After he dropped me off, I headed in the direction of the Ambassadors agreed-upon meet-up spot. Soon I was joined by the others and after a round of photos, hugs, and wishes of good luck, we all separated and went to line up in our assigned corrals.
Cleveland races often utilize a live tracking system that allows friends and family to get real-time updates of a runner’s progress at certain points along the course. In the past, I had signed up my parents and my sister so they’d be able to know how I was doing without needing to come all the way into the city to watch. For the 2015 race, I also signed myself up for my own tracking.
I knew I was assigned to one of the last corrals, the one right before the walkers. Because I was so far away from the start line, there was going to be that expected lag time, which meant I, once again, couldn’t really gauge my time and pace using the clocks along the route. The tracking system would send me a text, which was the best way to know how I was doing mid-race. That’s a pro-tip from me to all the slow runners out there. You’re welcome.
In typical spring fashion, there was a light smattering of sprinkles that added an unexpected chill to the early morning air. Then in one unexpected rush, the gunmetal grey sky above opened and the rain started. Many runners scurried off the course, hoping to gain temporary shelter under the awnings of the buildings along the way. I stayed where I was, standing in the middle of Ontario Street, eyes raised as I watched the overcast clouds. Then, again, in typical spring weather fashion, the rain ceased just as quickly as it started, leaving us all a little bit wetter and a little bit chillier.
Someone said hello and I looked to my left and saw Debi, one of the Cleveland Ambassadors, standing beside me. A Northeast Ohio native, Debi now lives in Florida and comes up in the spring for the big race. We started chatting, looking out over the sea of runners ahead of us.
Debi was nervous about running today. Really nervous. When she took up running again after an injury, she made a promise to herself that she would not run in rain. Running when it’s wet and slick out only increased her risk of slipping and falling and putting herself out of commission once again and she just couldn’t take that chance. Her mitigation against another running injury is so strong that there have been times down in Florida when she has been registered for a local 5K and the morning of the race she would go pick up her shirt and bib, then turn around and go right back home because of the rain.
As we stood in our corral way in the back, Debi confided that this short downpour was making her consider skipping the race. Even though she was here, all ready to go, her fears about falling were heightened thanks to Mother Nature. She went on to explain that her training hadn’t been as focused as she would have liked and so that, coupled with the rain, had her on the proverbial fence.
I listened to her, grateful to lend an ear to a fellow slow runner at the start time. After thinking about it for a few seconds, I pointed out that Debi didn’t have to run the half marathon if it made her that nervous. Walking was, and always is, a perfectly acceptable alternative, would cover the same ground, and would get her to the very same finish line when all was said and done. I mean she was already here, thousands of a miles from home, dressed, bib on, and ready to go. It honestly seemed like at this point, it would take far more energy to turn around and go home. She’d have to walk all the way to her car, which was probably parked near the finish line half a mile away, and then it would take forever for her to even get out of the city, so she might as well stick around and just do this thing. Hell, at the very least, she’d get a great workout in. Debi smiled and thanked me, agreeing that if nothing else she could always just walk. She moved away from me to find her spot in the corral and we anxiously waited for our turn to start.
They say the first mile is a liar. Well, okay, they say that, but so do I. The first mile is a liar. The first mile is probably one of the toughest miles out of any run no matter the distance. Whatever happens, a runner cannot allow that first mile to dictate the rest of their run. It makes running seem difficult, even impossible. My legs are tired and not warmed up enough. My feet feel like blocks of concrete. The first mile makes me feel like I hate running and on this particular day, as soon as I crossed the threshold and was officially headed for that blue mat 13.1 miles away, that first mile made me question my sanity.
Seriously. What the fuck had I been thinking signing up for another half marathon? Am I some kind of masochist? Was last year’s half not enough proof that this is just sheer torture? What kind of crazy person gives up a Sunday morning to go running for thirteen miles?!
But then, it’s like Oh. Well hello there Mile Two. I’m actually starting to feel like I’ve found my groove now so, y’know, just forget all that stuff I said a mile ago. I LOVE RUNNING. RUNNING IS AWESOME.
Mile Three turned the corner onto Abbey Avenue and I was yet again running down the streets where all of my friends live, although those lucky non-running bastards were still asleep. Being people who don’t voluntarily pay money to run races, they’ve told me they only ever know it’s marathon weekend when signs start going up on their street indicating they have to move their cars. For a neighborhood where everyone has street parking, this is a big pain in the ass, as they pretty much lose their normal spots right in front of their apartments.
Sorry guys. You know you still love me.
Four miles in, I decided that run-walk-run intervals were just, like, the most amazingest, bestest thing in the entire world. I was running for 30 seconds, walking for 45 seconds, and while that didn’t seem like a long time, those short bursts of running were enough to let me really pick up my pace. My endurance was even—I wasn’t running until I was too tired and then slowly walking until I felt rested. Those rest breaks were already built in and the method kept me feeling energized the whole time.
As I passed the marker for Mile Five it occurred to me that if I had signed up for the 10K, I’d already be almost done.
