RUNNING
Stop Saying Women Shouldn’t Run Alone
Statistically we’re in far more danger at home
Early Sunday morning, my neighborhood, replete with trendy bars, is snoozing after a raucous late night.
In spring, I love this time of day, dawn’s glow, the gradual warming of skin under the ascending sun.
Down my apartment stairs, across the deserted parking lot of Renee’s Fitness, I run.
Kick a plastic cup, step on a Mardi Gras mask, wave at the cook smoking outside the brunch place.
Running is my religion, I think as I turn onto Jefferson Street, where the Catholics congregate in their grand gothic-revival cathedral.
Past empty office buildings, I savor the sabbatical silence. Until …
“Vroom! Rumble. Rumble. RUMBLE.”
I stiffen, don’t look back. But I hear, feel, the Honda pulling up alongside me. Its driver, a mustachioed man of indeterminate age, says something inaudible over his motor. I force a tight smile (be polite, don’t provoke anger) and a clipped wave (but don’t encourage him).
I say, “No thank you,” then dart across the road, between gas pumps, onto a residential street.
