Running with a Police Escort

by Jill Grunenwald

  We decided to go with Option B.

  So at 4:30 a.m., after what felt like only an hour after I went to bed, the alarm on my phone went off and I stumbled out of the bed. My dad was sleeping on the couch, but my fumbling around in the dark roused him awake. We pulled ourselves together enough to hop into the car and drove over.

  Prisons are unique institutions. There really is nothing quite like them, and I’d prefer people just trust me on this rather than set some goal to find out for themselves. (Unless, of course, a librarian reading this is interested in a highly rewarding nontraditional career path.)

  While the historic Ohio State Reformatory is not an operational prison, because of its close proximity to the very operational Richland Correctional Institution, there are still guards that patrol the grounds and they don’t allow strangers to just walk up to the building. Even if they did, they aren’t going to let them do it at 4:30 a.m. when it’s pitch black out.

  On top of that, while the Ohio State Reformatory may not function as a prison these days, it comes with a long history and the preservation society in charge of its care hosts tours and events throughout the year to maintain the upkeep costs. Because of its historic and supposedly haunted history, they also offer overnight ghost hunts and multiple paranormal television shows have visited the site. Every October they also turn the prison into an intense haunted house and several of my prison coworkers made it an annual autumn trip. Surprisingly, given my love for Halloween, I never went. I like haunted houses but the word on the street was this really goes above and beyond. The normal baseline for haunted houses is enough for me, thankyouverymuch. No above nor beyond needed. Plus, given the institution’s reputation for being legitimately haunted and being someone who believes in all of that mumbo jumbo, it seemed a little like tempting fate.

  One of these overnight ghost-hunting visits was leaving the prison as we arrived. I told my Dad he could wait in the car and I’d go pick our packets up. This, after all, was not my first time at the (racing) rodeo.

  I’ve had the opportunity to run in several inaugural races: the Rock ‘N’ Roll Cleveland Half Marathon, the Christmas Story 10K, and the Shawshank Hustle. With any new venture there are always going to be some kinks that need to be worked out. Add in a popular film with a cult following and a prison location, and the number of kinks seem to exponentially grow.

  For one thing, there seemed to be limited communication between the racing organization and the Ohio State Reformatory. Because while we were told packet pick-up would start at 5 a.m., those of who arrived at that time were made to stand outside the closed prison gates until close to 5:30 a.m., because we had to wait until all of the ghost hunters had left. Honestly, the guards that were on duty didn’t really seem to know what to do with those of us waiting, and it seemed as if they weren’t quite sure why we were there, but finally the gates opened and we were allowed in.

  Just thinking about walking up that long, dark driveway towards the prison still gives me goosebumps. Because while I was looking at the historic Ohio State Reformatory, what I saw was the Shawshank State Penitentiary. With its grand front entrance and turret rising high, it looked less like a prison and more like a fortress. A majestic, beautiful, magnificent fortress.

  I was grinning like a silly fan girl when I walked into the white tent to pick up our packets (which included a GLOW IN THE DARK SHIRT). Once I had those, I jumped back in the car and we returned to the hotel. The first thing I had to do was check out if the shirt really glowed in the dark, so I locked myself in the bathroom with the lights off and grinned when the greenish glow was reflected in the mirror.

  After grabbing a short nap back at the hotel, we got dressed into our running outfits. On the drive over I realized that when I picked up our packets I forgot to pick up the very necessary safety pins to affix the bibs to our shirts, so I suggested he just drop me off then head to the overflow lot and I’d wait for him at the bus drop-off spot.

  This is where things got … complicated, because being that this was an inaugural race, the racing committee way underestimated the amount of buses needed to transport everyone from the overflow lot. They had also underestimated the amount of family and spectators who would arrive and want to hang out at the prison, just because. Not that I can really blame them: this is a tourist destination on its own. But how many people think to just go on a random weekend?

  Dad dropped me off at 7:30 a.m. The race was supposed to start at 8:30 a.m. but due to so many people still waiting back at the overflow lot they kept pushing the time back, first to 8:45 a.m., then to 9 a.m. I waited anxiously on the sidewalk by the buses, worried I’d somehow missed him in the crowd of people and he was waiting somewhere else looking for me. Then, right after the race finally started, I saw him climbing off one of the bright yellow school busses. Luckily, because there were so many people and because we’d be in the back anyway because of our speed, we managed to make it in the starting line right when we needed to.

  The course took us up through the parking lot of the Ohio State Reformatory, and out onto the street. In other races I’ve run, the race is able to have entire streets closed down for at least the beginning part of the race. In this case, only one side of the road was available to runners, which meant there were 3,000 people bottlenecking their way down the street for a quarter of a mile. We were so cramped that running was impossible and as we slowly walked, my dad turned to me and said he hoped it wasn’t like this the whole course.

  Once the main road turned, the other side of the street was open to us and we were able to spread out. I started doing my run-walk-run intervals while my dad “jogged” beside me.

