Running with a Police Escort

by Jill Grunenwald

  I stepped away from the tent, letting the runners behind me move forward to get their own packets. There was a row of park benches sitting against the wall of the building. I propped my right foot up on one of them and undid the laces of my shoe and slid the timing chip onto them, then retied my laces. Damn, I felt legit. Timing chip in place, I took the short walk back to my car to drop the rest of my packet off, then headed into the zoo.

  From all that research I knew that because of my slower speed race etiquette dictates I should line up near the back of the pack, so as to not get in the way of those faster runners in the front. We stood near Monkey Island and while waiting for the race to officially start, I watched the black-and-white Colobus Monkeys jump and shriek around their habitat, sharing in our excitement for the day.

  Then, after what felt like forever, the gun went off and we started running. Almost immediately, the majority of the other runners surged far, far ahead of me, but I didn’t really think anything of it. All I was thinking about was the fact that I was running. In a race. With a bib and a timing device and a finish line and everything. This was legit.

  Passing by the Rhinoceros Building, I heard joyful shouts and looked up to my left where high above, the front of the pack was already making their way up the first hill, led by a man clearly in a familiar position. With a quick glance over my shoulder I breathed an internal sigh of relief when I saw a couple of people straggling behind me.

  Whew. Wasn’t in last place.

  The path before me started its incline up towards the Northern Trek and the change in topography slowed me down slightly, but I kept moving forward. I followed the course up and around the wolves, then down towards Waterfowl Lake. Passing Wade Hall, I suddenly had a not-small hankering for ice cream. The race had started promptly at 9 a.m. and the summer sun was out high in the cloudless sky. Yet, here I was, running in the heat.

  Yeah, ice cream was starting to sound really good right about now.

  Shortly past Waterfowl Lake was the Koala Building and, a bit beyond that, the turn that would take me up the hill towards the Primate, Cat, and Aquatics building.

  As I crested the hill and continued running towards the building, I spotted a water station ahead which was a welcome relief, because it was June, it was the height of summer, and it was hot outside and I was running for fuck’s sake, so, yes, water, please. GIVE ME ALL THE WATER.

  Here was another learning opportunity because, as it turns out, attempting to run and drink water at the same time doesn’t work out too well. It’s a lot harder than it looks.

  Being parched and tired, I grabbed one of those paper cups from a volunteer and, without stopping, took a huge gulp. I then spent the next ten or so seconds choking and then another ten seconds trying to catch my breath again.

  I was mortified beyond belief and glanced at the other runners around me, wondering if anyone happened to see me make a fool of myself while trying to stay hydrated. They all were in the zone and completely ignoring me, but I still felt like a total idiot.

  I followed the path around the Primate, Cat, and Aquatics building, knowing the big hill was ahead of me. Luckily I only had to run down it, not up. But it’s a steep hill, the kind of steep where it’s tricky to regain much, if any, of the speed lost from going up previous hills because all focus was on not tripping over my feet and falling down the hill.

  With the double loop of the course, at the end of the hill there were signs directing all of the participants. Along with the 5K run there was also a 1.5 mile walking event which only required one pass at the loop. At the bottom of the hill, the walkers and the 5K runners finishing their second loop were directed towards the finish line while those of us who were just starting our second loop were directed back towards the front entrance to run the route again.

  Stationed in front of the entrance, just past the finish line, were all of the volunteers and spectators. It was a huge, very loud group at that: as I ran past them they cheered and hollered encouragement, cowbells ringing spiritedly. This was the halfway point of my very first 5K and their support rang in my ears, pushing me forward to tackle those hills all over again.

  A huge, stupid, toothy grin spread across my face and I was so glad I was wearing sunglasses because I felt myself start to well up with a mix of emotions.

  By this point, my legs were starting to get really tired and not just from the running: the mistake of not reading the course map carefully enough was starting to catch up with me as the reality of my situation began to sink in.

  My exhausted legs managed to make it up the first incline without too much extra effort, but by the time I got up and around the Northern Trek exhibit and back down to Waterfowl Lake, I knew there was no way in hell I was going to be able to run up that second hill for a second time. Knowing the water station was at the top might have been enough to motivate me mentally, but my body was just not physically able to do it.

  Feeling a bit defeated, I had to do the thing I didn’t want to do: I walked up the hill.

  Pumping my arms at my side I power-walked that hill as much as I could but I was hot and I was tired and my poor legs were doing far more work than they had planned and were prepared to do.

  Coming down the big hill for that final push of distance, I was greeted by several other runners who had already finished and were now walking around the zoo since our registration included admission for the day. As I passed by them on my way to the finish line they called out words of encouragement and support, telling me I was almost done and to just keep going.

  Following the path as it curved around the kangaroo exhibit, I spotted the inflatable arch parked near the entrance. Knowing how close I was to finishing, literally able to see that final stop up ahead, I dug down deep and picked up my pace as much as I could. Granted, I was running downhill so gravity did most of the work, but whatever.

