Running Through Insecurity, One 4:30 a.m Run At A Time
Living in a bigger city, there’s almost always someone passing by my house. Driving, biking, running, walking, walking a dog… I don’t live on a “busy” street compared to other areas of the city, but my street sees a good amount of foot traffic.
By now, I’ve been one of those daytime runners, but I have to admit between late May through September I avoid it with everything I’ve got. The weather is 100% my reason, as temps can range from the high 80s to the low 100s, with humidity levels that don’t drop below 60%. With the sun glaring down, running leaves me feeling overheated and dehydrated.
This morning, 43 minutes before the 6:58 a.m. sunrise, the temperature was 82º F with a “real feel” of 90º, and 80% humidity. My run started two hours prior, at 4:30, but the temperature was (unfortunately) the same. Without the sun beating down on me, it’s at least bearable.
I have asthma and allergies. During spring and summer, when everything is coming to life and pollen coats cars like a fresh winter snow, I relegate myself to the treadmill. Running before daybreak never crossed my mind because it wasn’t a solution to my overall problem.
On an average run I’m outside around 45 minutes, somewhere between 2.5–3 miles. During the day, I never gave this a second thought. The time and distance I run is dependent on my pace, the heat, the type of run I’m on, and sometimes my mood.
When temperatures climbed into the 80s and kept climbing, I hung up my running shoes. I hate running on a treadmill. Running inside isn’t realistic for my goals anymore, but the heat can be brutal on my lungs, even with the right combination of asthma medications. So when my husband suggested I get up early to run, it seemed like a good idea.
At first I felt stupid. I should have thought of it on my own. It is the most viable solution. Taking three toddlers on a 2+ mile jog is too cumbersome, even if a triple-jogging stroller existed. My only options were running late at night (something I know I won’t do after a long day with the kids), or running early in the morning before my husband leaves for work.
My first week, I ran with someone. She met me at 4:45 a.m. and we set out, running four days that week. By the end of the week, she admitted it was difficult for her schedule, and I was on my own. My first solo run I went out at 4:30 a.m. About halfway through I realized someone else was on the running path.
This realization on its own wasn’t strange. I had seen other people running or even out walking their dogs that early. It was nice, knowing I wasn’t the only person awake and moving. The other jogger ran past me and turned on an unlit side street, the darkness swallowing up their figure as they pulled away from my slow lope.
The early hour wasn’t devoid of vehicular traffic, either, and I’d seen a handful of cars as I plodded along. I took note of each one, and noticed when the same white van passed me a fourth time. Panic set in. I wasn’t armed, I wasn’t fast, and I was exhausted because I was nearly at the end of my run.
I tried to control my breathing, erratic from the exertion of running past my fitness threshold, and reminded myself I was on my way home. My phone was sharing my location with my husband, and he knew to expect me back soon.
And I made it home just fine. I didn’t see the van again, but it forced me to acknowledge something I hadn’t considered before. Running alone so early in the morning, even on a lighted path, could be dangerous for me.
Now when I set out, I double check for my knife and mace before I go, regardless of whether I’m going alone. This morning, I was alone. I had a long run on the schedule today, trying to make it three miles to see if I’m improving. I ran down the path further than usual, out of my comfort zone and into the darkness.
I don’t wear lights or lighted shoes, and I’m never sure if I should or not. I use a dedicated running path, so wearing lights would be less about being hit by a car and more about alerting someone to my presence. Should I draw attention to myself, or should I stay in the shadows, away from potential dangers? I do often see other joggers with lights of some fashion. None of which, so far, have been other women.
In the darkness, the flashing lights immediately caught my eye. They weren’t moving, just flashing near the ground. Lights on someone’s shoes. So early in the morning, it’s both a relief and a near-paralyzing fear to see someone else.
Thoughts tumble through my head as I draw closer to the person in the shadows. Should I be relieved I’m not alone? Usually the presence of another person is calming, bringing a sense of safety in numbers. Or should I be wary of the other person on the path? It’s so dark, I can’t make out their body language, or see their facial expression.
I slow down, and my hand immediately reaches toward the pocket where my best two defenses are clipped. I chose to be wary, because if it were me, I would not stop in the darkness between streetlights, I would stop where I could see my surroundings.
I passed by without incident, and they started walking in the opposite direction as I ran further, toward the next streetlight in the distance. Not long after, I hit my half-way point and turned back, heading home. I did not see the other person again, but I couldn’t shake the hair-raising feeling I was not alone on the trail.
Back in my living room, the too-cold air conditioning turning the sweat on my skin to a clammy feeling, my breathing finally slowed. Part of me knows I am simply paranoid, but a part of my brain I can’t quiet runs through stories of women who go missing while out on a jog, never to be seen again.
Even in the safety of my home, it isn’t hard to imagine a scenario that doesn’t end well for me. The darkness of an early morning run makes danger seem more possible, even more likely. With the city quiet, most of its residents still fast asleep where I run in the morning, it seems easier for something bad to happen to me.
As children, when we are afraid of the dark, it’s our parents’ job to show us the monsters we fear don’t exist. But growing up, humanity has shown me those monsters are simply hidden inside other people. Shootings, muggings, rape, murder… humans do those things. Bigger cities have more people. More potential monsters, wolves, hiding in sheep’s clothing.
It’s not always about monsters, though. For as much violence and fear as I’ve witnessed, there’s a lot of good in humanity, too. People who are willing to help, people who dedicate their lives to healing and protecting others. The other side of the proverbial coin.
Running in the wee hours of the morning is a simple task. It isn’t fraught with the complications of human behavior, it’s an elementary movement we learn to do instinctually. It’s a survival skill as much as it is an exercise.
I don’t have a fear of anything specific that makes me nervous to run in the morning. I won’t deny that, being a woman, I do have certain fears about being alone outside my home. Not just at night, at any time. I’m not fast enough to outrun someone who tried to hurt me. Running for distance is a painful reminder of how woefully out of shape I have become in recent years.
I live in a world where I’m constantly painted as an easy target for assault because I’m a woman. A world where people have become desperate to survive a pandemic that tears through our lives like scissors through paper. A world where I have someone — three someones — who are counting on me to raise them.
At the end of the day, what I fear most are the fears the darkness makes more likely, more real. It’s the remnant of childhood insecurity I’ve brought into adulthood with me, that evil lurks in the shadows. It is easier to imagine our worst fears at night.
At the same time there’s a hush over the world in the pre-dawn hours that makes running more appealing. Things are quiet, less bright and loud, calm. Nighttime has a stillness that daytime can’t achieve, with the bustling traffic and on-the-go vibe the city gives off.
Even though I’m paranoid, sometimes rightfully so and sometimes not, I still run in the morning. I like to believe the good offsets the bad, and that if I’m careful, nothing will happen to me. I refuse to live in fear of what-ifs. Despite my somewhat mixed-feelings, I prefer my a.m. runs. I enjoy the calm of the early morning, the chance to get my thoughts together as my feet fall in a slow rhythm, the cooler air that precedes the sunrise.
I don’t have a solution for the paranoia, and I know I’m not alone. I’m not sure what I would tell another person sharing these same feelings to help them feel better. For now, I’ll leave my alarm clock set to 4:15 and choose to be optimistic.
