Chivalry ≠ Dead

I’ve been keeping my running routes different, for variety is the spice of life. Also because Marion freaks me out. I’m convinced if you’re going to be stalked and killed by a crazy person, it WILL happen here. Brooklyn: not scary. Harlem: Good kids. Cambodia: probably won’t be scared there either. Marion: Occasionally terrified of being by myself.

Last Thursday, I was inventing what I thought was going to end up being a five mile jaunt. After about an hour, I realized that I had absolutely no clue where I was. Seeing what appeared to be a public park (clues: big brown sign with yellow pant, playground equipment) I shrugged and decided to run what I interpreted as a trail.

After 60 paces, I realized I was in backwoods, Indiana. The mental image was as follows: “Ohmigod, the KKK is rallying here while guys with no teeth are fishing for crawdad in the river and wayward adolescents not bound for Indiana Wesleyan are making meth in this former spot of historic lynchings.”

As I snapped out of my internal dialogue, I looked up to a worsened reality. A giant Grant County Correctional Office van stopped my 7.5 mile an hour pace. 30 male prisoners were standing around as a cop talked on his cell phone. Panting, I froze, unsure of my next step. Turn around? Run past them? Ironically, Gwen was telling me (via iPod) that if “I could escape/ invent a place that’s my own world/ and I would be your favorite girl…”.

“Ah, Crap,” I thought. This was the day I chose the running shorts with “Concordia” printed in huge maroon letters across the ass. Jeering, leering and cheering – I received a warm welcome to exercise hour, and a gleeful salute to my alma mater. Unwilling to take another step, the cop stepped forward as I gestured him to come talk to me.

Attempting to help me back to Keal Avenue, the cop stuttered, unsure. A booming voice commanded my next move from the abandoned three-legged picnic table hosting at least seven tattooed offenders. “Babycakes. You want to take the trail back outta here. Left on boots. Right on Washington…” He continued to give me instructions and as soon as I possibly could, I plugged Gwen back in.

“Thanks!” I squealed in my nervous politeness before my sarcastic side finally showed up. “Stay out of trouble, guys!” I ordered, a la Doris Day playing a WWII nurse or something. Except this was no Bing Crosby musical; these were convicted felons. “Ah, Crap,” I thought as I sprinted out of the park.