with the Cleveland 10K, one of the many distances offered by the Cleveland Marathon organization. I had briefly considered running the 10K again but races are expensive yo, and I was trying to be a boring fiscally responsible adult. (Sigh.)

  Once I realized I could possibly win an entry, I was all over that shit, entering every single giveaway as they cropped up across the local blogosphere. Because of the sheer size of the Cleveland running community, entries into each giveaway are pretty substantial, always making winning a long shot, but I got lucky and ended up winning a race entry.

  When I was notified of my very own Golden Ticket at the end of February, my gut reaction was to register for the 10K like I had planned. But then when I sat down and looked at my calendar, I realized that if I started training right away, as in the following Monday, I’d be right on schedule to rock my second half marathon.

  A second half wasn’t on my agenda. Like, at all. Especially not six months after my first. Hell, when I crossed that finish line back in October, I was so happy just to have finished a half marathon, I didn’t give any thought to ever running another one. But here I was, with a free entry handed to me exactly twelve weeks before the race. Given the circumstances, how could I not plan on running the half marathon?

  So here I was, twelve weeks later. The countdown to the 2014 Cleveland Half Marathon was in the single digits and my shoes were causing my feet to bleed.

  As I’ve said, racing rituals come with all experienced runners. Me, I like to carefully set everything out on my dining room table the night before: shirt, pants, shoes, socks, bib, pins, earbuds, running belt and/or armband, charged phone, and fuel if I’m running a longer distance race. This way, when I wake up, I know that everything I need for race day is already sitting there waiting and I won’t have to start searching through my closet at 6 a.m., still blurry from sleep.

  I also like to get a manicure the day before, then go home that night and work on my running playlist while drinking wine.

  (YOU DO YOU, OKAY?)

  Normally I just use my regular “workout” playlist, set that puppy on random, and I’m good to go. But this time I was taking a slightly different approach. For the first time, I was experimenting with walking intervals and I wanted to use the music as an auditory cue for when I needed to change my pace.

  The idea of walking initially came from a spin class where we have moments of “active recovery,” a less intense workout that comes in the middle of a longer workout. So it’s not a full-on rest, but it does give the body a small break while still working it, hence the active part. Adding in walking breaks to my half marathon plan was a great way to get those periods of active recovery and my plan was 12
to 13 minutes of running followed by 3 minutes of walking.

  (I have zero idea where I came up with those numbers, since, well, math; they really just kind of sounded good.)

  At the suggestion of a friend, I decided to take advantage of Spotify’s impressive collection of military cadences to signal when it was time to walk. The “I don’t know but I’ve been told” sort of thing. In order for this work, I had to actually put together a playlist in a somewhat specific order. Because this was based on time, I needed to match songs up in a way they filled that roughly 12- to 13-minute timeframe, without going over too far.

  Again, this meant doing math. While drinking.

  Yeah, really well thought-out plan there, Jill.

  Once my playlist was complete and my glass of wine polished off, I crawled into bed for an early night. With all the necessary road closures, I was going to have to be parked downtown and headed towards my corral well before sunrise.

  I don’t know if it was excitement, nerves, or what, but I was wide awake at 4:30 a.m. I tried going back to sleep for another hour or so, but it soon became clear that wasn’t going to happen, so I got out of bed and got dressed. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I examined my feet.

  The backs of my ankles were still red and raw and I knew that as soon as I put those shoes back on they were going to get rubbed even more, exasperating the wounds. Using some of the Monsters, Inc. bandages in my bathroom (I make zero apologies for my love of Pixar as a thirtysomething), I covered those wounds as best I could. The packet I had picked up at the Convention Center the day before also included some clear bandage-type strips and I put those on top of Mike and Sully.

  (I had Boo over my boo-boo. #Sorrynotsorry.)

  With my ankles covered as sufficiently as I was going to manage this particular morning, I decided I might as well gather my gear and head over towards the start. If nothing else, I was at least going to get a decent parking spot.

  They were still setting up the start line when I arrived. I found a spot to hang out while I watched them erect the START banner and lay the blue mats underneath. This was a new experience: as a slow runner I have, unfortunately, been witness to them tearing the course down but I’d never seen them put it up.

  Standing on the corner of Superior Avenue, the crest of Terminal Tower rising high, with the sunrise peeking over the city skyline, I could sense my right foot was going to be an issue. It wasn’t really hurting and I could still walk and everything, but something felt … off. This new discomfort, combined with the back of my ankles, was suddenly making me regret opting to run the half marathon over the 10K. Too late now.

  Having done the training, the last thing I wanted to do was just quit, but I wasn’t aware I had another option, which was run the 10K anyway. At the 2016 races, there was snow and hail. In mid-May. If that’s not the most Cleveland race ever, I don’t know what else is. Because of the drastic change in weather, several runners ended up switching to one of the shorter distances at one of the course splits. Back then, it didn’t occur to me as something I could do. I thought it was Run the Half Marathon or Don’t Run the Half Marathon.

  So, I chose to run the half marathon, fucked-up feet and all.

  At 7 a.m., the race organizers started releasing the corrals. I was in the last corral, the one with the walkers, which meant there was the usual lag time between the start of the race and when I actually got up to the line. My right foot was still bugging me, but I forged ahead. Pulling my phone out of my belt, I brought up Spotify and pressed the Play button on my new running playlist as soon as I crossed the start line.