  That was his word. Jog. It’s a weighted word, jogging, fraught with lots of emotions. I would say that he ran because to me—and I’m sure to others as well—anything above a walk counts as running. But if he wants to say he jogged, I’ll let him say he jogged. He also broke it down for me, the differences between walking, jogging, and running. It had something to do with feet. Like how many feet are on the ground at any one time. I think he also may have used horses as an example. So based on this information he’d read somewhere the placement of his feet meant he was jogging.

  But, whatever. He was totally running.

  Now filming for The Shawshank Redemption took place all over the city of Mansfield and so our course took us right into the quaint downtown with its green square and white gazebo. On that small patch of grass was a bench marked Brooks’s Bench and the exterior of other buildings were highlighted with signs and also large cutouts of Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman, meant for photo opportunities.

  A few weeks before the race, I ordered a custom shirt that I still wear at every race. It’s bright blue with a winged shoe on the front. On the back it says It’s not last place, it’s running with police escort.

  At the time, my friend Andrew asked why I would put it on the back of the shirt, when nobody would see it. I told him that the people behind me would. The back of the pack would. Those were the people I wanted to see it, the ones who are slow, the ones who are in last place.

  The Shawshank Hustle was the first time I wore it for a race, and I wasn’t sure what the reaction would be. But several times while running, I had people from the back pass me and compliment me on my shirt. Ironically, because this was one of those novelty themed races, it attracted thousands of people, not all of them runners and our pace kept us firmly planted in the middle of the pack.

  We were also firmly planted at the height of high summer and running in a rather hilly city. Everyone around us was drenched in sweat and feeling the heat and humidity. Since the race also started late, we were out there running slightly later in the day than originally planned.

  As we climbed the final hill, the course turned left back onto the main road. Soon the prison was back within our sights. Against the backdrop of the bright blue sky and lush green grass, I could see what attracted the filmmakers when they were scouting locations.

  We ran
down the parking lot and entrance and towards the prison. The finish line was at the end of the large paved entrance and as we ran towards it, the prison grew larger until we were practically right at its front door.

  In terms of goodies: the shirts, the finisher’s medals, which also glowed in the dark, and our race entry also provided us with an opportunity to tour the prison for free (Well done, race organizers. Well done.). It was so hot and the line was so long, we decided to skip it and just head home. First, however, this meant waiting for the buses to return to take us to the overflow lot. Thankfully they seemed a little more organized after the race.

  We stood in the parking lot with the other runners, waiting for the buses to return. The sun rose high overhead and as we waited, the heat started to catch up with me. Even with sunglasses, the sun hurt my eyes to the point of needing to keep them closed and I started to feel really lightheaded. Going over my food and drink options that morning, I realized this is what dehydration probably feels like.

  Fuck. I think I’m going to pass out.

  On my left was my dad, trying to engage me in conversation. I nodded politely, giving halfhearted responses in an attempt to appear like I was paying attention. All the while, though, I was scoping out the scene. The parking lot was crowded with cars and the surface was covered in rocks. If I did pass out, I’d mostly likely hit my head on a fender or slam it down into a nice hard pillow of stones. Neither of those prospects were appealing. Every couple of seconds I’d turn towards the main road hoping to see the buses. I didn’t even need all of them, just one. Just one little bus that would get me away from the hot sun.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Breathe. Just breathe.

  I bent over at the waist, hands on my hips.

  Unaware of what was physically and mentally going on inside of my head, my dad was trying to keep up a continuing conversation that I was only half-listening to and not at all participating in. Finally, I turned to him and politely, but firmly, asked if he would please stop talking for just a few minutes.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I will be, I just need a couple of minutes.”

  He nodded and offered me the rest of the water left in the plastic bottle he’d picked up at the finish line. I’d already finished mine and happily finished off his, too.

  Finally, after what felt like forever, the buses arrived. We climbed on board and I started to feel better as soon as I sat down. There wasn’t any air conditioning, but the windows were open and a nice breeze blew through, providing relief.

  The bus dropped us off at the overflow lot and we walked over to where Dad had parked several hours before. We got in, he cranked up the AC, and we headed home.

  The Shawshank Hustle was my dad’s first official race. It was my twenty-sixth. I was also now over halfway done with my 2015 race goal.

  By now, I’d been running for over three and a half years, a fact I still had a hard time wrapping my head around. I had originally started running to lose weight and while I was successful at the start, I was not quite so successful in recent months. But despite that, despite my size, and the number on the scale, I’d completed dozens of 5Ks, multiple 10Ks, and three half marathons.

  What would have happened had I not heeded that original email my sister sent me, expressing concern for my health? Where would I be? Would I still be?

  Oh, sure. Some of the time, it sucked. Running is fucking hard. Not all runs are wonderful; some are downright awful and make me want to quit running altogether. But then I have runs like this one, where I get to spend a weekend with my dad, have a small road trip, get one step closer to my 2015 running goal, log some miles, and visit the setting of one of my favorite films based on a book by one of my favorite authors. Well, I guess it’s like Stephen King wrote: It always comes down to just two choices. Get busy living or get busy dying.

