Sunday's long run was 8 miles. I ran my favorite loop, which is only my favorite when I'm not actually running it -- some challenging hills on this route. I went alone, since my usual running pal C is having some leg pain and stayed home.
No big deal, I usually run alone anyway. But the story of
Chelsea King was lurking in the back of my mind. On Sunday, she was still missing, though everyone was expecting the worst.
What I think of as the "back side" of my 8 mile loop is a country road that actually becomes gravel for a mile or so before heading back to pavement and civilization. Rather remote. As I ran around a curve on this road, I spotted two men just standing on the side of the road. In the middle of nowhere, with no car in sight, just standing there.
At this point, on this day, with the latest headlines screaming in the back of my head, I decided these guys looked like trouble. In hindsight, they just looked like two regular guys, but this could have been a yummy duo of Hugh Jackman and Clive Owen and I would still have thought they were up to no good.
What to do? Turn around, which surely was an invitation to chase (by now my imagination has hit hyperspeed), and I had at least two miles to a house in that direction. Or, keep going and tough it out, with a subdivision maybe 1.5 miles that way.
I kept going, thinking this is stupid in so many ways. Stupid that I've lost that wonderful sense of quiet freedom that comes on long, solitary runs. Stupid that I'm fearful of two guys who are probably no danger to anyone. And stupid that I'm out here all by myself inviting the same kind of trouble that found poor Chelsea.
As I approached the two guys, who by that time were just standing there watching my approach, I called my husband. (I always carry my phone since the time, three years ago, when one of my kids was seriously injured at school and they couldn't reach me -- I was out running.) No, not to tell him I was worried, because he would have charged to the rescue and I wasn't so sure I actually needed rescuing. Yet. I called him so these fellas would hear me on the phone, checking in with someone and giving my location.
The guys just watched me pass, and I saw that they had bikes. One man wore one of those big duster coats, all in black, which just makes me think of Columbine. Once I was a good ways past them, they hopped on the bikes and actually passed me - no words exchanged, not even a direct glance. They probably knew that I had already labeled them as perverted psychopaths on a killing spree and kept away.
I'd like to add that I'm a brown belt (red decided) in martial arts. I've won sparring tournaments, and I'm a tough chick anyway. My husband can testify, since he tried grabbing me from behind early one morning a few weeks ago and I busted him in the nose before realizing what was up. But let's be realistic: the potential harm for one woman vs. two men is astronomical, no matter how many classes you've taken or how tough you think you are. It's just the reality of the world we live in.
Now I'm just so sad. Sad for Chelsea and what her final moments must have been like. And my heart is breaking for her parents. No mom or dad should ever have to outlive their children, and to lose that bright, shiny child in such a terrible way... My heart just breaks.
But I'm also sad for the loss that women feel around the world, that knowledge that yet again it is harder for us to be independent, safe and, dammit, ALONE without worrying for our very lives.
