Ed. — From the Sunday, March 17, print edition.
VIRGINIA BEACH — I started running when I was a young girl because my dad needed a running buddy for his new exercise regime.
Our early morning runs took us to the outskirts of our small rural town. I liked traveling that way with my dad, but I also enjoyed those occasions when he couldn’t go due to an out-of-town trip.
On those days, I ran by myself, staying closer to the populated areas of town, only drifting a bit when the local stray, a skinny brown dog named Tar, joined me on the route.
Those solitary runs became a daily ritual that lasted well into adulthood. I ran at dawn most days, sometimes with music, often without. I loved my rural road or river’s edge runs not because of the runner’s high people often talk about or because exercising like that propelled my day, although it did. Running alone was as essential to my life as food, but, also, it was dangerous.
I had a penchant for running off-the-beaten paths, which proved challenging when I lived in Maple Shade, New Jersey. There, I traversed small-town streets and alleys. It was nice to get to know so many people along the way who, over the years, seemed to time their mornings with my runs. If I didn’t go by one day for some reason, they would let me know I’d been missed the next day. I knew I could knock on those doors for assistance if needed. I never thought it would be.
One Saturday, I ran further than usual and found a path into a small segment of woods separating a neighborhood and a strip shopping center. The dirt path traveled upward to the wood and then onward for almost a mile before it hit civilization again. The first time I found this path, I was in my element, thrilled to find a place like that to make my weekend runs complete.
I was lost in contemplation mode, heading back down the steep incline of the wooded path, when I looked up to find a man dressed in blue coveralls leaning against a tree a few steps away. He had a long, pointed stick in one hand and a large garbage bag in the other. Our eyes locked. Fear sailed up my spine.
“Just picking up garbage on the path,” he said, lifting the stick and the bag like an offering.
“Kids can make a mess of things up here, you know,” he added when I didn’t respond.
He knew I was afraid.
There was a long silence between us before I could breathe to mumble, “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Then I passed him, crossed the creek, and ran into the neighborhood, where I stopped to thank my lucky stars.
He was one of the good guys.
After that, my runs were circumscribed by a sense of danger I hadn’t felt before. It’s not that I was naive or stupid. I liked running alone and preferred doing it where I could feel nature’s expansiveness. For years, I had avoided thinking, “I’m a woman. I shouldn’t go there.”
It’s both tragic and infuriating that throughout our lives, we women must navigate the world according to when and where it’s safe to walk, talk or take an early morning jog. But we must, and we do.
That truth was brought to mind again last month when a young female runner in Georgia was murdered while out for a solitary jog. The story made national news, but the attention quickly turned from the assault itself to the perpetrator’s undocumented migrant status.
In sum, we deflected and moved on. We failed, once again, to see a violent assault against a women for what it is – another limitation of women’s freedoms. As a result, not much gets done to address this issue and female runners everywhere go on lockdown.
These days, I walk rather than run. Getting out and about helps me sort out my day. Both my body and my mind tell me I have to move. It’s a shame something so simple as a walk or a run cannot be done without fear.
The author is a former Virginia Beach Planning Commissioner and college professor. Reach her at leejogger@gmail.com.
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