Now, what kind of runner must bear this hideous burden of proof? To be presumed crazy before sane, and intoxicated before clean? What kind of runner is dragged off his joyous release of energy on the streets and trails of his neighborhood? Well, apparently a barefoot one.

Granted, these policemen – these unwanted and would-be protectors of my person — they did have something going for them. It was 35 degrees outside. Snow lay piled in banks along the sidewalks and road-corners. Yet there I was, this strange young man in running shorts and a sweatshirt, leaping over and atop piles of snow, padding gracefully down ice-encrusted sidewalks. Without shoes. It must have been clear to them, and to the logic of their misplaced assumptions: surely, no sane person would be engaging in such pursuits.

Well, they were wrong. Their premises were wrong. This did not, of course, prevent them from taking control of the situation. Alas, it was a tragedy in which all parties were confused. At first, I thought the officers were being friendly in that ignorant way with which I am so intimately familiar. I’ve been offered rides by many strangers, and apparently the local assumption is that I’m some kind of poor lost kitten, in need of help on his journey home.

So as they pulled over and cracked the door of their police car, I smiled and waved them off. “No, I’m fine,” I said. “I’m running!” In retrospect, they did seem more determined then one’s average do-gooder, but to my peril, I did not notice this at the time.

“Wait,” they called.

“I’m fine,” I repeated. As I passed away and forward, they shouted once more at me to come back, and I miscalculated by ignoring this as well — by speeding up, in fact.

So it was that I entered the short — and as things would end up, final — stretch of my run. A bit of a race with a police car, as it were, although strictly speaking this was not really intended. Stupidly, I thought the officers would give up their offers of uninformed aid when they noticed my obvious competence (I can go fast, you see) and unambiguous obstinacy. But I, too, was operating under misassumptions. These officers were not playing in the mental zone of the good samaritan, but rather that more enticing arena of catch and subdue the crazy person.

In the end there was no subduing. Upon a second rendezvous, the motives of the officers were quite apparent, and I quickly complied, although only against the risks and uncertainties of my alternatives. In the end, what I needed was someone to vouch for me, a duty that my roommate happily performed. And so it was that the exalted release which I normally gain from running transformed into a proverbial slap in the face, a gift from those friends of misunderstood culture.

But this was not all. I was provided with a card that I would do well to keep with me upon all my runs, such that I might “prove myself” to other officers. The compassion! Inexperienced as I am, I’ll offer this (half-serious) warning to cold weather barefoot runners: you are being hunted; travel in packs.