Yeah. That’s not really a good thought to have less than halfway into a half marathon. Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s the worst thing to be thinking less than halfway into a half marathon.
As soon as I passed the 10K mark, I pulled my phone out of my armband. The text that came through said that I was right on target to finish in 3:30 and my current pace was around 16-minute miles. For sake of comparison, my first half, back in 2013, I had averaged 16:37 per mile with a final time 3:37:53.
This meant that I was right on target for that PR.
From here on out I had to rely on my phone’s clock to know how I was doing, but since the text gave an estimated time of arrival based on the other data points, as long as I was at the finish line by 10:39 a.m., I’d be golden.
Typical of wonky Cleveland weather, the morning started off a little chilly, with the rain helping cool things off, and now the sun was starting to shine brightly and the moisture in the air was creating that horrible weather phenomenon known as humidity.
Luckily, the spectators along the course recognized what it must be like to run in such conditions and around Mile Seven there was a woman who had set up her sprinkler in the middle of the road for all of us runners to run through.
I really, really, really love this city.
Mile Eight ran through the Gordon Square neighborhood, a quaint district with lots of boutique shops and a gorgeous renovated art deco–style movie theater. The level of spectators can be somewhat hit or miss along the course: since we are often running on major roads and freeways it’s not super easy for watchers to find a viewing spot. But when we run through residential neighborhoods like this one, the sidewalks are packed. One of the spectators recognized me from a storytelling event I had done over a year before and for about half a second I felt like the most famous person ever.
Halfway through Mile Eight I had to make the dreaded stop at a porta potty. And then came Mile Nine. Oh Mile Nine, you old foe you.
Last year, Mile Nine was about the location when my ankle officially quit and I was forced to w
alk the remaining four miles of the course. Mile Nine is also the start of what I still consider the longest four miles ever, whether I am hobbling along or running at a nice clip. Mile Nine is the entrance to half marathon hell itself.
I pulled my phone out of my armband for a time check. That PR was still achievable but it was going to be very, very close. But, it’s okay. Even if I finished in 3:37:52 it will still count as a PR.
All I could do was keep going. As much as possible I tried to ignore the blazing hot sun and the amount of sweat dripping off of me. It was Mile Ten. That means I only had a 5K left. That was it, just a 5K. I’ve run, like, a million of those. And I tried really, really hard to ignore the humidity.
Humidity that had managed to drastically slow me down as indicated by my time check at Mile Eleven when it was clear that I was not going to PR today.
Around Mile Twelve the heat and humidity really started to get to me and I decided that I was never, ever, ever, running a half marathon again. Half marathons are stupid. I mean, really. 13.1 miles? What the fuck is up with that point one? Who thought up that one? And why are 5Ks and 10Ks named after their metric units and halfs and fulls go by miles? That does it, it’s not just half marathons. All running is dumb and stupid and the people who run are equally dumb and stupid and I don’t want other people to think I’m also dumb and stupid, so no more half marathons for me. Nope. No siree.
Oh, oh! That’s the marker for Mile Thirteen waving like a gorgeous blue flag against the gorgeous blue sky. Only point one to go!
JUST KEEP RUNNING. JUST KEEP RUNNING. JUST KEEP RUNNING.
I ran down the Shoreway ramp onto Lakeside, speeding up my intervals as much as I could. Even with the finish line in sight, I wanted to stick to my routine. It had gotten me this far, feeling strong and confident, and I’d see it through to the end.
As I crossed the finish line on my third half marathon I felt completely overwhelmed. Not just at even finishing my third half, but finishing it feeling so alive. Last year I practically had to crawl across but this time, thanks to the Galloway Method, I had the endurance to push myself even right there at the end. Boom, bitch.
Gathering some post-race grub, I checked my phone for my final text alert. 3:46:31. Nine minutes stood between me and that PR. I had aimed for 3:30, but anything faster than my first half marathon would have counted.
The thing is … if the 10K split was any indication, I have that 3:30 half in me somewhere. It’s just, the weather wasn’t on my side that day. It wasn’t on the side of most of the other runners I know who were also out there on the course that day. Mother Nature had other plans for us. Today just wasn’t our day.
The thing is … despite not actually beating my first half marathon time, I came close. I came really close, especially when you consider that weight I had regained since that race. I thought that extra weight slowed me down and it did, to a point, but this race just proved that size does not indicate speed or success.
Also, that first half marathon, the one I did for the 2013 Rock ‘N’ Roll Cleveland Half used a totally different route and when I ran the exact same Cleveland Half in 2014 it took me well over four hours, so in that regard this was a course PR and that totally counts.
17
Rita Hayworth, the Shawshank Redemption, and Me
Whenever I tell people I used to be a prison librarian, they always want to know if it’s anything like Orange Is the New Black or The Shawshank Redemption. Obviously, working in a prison is an experience unto itself. So sprinkle a little bit of Orange here and a little Shawshank there and mix in some totally bizarre experiences that fall under “truth is stranger than fiction” and it was pretty much the most unique situation I’ve ever been in. Because I worked at an all-male facility, and given the heavy library focus, it was more Shawshank than anything else.
