I N THE DARK, the headlights cast a distorted version of my silhouette on the industrial building to my left as the vehicle makes its way past me. I’m running along an otherwise desolate road, not far from my house. The car comes to a halt at the stop sign about 300 feet in front of me—and idles.
My legs instinctively slow down, my body reacting before my mind has a chance to catch up. I quickly calculate what to do next. There are no side streets I can turn into—I either have to run past the car or turn around, which would add a few miles to my run that I’m not ready for.
Maybe the driver is just checking his phone, I tell myself. But the broad-shouldered man with a long graying beard at the wheel is waiting for me with the window rolled down, his arm resting in its frame. He starts shouting before I can make sense of the situation: What do I think I am doing, running in the dark?
Am I trying to get killed? My body tenses, anticipating the man’s possible next move. He has daughters my age, he continues, and he’d kill them if they did that.
Could I at least carry this with me, he roars, throwing a key-chain alarm to my feet, then driving off before I have a chance to react. I sprint the last half a mile home, propelled by anxious energy. My inability to focus only fuels my confusion; so does the blue egg-shaped alarm in my trembling hand that I don’t have a clear memory of picking up but am holding nevertheless.
I try to replay in my head how it got there—and why. I have reflective bands on both my arms and my ankles, so drivers can spot me. I use my phone’s light to illuminate the ground in front of me whenever I need to.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