  18

  The Tortoise and the Hares

  An unexpected benefit to being named an Ambassador for the 2015 Cleveland Half Marathon was that it gave me the opportunity to connect with some amazing other runners. And by “amazing” I mean fast. And by “fast” I mean these are individuals who are literally twice as fast as I am: in the 3 hours and 46 minutes it took me to run 13.1 miles in 2015, these speed demons were finishing up 26.2.

  One in particular had her eye on the big prize. In the short time that I had come to know Jamie, I had quickly become inspired by her story. Like me, Jamie had once weighed over 300 pounds and had lost a significant amount of weight. Unlike me, Jamie has managed to keep it all off all these years later. She’s also a beast and had set her sights on Boston. Her qualifying race would (hopefully) be the 2015 Akron Marathon, held in September.

  Those of us who know her—and especially those of us who have run and trained alongside her—wanted to be there for Jamie when she crossed the finish line. Some of the other Ambassadors were also running either the Akron Half or Full and we realized this would be a perfect opportunity for a Family Reunion of sorts. Unfortunately, not all of us were in a position to sign up for any of the big races. We either didn’t have the time to train, or were training for another long distance race after Akron, or we just didn’t have the funds.

  It was Andrew who first presented the idea of a relay team. Akron, like many cities, offers the Marathon option as a team activity. In this case, five people take turns each running a specific section, or leg, of the full distance. Your final time is a group effort and your place depends entirely on how fast (or slow) your other teammates are.

  When the idea of a Relay Team was first brought up, it was the height of summer and I was in the process of mapping out my races for the second half of the year. In January, I had committed to my 2015 racing goal, and as rates are cheaper the further out you sign up, registering months in advance was always a good idea. September was a month I was struggling with to find a race that fit my schedule, so when a call went out into the group to see if anyone would be interested in doing the relay, I immediately indicated my interest.

  Going in, my team was fully aware of the fact that I am nowhere near as fast as them. In fact, I’m downright slow. During the winter and spring months, as we followed each other’s training progress for Cleveland, they knew that I was hoping to run a 3:30 half, a sluggish pace for these speed demons. I felt it necessary to reiterate to them that I’m slow. Not in a self-deprecating kind of way; just in a matter-of-fact kind of way.

  For Akron, I’d be running the fourth leg of our relay, which was 3.6 miles, a distance that at this point I felt fairly comfortable with; so, my training was halfhearted and haphazard at best. It was also summer, which meant that the heat and humidity contributed to this slow runner running even more slowly than usual. My running related social media posts increased as I lamented 17- and 18-minute miles. I’ve never been embarrassed by my speed, but I also didn’t want to be in a position where I felt like I was holding the rest of the group back. Race days can be unpredictable and while I tend to run faster during a race than I do during training, if experience has taught me anything, it’s that shit happens out on the course. I could have trained with the best of them and been at the top of my game, but come race day there was no way of knowing if I’d get injured, or if Mother Nature would decide to wreak havoc. So my decision to post my slower times wasn’t about looking for validation or encouragement from fellower runners; it was more about making sure, really making sure, that my team knew exactly what they had signed up for when they asked me to to join them.

  As far as marathons go, Akron is still a relative baby, with its inaugural event dating only to 2003 (versus nearby Cleveland, which will be celebrating its fortieth year in 2017). That said, in its relatively short lifespan, Akron has grown from a local race with 3,775 participants to a national sporting event with tens of thousands of runners descending on Northeast Ohio each year.

  While the half marathon distance wasn’t added until 2007, there has always been some form of a relay at Akron. In 2003 and 2004, the race hosted the Nor
th American Men’s Marathon Relay Championships, as well as the USA Track & Field National Club Marathon Relay Championships. The relay got so large that it sold out in 2009, and in 2011 it was ranked as the largest United States marathon relay by Running USA.

  Akron is also one of the few marathons that continues to employ a blue line painted on the street to mark the course. The race organizers take their blue line seriously, branding it on everything from swag, to the floor of the Expo, to even locally made doughnuts with blue stripes of frosting. Needless to say, running the Blue Line endears runners and gives those that finish a sense of pride they don’t always get at other races.

  The week leading up to the race I was fighting off a cold, which is never fun, especially when you have an impending race. I’ve raced sick before and really didn’t want to have to do it again, especially when there were other people counting on me. Luckily my manager knew about the race, so when I asked to take a sick day that Friday in order to give my body time to rest, she was totally on board.

  Not working the day before the race not only gave me a chance to take it easy, but it also meant I got to pick up my packet earlier than originally planned along with a new pair of running shoes at the Expo. Downtown Akron was buzzing with that infectious energy that all runners carry with them in the hours before a race. The city and the Expo in particular, was electric with it.

  I knew that the other Cleveland Ambassadors running on Saturday would be floating in and out of the Expo at some point during the day, but I only managed to cross paths with Andrew. It had been months since we’d seen each other in person and, even then, we’d only met maybe twice before. But running always brings about this intuitive sense of camaraderie and connection. So few people do what we do, that when you find another person who shares a similar level of passion you instantly bond and things like time and distance lose all meaning.