Adapted from the Stephen King novella Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption, the movie tells the story of Andy Dufresne, a Maine banker wrongfully convicted of the murder of his wife and her lover. He is sent to Shawshank State Penitentiary to serve his double life sentences and it is there that his life gets that chance for redemption. Seeing an opportunity, Andy takes on the role of expanding the prison library, which previously had consisted of a small cart pushed around by an older inmate named Brooks. Thanks to Andy’s intervention, the library becomes a popular place among the prison population and inmates without a high school diploma are given alternative methods to graduate. Andy’s own fate includes a well-executed narrow escape aided by a Hollywood starlet. (Without giving away too much, that’s both a very literal and very figurative interpretation of what happens.)
In 1994, the novella was made into the Academy Award-nominated film starring Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman. The film did horribly at the box office, but was redeemed (see what I did there?) thanks to video stores and cable television.
The Shawshank Redemption is one of my absolute favorite movies of all time, and it was long before I found myself behind bars. (Granted, y’know, I was there voluntarily—unlike the inmates I supervised in the prison library.) Like the Shawshank State Penitentiary, the library I managed was one of the more popular spots in the prison and was full to capacity every single day. Through the prison’s education department, we also offered GED classes for those inmates who had previously dropped out of high school.
Along with being one of my favorite movies, The Shawshank Redemption is also one of my dad’s favorite movies and was filmed in my home state at the Ohio State Reformatory down in Mansfield, Ohio. The city of Mansfield is located about eighty miles southwest of Cleveland, the halfway point between Lake Erie and our state capital Columbus. Mansfield is very proud of its Hollywood history, as is the entire county of Richland since many areas were also featured in this film and others. The opening scene of The Shawshank Redemption, with the double homicide that sets off the events in the movie, was filmed at Malabar Farms in nearby Lucas, Ohio. In May 1945, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall exchanged wedding vows in the residential home on the property, known as the “Big House.”
Tours are given at all of the major filming locations, including the Ohio State Reformatory, which hasn’t housed inmates in its gothic walls since 1990; a few years ago the Shawshank Trail was established there. A self-paced driving tour, the Shawshank Trail allows film fans to travel the area by car and visit Shawshank’s fourteen filming locations.
In the summer of 2000, shortly before I started college, the official Shawshank Trail wasn’t around yet, but my dad and I decided to do our own. We picked a Saturday afternoon and started planning out the places we wanted to try and visit.
All was well and good until about a week before our trip, when I tripped on a pair of shoes in our garage and managed to sprain my ankle. Because of course I would. We still made the trip down to Mansfield, only now I had an ankle wrapped in ACE Bandages and was on crutches.
So. You know. That was fun.
We didn’t even get to see inside the prison that day, just kind of drove around scoping out some of the filming locations in the area.
Needless to say, a decade later, I was still anxious for my own Shawshank Redemption and while it took a while, as soon as I heard about the July 2015 inaugural Shawshank Hustle—an out-and-back 7K course that began and ended at the Ohio State Reformatory—I immediately told my dad about it and we agreed to sign up as soon as registration opened in January 2015. The fact that it was held in July, a month I still required a race to complete my racing goal, was an added bonus.
My dad had never run an official race. But he apparently doesn’t mind the dreadmill and uses one at his gym when he goes to work out. But he was excited to run his first race not just with his daughter, but also with a theme focused on one of his favorite movies.
In the weeks prior to the event, the race committee sent out the usual race day information. Naturally, due to the location, there were some unusual informational pieces in the email, including the fact that parking at the former pr
ison was going to be extremely limited. While the familiar and iconic Ohio State Reformatory is now a tourist attraction, there is still a very real operational prison right next door. Prisons, understandably, are highly guarded facilities. They don’t take too well to weird, random people showing up and crowding around the yard. Even when I worked at a prison we had to keep our cars and plates on file. So strange cars using their parking lot? Ha, yeah, no. Not happening.
Instead, a large overflow parking lot a couple miles away was to be used on race day with buses transporting runners from the parking lot to the prison before the race.
As out-of-towners, this meant that packet pick-up was going to be, like, the worst thing ever, as this was a destination race and they had limited hours the night before the race.
Friday afternoon I left work and headed straight to my parents’ house. After a brief visit with my mom, I threw my stuff in my dad’s car and we hit the road. With a drive that was close to an hour and a half ahead of us, we opted for next-day packet pick-up.
It was dark by the time we got into the city limits, but my dad wanted to at least get a general sense of where our hotel was in relationship to the prison. Lights were on in the turrets and as we closed in on the compound, I caught my breath just driving past its beauty.
We then went to the hotel to check in and get settled. At this point we only had a couple of options, neither of them ideal: Option A was to wake up at 4:30 a.m., get ready, drive to the prison to get a good parking spot, get our packets and then just hang out in the car for four hours. Option B was to wake up at 4:30 a.m. drive to the prison, get our packets, then drive back to the hotel and sleep for another hour or two before getting up, getting ready, and driving to the overflow lot where we could use the bus service to get us back to the prison.
Running with a Police Escort Page 20