Frozen: A Fateful Jog

How I stranded myself one winter’s day at Shawnee Mission Park...

It was an honest mistake, really. A tiny one, at that. But enough to knock me out for a week with bronchitis.

Backtrack to last Saturday morning, when I got up before the sun, suited up in my New Balance winter gear (very “tights” heavy) and headed to Shawnee Mission Park to run the trails. Though physically demanding, this is one of my favorite training activities. You have to be much more alert than when jogging on the street. Thousands of rocks dot the trails, each one itching to send you head over heels. Low branches and felled trees will only let you proceed using ninja trickery. I’ve seen white-tailed deer there multiple times, jump-darting through foresty obstacles with the grace of an ice princess, only stopping to stare at me with their dead-ass scary eyes.

There’s so much going on, it doesn’t even feel like real running. Which is kind of the point. Your average pace slows down as you navigate the woods, but you get a much better workout. A perfect weekend for me begins with an early 7 – 9 mile trail run, fresh coffee and long, hot shower. After that, I can justify any amount of beer and pizza Saturday and Sunday may throw at me.

What happened last Saturday was a debacle, to say the least. The scene played out like an Edgar Allen Poe short story, with myself as the unwitting protagonist.

It began with a hollow echo pulsating throughout the dark morning forest, as the car door to my 2006 Storm Gray Saturn Ion sealed inside of its malicious belly, the very key to its heart, and with a powerful “thump”, the locking mechanism cemented our dear character’s fate.

I locked my keys in my car.

Well, not all of them. In an ingenious and totally unnecessary effort to shed weight, I unclipped my house key from my car key (I only have the two), and without thinking threw the car key in the center console, and put the smaller, lighter house key in my jacket pocket.

Seven miles later, I realized my folly as I stood panting visible breath onto my car window, hand on the door handle, incredulous look at the house key, Holy Shit moment in full effect.

Luckily (the only time you’ll see this word) I was listening to a podcast on my phone, and thus had a means to seek assistance. Unluckily (you had to see it coming) my battery life was at 30% and draining. I took off my glove to call my wife to have her text me our car club information, and quickly realized how cold it was, now that I was standing still. Running in the mid-twenties is fine if you’re bundled up and don’t stop for yoga breaks. But the moment you quit running, and your blood flow normalizes, that layer of sweat inside your gear begins to act like a refrigeration unit. Which sucks when you weigh less than 150 pounds.

Not wanting to waste time, I called Melody’s store directly and she answered in a surprisingly short amount of time. I explained my predicament and without judgment she hung up so she could text me the information.

My first call to the help line was disconnected immediately after the lady asked me for my phone number in case we were disconnected. She never called back. Battery power down to 27 percent.

I called back and was transferred to another individual after failing both voice and dialing prompts. I noticed my fingers trembling as I went to punch in our account number, after the robot lady was unable to understand my voice command. After I gave the man my phone number, I asked if it was company policy to call someone back, of if they just captured our numbers for “for protocol” (I was very proud of this word choice). Though his response was apologetic for his co-worker, his tone gave me the impression that it’d be best if we weren’t disconnected.

I explained my predicament – now twenty or so minutes in – and answered all of his questions about where I was, car make and model, where exactly the keys were and what city I was in. Hey wait, didn’t I just answer that? Still, he transferred me to a pleasant-sounding gentleman who would assist me. If he didn’t live in St. Louis.

This guy then sent me on a whirl-wind tour of operators and lady-robots, none of which seemed to be able to help me. I kept my left glove on and held the phone with it, while my right hand, fully exposed, now beet-red, began tingling somewhat aggressively. For some reason, I began thinking of the winter climates that Bear Grills traveled to for his shows, and vowed to use some of his tactics after I knew that help was on the way.

Finally I had to hang up and call back for a third time, now more than half an hour since ending my run. I could feel the cold sweat on my back and head, compressing against my body. I took my beanie off for a moment, but the cold air, fresh against my noggin, was like sticking my head in the freezer.

I connected with another lady, who was professional, quick and thorough. So much so, that she told me that my account had expired months ago. Why this didn’t elicit a red flag from the previous agents is a mystery.

