I’ve
owned pepper spray once in my life. I
had decided to go back to school for nursing and was commuting over two hours
each day down to the University of Illinois.
Chicago gas prices were simply ridiculous, and we were living off of a
pretty meager salary. Thus, I forwent
the school parking lot and opted for open spaces along the street. This led to a good twenty-minute walk to
class each morning, but I enjoyed stretching my legs after the long drive.
Our
school was big enough to have it’s own police department and they sent out regular
e-mails to every student whenever something tragic happened. I got at least two forwards a week concerning
robberies, assaults and rapes. As any
good college student would, I often read the first sentence or two and deleted
the e-mails in lieu of my piling papers and exams. However, there was one thing that continued
to catch my eye. Nine out of ten
incidences occurred in the same area and on the same street I walked
everyday. To be honest, I didn’t think
too much of this. I had to go to
class. I had to walk on this
street. So, I just walked.
That
is, until Billy found out.
One
day I nonchalantly mentioned that I was getting annoyed with all these warning e-mails. He asked a few questions and that same
afternoon I found myself with a neon red bottle of pepper spray. We’re talking the kind that is outlawed in
most states; the kind that sprays in all directions instead of a single stream;
the kind that kills (well, almost).
I
hated that thing. I knew, I just knew I
would end up hurting myself more than injuring any attacker. But, Billy asked about it regularly so I
couldn’t just keep it hidden in the glove box.
Instead, I would walk my 4:30am jaunt with my painfully bright bottle
sticking out awkwardly in my right hand.
Hand on the trigger. Ready to
fight.
Today
we decided we might need to find that bottle once again. See, we live in the country now. I’m talking gravel roads, roaming chickens
and decks filled with refrigerators and coaches. We’ve been braving the 30F mornings and
heading out on short runs before we make our way to the office. We typically encounter at least four
growling, drooling dogs a day. They snap
at our ankles and snarl at our skinny legs like we’re juicy pork chops gliding
past their noses. But today, one of the
pit bulls got a little too bold and bit into Billy. Twice. It’s a good thing it was cold because that meant Billy was wearing running tights and wind-pants. Which equaled double protection.
He
was not too happy about this greeting and I simply started crying. (I know what you’re thinking; the pepper
spray really wouldn’t have helped me out.
And you’re right, it wouldn’t have.)
But, Billy promised to be in charge of this one. So, we’re going to search through our boxes
tonight and if we cannot locate it, we’ll be driving into the city before our
next morning run.
Our Minnesota Christmas
Running Group.