  With the crowd of spectators cheering, I crossed that finish line with a roar in my ears. Six months ago I considered running something out of reach and here I was, finishing my first ever 5K race.

  After passing over the finish line, I paused for a minute to catch my breath, standing still just long enough to let my legs rest. When I started to make my way towards the pavilion where the post-race snacks and water were, I saw a familiar face standing near the finish line.

  Waiting at the end was my college roommate Megan, who was not only a runner, but a runner who happened to work for the company sponsoring the race. She had finished long before I did, but knowing I was running and knowing that this was my first race, she had stayed around and hovered near the finish line to be there when I was done.

  Referencing the course and hills, she exclaimed, “You picked a beast for your first one!”

  Laughing, and very grateful it was all over, I nodded and told her I did, yes, though it was completely unintentional.

  We walked to the pavilion together where I got my banana and sat at one of the picnic tables and started calling my parents and sister to let them all know I was done. They all asked me what my time was and I honestly couldn’t tell them: I had completely forgotten I was being timed and hadn’t even really paid attention to the clock posted near the finish line. I had some vague recollection that I finished somewhere in the 47 minute vicinity.

  Megan headed out soon after and I walked around the zoo for a bit, although my legs were far too tired for a long day of walking so I soon headed home.

  The rest of the weekend was a blur, as I was still riding high on the adrenaline and pride of my accomplishment. By the time I got to work on Monday, race results hadn’t been posted yet and I spent all morning hitting the refresh button on my computer, anxious to see how I had fared.

  Finally, the race results page changed and a link appeared. Taking a deep breath I clicked the new link open and started scrolling down the page, looking for my name.

  When I arrived at the zoo that morning, I had hoped to finish in 45 minutes. Had I been better prepared for those hills (or, y’kn
ow, picked a flatter course), I probably could have achieved that goal. My first 5K took me 47:40 to finish, which came out to an average mile pace of 15:23.

  Considering I’d been running 16-minute miles in the days prior to the race and considering those hills and the heat, I was perfectly pleased with my time. Then, looking at the rest of the list I saw something I hadn’t noticed before: out of 362 people who crossed the start, I was the 362nd person to cross the finish line.

  Yup: I had come in last place at my first race.

  Life really is nothing more than a series of decisions that parade before us over the course of time. The shape our life takes depends on the choices we make, the paths we take each moment of every day.

  Some decisions, some choices, seem far more momentous than others: Where do I live? What career path do I follow? Who do I marry?

  Other decisions, other choices, are more innocuous, but it is often these decisions that have a greater impact in guiding our journey because it’s these simple decisions that compound as we make them every single second of every single moment of every single day. It is not the Friday nights or Saturday evenings that determine who we are and where we go: it is the Thursday afternoons or Monday mornings that mentor and counsel our being into a full-fledged sense of self.

  When I knew that I had to change my lifestyle, it followed that I had a decision to make, one that at the time didn’t seem like a big deal. I mean, I’d given this whole running experiment a good ol’ college try, right? I’d done the treadmill running, I’d done the outside in the park running, I’d even signed up for and finished an honest-to-goodness, real live race.

  And I’d come in last place.

  What are the odds of that happening at a runner’s first race? I mean, really. Over 350 people were there and I was the very last person to finish.

  When I posted my time on social media, some of my more experienced runner friends said that with that time and place I had clearly been running with some serious runners because they had all run races where that time was still in the back of the pack, but definitely not last place.

  I had no way of knowing it at the time, but that 15:23 mile average would not be my slowest time as a runner. Over the years since then, I’ve run many a 5K, 10K, and three half marathons and some of those races have, for various reasons and circumstances, been finished with slower paces. In some cases, significantly slower paces.

  But I didn’t know that. All I had to go on was the current data I had before me, which was that I was a slow runner who came in last place.

  Of course, that’s the nature of races, right? Someone comes in first place and someone comes in last place. That’s just how these things work. Someone comes in first place and someone comes in last place and at this particular race on this particular day, I was in last place. Of the 362 people who showed up at the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo on that day, 361 people crossed that finish line before me.

  But—and here’s the big but—what about all those people who didn’t even cross the start line to begin with?

  Life is a series of moments and decisions and in that moment, I decided that finishing last trumped all other scenarios, including not even starting.

  So I came in last place. So what? Was I really going to let one race mark my entire running career? Was I really going to let those 361 other people who beat me on the course beat me again by dropping out of running altogether? That would be silly, right? Not just silly, but kind of dumb considering how much I’d spent on those fancy running shoes a couple of months ago.

  I mean, if nothing else, I had to run at least one more race to make sure this race and this last place finish wasn’t the only mark on my entire running record.

  But only after checking the course map first.

  4

  Homecoming

  About a month after my last-place finish in the race at the zoo, I ran another 5K, this time in nearby Strongsville, Ohio. The Race for Wellness 5K was put on by the Cleveland Clinic, one of two major hospital systems within the city. I picked it mostly for location, Strongsville being not too far from my apartment. In a busy summer, that particular race weekend fit easily into my schedule.