  We started downtown at Public Square, which was a new start for me, but a nice change as I usually don’t get to run right downtown thanks to, y’know, cars and buses and stuff. After winding our way in and around the streets for a couple of miles, we headed across the Hope Memorial Bridge.

  Halfway across the bridge, the watchful eyes of the Guardians of Traffic loomed. These tall statues represent various modes of transportation and safely guard those crossing the bridge. It was here that the race courses diverged. Everything was color-coded: green for the 10K, red for the half marathon, and blue for the full marathon. Bibs matched the color and the runners were instructed to follow the color-coded signs along the course.

  In the very middle of the bridge, right around the Mile Three mark, there was a yellow sandwich board with colored boxes and arrows. The 10K runners went off toward the right side of the bridge and the half and full marathon runners stuck to the left side. At the other end of the bridge, we turned in different directions and went our separate ways.

  Now, earlier in the week I had signed up my dad and sister for the real-time mobile tracking. Everyone knew I was running this race, including my entire social media feed, which I had also signed up for real-time tracking. I even signed myself up for the real-time tracking—checking my phone for the automatic text every time I crossed one of the blue mats along the course was going to be the best way to monitor my pace.

  For the half marathon, this meant that when I hit the 10K mat, also known as the halfway point, I was able to pull my phone out a few seconds later to read the automated text that came through.

  My average pace at the halfway point was 17:24 per mile, which put me almost a minute per mile behind my pace from October’s Run Rock ‘N’ Roll Half Marathon, but my foot was bothering me so I forgave my speed a little more than I perhaps normally would have.

  The next two miles went by, I was keeping up my intervals of 12 to 13 minutes of running followed by 3 minutes of walking. Rinse and repeat. Along the way, the half marathon and the full marathon courses split—I was only a few miles away from the finish while the full marathoners had a good ten, at least, to go.

  Around Mile Eight, my right foot started to act up. Not a scream, not quite yet. This was more like a whimper. A light dull throb that quietly, but insistently, made its presence known with each step I took.

  I fought and forced my way through the next mile, but as soon as I hit that marker for Mile Nine, I knew there was no physical way for me to run any further so I switched to walking.

  The Cleveland Marathon races all start downtown. The exact location of the start line has shifted and changed over the years, from behind First Merit Stadium, to Public Square, to in front of First Merit Stadium, but the end is always on Lakeside Avenue. All the distances start and end together. There may be some separation between the two, as each runs the full length of each course, but eventually they all merge together onto the Cleveland Memorial Shoreway.

  Connecting the East and West Sides of the city, the Shoreway is a freeway that runs parallel to the coast of Lake Erie. Rising high above the city, from my vantage point in the final stretch of the race I was able to see my apartment building far below.

  My apartment, which sits along the banks of the mighty Cuyahoga River. It was so fucking hot out, I kept glancing over the barrier and thinking man that water looks nice and cool.

  Yup, I was so hot I was contemplating the logistics of swimming in a river that once caught on fire.

  The course for the Cleveland Half Marathon has changed slightly since, but in 2014, the final four miles of the race was entirely on the Shoreway. These final four miles are four miles on hard concrete, the sun mercilessly beating down. That high up, there’s no coverage from trees or awnings and this was one of those blistering days in the middle of May when the sun is just so happy to finally be free from the cold chains of winter that it’s just flashing everybody.

  Along with signing myself up for the automatic updates along the course, I also set it up so that those same updates would be posted to my Facebook page. Because that’s what we do these days: it’s simply not enough to post a finish time a few minutes after the race has ended, once the post-finish chocolate milk and banana have been consumed. Oh no, these have to be posted so fast that unless I’m holding my phone in my hand and look down at the screen as soon as I finish—my entire social media following is g
oing to know how I did before I do.

  The thing is, those automatic updates being posted on my behalf only work well when my body is working well. Otherwise I’m just that girl hobbling along the freeway frantically typing a Facebook post as I slowly walk explaining that my finish time is going to be nowhere near the time stupid auto post indicated seven miles ago.

  Obviously posting on social media would be a low priority for most people in the middle of a half marathon. Only, I knew people were watching and waiting and I knew that when I crossed that finish line and that ridiculous tracker posted to my Facebook page, it would give a finishing time of over four hours. Really, I was just trying to do damage control and make sure to explain why I’d be finishing so slowly.

  Plus, I mean, hi, I was walking. Slowly. Might as well update Facebook and Twitter and maybe scroll through my Instagram photo feed while I was at it. Anything to distract from the reality of my situation at that moment in time.

  Look, I am completely OK with my speed, okay? I’m totally fine being slow and making jokes about being a turtle and blah blah blah. But personally, for me, an over four hour half marathon was about the limit of my self-acceptance on the slow runner front. I don’t say this as a means of disparaging runners slower than I am—speed, like so much else about running, is a very personal thing and everyone has their own thresholds of comfort when it comes to identifying paces we are okay with running. For me, this was well outside my comfort zone of being okay.

  I physically felt horrible and I mentally and emotionally felt horrible and I was so over it. I was over the whole thing. This stupid race. This stupid running. This stupid heat and these really, really stupid four miles that had officially become the bane of my very existence. My feet were fucking killing me, I was sweating buckets, and I probably had a sunburn. All I wanted to do was sit down on the side of the Shoreway and cry and wait for some kind soul in an air-conditioned car to come pick me up.