Free On the Road to Find Out by Rachel Toor Page A

but Joan said I was a “slight overpronator,” which seemed like it could be insulting. She explained that most people either pronated or supinated, and that this had to do with how your foot rolled in or out after you landed.
    The shoes she picked for me were hideous: yellow slabs, with pink and blue stripes, two down, two across. I didn’t mind so much that they were unattractive, but they made my feet look gigantic. There was a nicer, more streamlined purple pair with gray highlights I liked better, but Joan said those weren’t right for me.
    And besides, she said, real runners don’t care what their shoes look like.
    Mom said it was important I not get injured, and it wasn’t a fashion show.
    I pointed out that was easy for her to say, in her Italian leather boots. She rolled her eyes.
    My mother and Joan stood in front of the store and watched me while I ran down the street in different shoes. The best pair felt a whole lot springier than the ones I’d been wearing. I felt like I ran faster than I ever had and that I could keep going for a long time.
    Joan said, “Whoa, there, doggie! Come on back.” She asked if that was my normal pace, and I got embarrassed. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s good to be excited about running. I am!”
    I knew this.
    I could hear it in her voice and see it on her face. Everything about her said she loved running and loved to talk about it.
    We found me a pair of black tights, a long-sleeved shirt with a zipper, a vest that blocked the wind, and some socks. “Never, ever wear cotton socks,” Joan said, “unless you want to end up with blisters. Believe me, I know a thing or two about blisters.”
    She measured my chest, which would have been embarrassing except Joan was easy to be around and nothing seemed like a big deal to her, and fitted me for a sports bra for which I practically had to do yoga to get over my shoulders.
    The back wall of the store was entirely covered with square pieces of paper with numbers on them. Some had names, and some had writing. The word START was painted below the ceiling in big black block letters.
    â€œWhat are all those numbers on the wall?” I asked.
    She smiled. “Ah,” she said. And instead of answering, she went over to a rack of brochures and flyers, pulled one out, and handed it to me.
    â€œAre you busy a week from tomorrow?”
    I was never busy on Sundays.
    I shook my head.
    â€œCan you get up early?”
    â€œIf I have to,” I said. For a teenager, I was an early riser. Jenni didn’t make it out of bed before noon on the weekends, and so I could never count on her to do anything before midday.
    â€œI’m putting on a race—a 10K.” She must have seen that I was confused and said, “That’s 6.2 miles. One of my volunteers just bailed and I need someone to be on the course to help direct runners.” She reached under the counter and pulled a red shirt out of a box with tons of red shirts just like it. It said Red Dress Run on it and had a drawing of a bunch of men and women running, all wearing red dresses. She waved it in front of me and explained that many runners would be wearing red dresses.
    â€œWhy?” I asked.
    â€œBecause it’s fun and funny. And it’s Valentine’s Day,” Joan said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
    I said, “Oh.”
    â€œWould you be willing to work for a shirt?”
    â€œDo I have to wear a dress?”
    â€œNot unless you want to.”
    I thought about it for a minute and said yes, I would. Volunteer. Not wear a red dress.
    Joan rang up our purchases and the total amount was a very high number.
    Mom handed me the bag and said what she always says when she buys me something: “Wear it well.” That’s what her mother used to say to her. I never met my grandmother—she died before I was born—but my mother talks about her,