Saint Scott

I don’t mean to be rude to my own father by referring to him as a stalker or a creepy old man but I get a kick out of explaining why I would even go there. And why the explanation is also why I describe him as Saint Scott.

Since I’m not allowed to run alone due to epilepsy, my Dad often follows me in his car. My Mom and others have taken turns in the car and on bikes and my running friends and guides are THE best, don’t get me wrong. But Saint Scott is the pro, the regular. Looking back on my calendar, he’s followed me around 30 times this summer alone. And I’ve run significantly less in recent months since we knew there would be no Chicago Marathon.

I run anywhere from 3 to 8 miles, so if you do the math on let’s say an 8:30 pace plus his 20 minutes of driving to and from home, that’s about an hour each time. An hour out of his day following me around town, figuring out how to keep an eye on me and pulling over in the right spot so as to not slow traffic/cause an accident/piss people off too much. And then there’s the reason he’s there. A handful of times, he’s had to pull over and rush over to my side when I stop. My seizures cause me to simply stop, mid sentence or mid step, confused and unable to continue or know where (or who) I am for a very short time. I don’t fall and I haven’t been injured, luckily, so I move on. Often literally – I’ll continue running.

I smile and joke with neighbors and friends about this routine. If you see an older gentleman following me in a certain kind of car, don’t worry it’s just my Dad. Recently someone who didn’t know me saw this and told one of my friends about it, concerned about “the female runner” (that’s me), being followed. Luckily, the running family here is small enough that she was able to tell her my story and assure her that it’s okay. It’s more than okay. It’s pretty awesome.

Today, Saint Scott not only spent an hour doing the creepy stalker runner’s guide drive, he also also hung out for an hour afterward to talk me through a hard day. Last Friday he followed me for six miles then picked up lunch for us all to share. He’s been retired since 2015, around the time I lost my license due to a change in the seizures. I would not have survived the past five years without his help. Same goes for what I hope is the next 25, at least.

My family has been through hell and back but we still have each other’s backs. Even when you think you see me out there alone, I never am. In any way.