Once again I dialed Melody and kindly asked her what the eff. She scrambled to find the new number to text me. I couldn’t be too mad at her though, because while searching for it, she was interrupted in the break room and had to tell an employee, “I can’t help you right now because my husband locked himself out of his car and is going to freeze to death”.

Speed dial the same number, enter the new code. My right hand, now basically numb, hurt less than before, but let me know that the thawing out process would be brutal. When confirming my location, I pronounced “Shawnee” as Sylvester Stallone would, the result of a semi-frozen jaw.   

This entire time, I was pacing around the empty parking lot, as all of the shelters were closed for the winter. Even the bathrooms (both men’s and women’s - yes, I checked) were chained shut, and since it’s, you know, a park, there weren’t any places to bunker down. Well there was one…

Help was now on the way! Which was good, seeing as my phone’s battery level was down to twelve percent. Apparently I wasn’t the only one losing steam. I was supposed to receive a text stating how long it would be before help came, but obviously that didn’t occur.

So with no known timeline, I bunkered down it the only place I could: an oversized portable toilet. Now this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill blue crapper that you’d find at a construction site or kid’s soccer field. This bad boy was a deluxe version – coral blue plastic and a doublewide door, with two, count them two, racks of toilet paper. But no hand sanitizer. And yes, it smelled like shit.

This was the only place to hide from the wind, which thanks to great ventilation, wafted the toilet smell into a fury. But it was better than bunkering down in the trees…which I had already tried.

I called Melody to thank her and let her know that things were looking positive – the last call before I’d finally be able to put my glove back on my frozen cherry popsicle of a hand. After relaying the news, she immediately goes into a monologue about downloading the auto app, and blah blah blah (remember, she was in work mode) – I cut her off by meagerly offering up, “I don’t really need a lecture at this particular moment, as I wait for my hand to thaw out while pacing around in a port-a-john”. “Right”, she told me, “Sorry…I love you”.

And that was that. With no idea for an ETA, I had to jump periodically to see through the top vents – my car was about 100 yards uphill. My phone rang again, now more than an hour after my run, which considering what I had to go through to get help, was actually impressively quick.

Dude needed directions. Now you’re kidding me, right? Says he’s not from this side of town. Of course he’s not. My answer to everything was, “In Shawnee Mission Park, by the tennis courts”. I must have said it seven times. If he couldn’t find it with those instructions, I had no plan B – that was the best I could do. Didn’t Elvis die on the toilet?

Miraculously he found me. Sensing my soul’s imminent departure from this world, he offered me a seat in his truck while he worked. I declined because I thought that if my body felt any form of heat, my brain wouldn’t be able to convince it to go back into the wild, to my car - and I didn’t really want to spend the day with this guy.

I turned the car on while he collected my VIN number. I shook his hand and when I thanked him, nothing better than “TUUUYYYSSSS” came out. I shrugged, patted him on the shoulder and turned the heat to eleven.

I had to take the gloves and hat off, but left everything else on. My lower body was actually in decent shape as my running tights did well to wick away moisture. My hands, roaring back to life in front of the heater, were pink and fleshy and ill tempered. My head was already starting to throb.

But you know what they say, a hot shower cures all!

No they don’t, because that’s not at all true. This past week my body has been through a series of symptoms ranging from chills to high fevers, headaches to stomachaches, dizziness to coughing, hacking to sneezing, body pain and the worst, inability to move off of the couch. Just one week, and a Z-pack and an inhaler later, I’m finally excited at the prospect of venturing outside for more than ten minutes.

What have I learned from this debacle? Not much. Barring wearing a spare car key on a chain around my neck Lord of the Rings style, I don’t see much reason for optimism that I won’t repeat this boneheaded move. This is at least the fourth time this year that I’ve locked myself out of my car or house, or straight up lost my keys. I’m like a seven year old.

And don’t forget, I still have a 10-mile trail run to train for in February. With this race, called Psycho Wyco, the challenge is making it to the finish line. With my luck, I’ll be fortunate to enter the starting gate. So cross your fingers and stay by your phone. And if you haven’t heard from me in a while, you might want to swing by. I’ll make you a key.