  Ironically, despite most assuredly reading the course map before signing up, I was still confronted on race day with a monstrous hill. It was a simple out-and-back course and the halfway mark moved swiftly up a giant incline, then came right back down just as quickly. My parents were able to attend this race and at the finish line, my mom, having heard about the hills at the zoo, told me she overheard other runners talk about being surprised at the hill, so at least it wasn’t just me this time.

  The rest of the Race for Wellness 5K course was flat and I don’t know if it was because of that or I had just gotten naturally faster, but I managed to shave almost a whole minute off of my mile time, making for a nearly three-minute faster 5K time.

  With two 5Ks completed, I was beginning to get the hang of this whole racing thing and finally really starting to feel like a real runner. It was summer, with the sun rising early in the morning and setting late at night, leaving plenty of time in my schedule for running before work in the mornings and after dinner on the weekends.

  Running was no longer something I was just trying on. Now, running was something I was doing whenever and wherever I could. I found myself setting my alarm clock earlier and earlier each morning to get runs in before work and sleeping in on the weekends was starting to lose its appeal. I’d rather take advantage of the day and the sun and the nearby parks and run my little heart out. To put this in perspective: BR (Before Running) Jill spent her summer weekends hiding her pale skin from the sun, cycling through her latest Netflix obsession. AR (After Running) Jill was now working out and working on her tan (well, no, I was working on my burn because despite now being active and outside more, I can’t magically gift myself new skin). In other words, running was becoming second nature to me, like walking or breathing or showing off my vast archive of random film trivia.

  (Seriously, it’s amazing I manage to fit anything else into my memory at this point.)

  Between the endorphins and the swag associated with the sport, I was also starting to become a little addicted to the excitement of race day. At that point I had run my first race in June and my second in July, and it was while looking through lists of upcoming August races in the area that I stumbled upon one that caught my eye in an unexpected way. It should have been an obvious find but I still caught my breath when I realized what it would mean. Reading the description and location details more, I knew this was the one. As in The One. Turn on the neon red sign and flash that baby over Broadway, The One. Twelve years and two 5Ks later, it was finally time to tackle the finish line that had eluded me since I was a teenager.

  Right, so, to better understand the importance of this particular race, I need to share some necessary background information related to both the city that raised me and my place there.

  (Spoiler alert: I didn’t really fit in.)

  Besides the infamous running of the Annual Mile each year, the closest I ever came to the track at my school was each Friday night during football season. But I wasn’t there to cheer on the football team from the stands, sporting the district colors of blue and white. No, I was there as a member of the marching band. Because of course I was. I started playing the flute in fifth grade, slowly progressing through middle school and high school bands. I was never the best of my section; I fit comfortably within the middle of the ranks and perfectly content with that place, mostly because I was too lazy to do the work required to advance my position. While my peers spent their free time practicing the required music, I’d spend my free time, well usually not playing my flute at all, but if I did, I was usually playing simplified flute versions of Disney songs and Broadway musicals. Given my established aversion to athletics, marching band wasn’t my first choice of extracurriculars but spending the fall semester at football games was the only way a band student was allowed to spend the s
pring semester sitting on stage for concert band. So every weekend in autumn I dressed in my heavy white polyester uniform and marched across football fields across Northeast Ohio during halftime.

  Let me be clear about the fact that I never paid attention to the actual football game happening in front of me. My freshman year Hudson had a really good football team, although I only know that because the marching band season extended into November when we had to literally freeze our asses off on snow-covered fields for the playoffs. I’m not kidding about the freezing part, either: because of the nature of our instruments, many of the woodwind sections–flutes included–had to cut the tips off of our very thin gloves. This meant exposing our fingers to a metal instrument outdoors. In winter. In Ohio. This did not endear me to the sport.

  Our halftime show was the only time I was ever paying attention to the events on the field—the rest of the game, my girlfriends and I would sing show tunes, slowly (and loudly) working our way through the entire catalogs of Stephen Sondheim, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Stephen Schwartz. Because, I mean, really. What else were we going to do? Actually watch the game? Please.

  Despite attending every single varsity game between freshman and senior year of high school, it took well into my thirties before I actually learned the rules of football.

  Some people letter in sports. I lettered in theater and band and I would have lettered in choir if I had started it earlier.

  Oh yeah. I was that kid in high school.

  To be fair, I came from an educational environment that strongly supported the arts and academics. Our quarterback went to an Ivy League school and most people came to the stadium each Friday night because of the band, not in spite of it. One of my classmates got a perfect 1600 on the SAT (before it was graded out of 2400) and the school recognized his achievement at one of our regular pep rallies.

  Still, walking the halls of Hudson High School I often felt like a stranger in a strange land. My study halls were for reading books I had checked out from the public library (where I also worked) and writing fan fiction with friends based on our favorite sci-fi television shows (we put Mulder and Scully together long before Chris Carter got around to it). At lunch, we had a big set of tables off to the side of the main eating area in the cafeteria. We may have been considered the outcasts and misfits, but we certainly outnumbered some of the other cliques in our school. Funny how that works out sometimes.