Run, Safely.

I was taking a writing class a year or so ago and I was tasked with responding to the following prompt: Your personal slice of paradise.

This is what I wrote…

I know what people mean when they say that the seasons put forth a fragrance in the air.

Winter smells like fireplaces and the exhaust of plows. There’s a certain perfume that fills the air just before the snow. Like a crisp apple devoid of flavor. Pretty and tasteless.

Spring smells of promise and hope. The greenest green and flowers just on the precipice of bloom.

Summer smells of moist heat, asphalt, ripe tomatoes, and mint gelato. Parties. Baseball games.

Fall smells like spice and the cusp of change. Crunchy leaves and cider.

I wrap myself in these smells as my sneakers echo off the pavement in the early hours. They fill my nostrils and invigorate my limbs.

My secret world where I rule. The streets are mine and mine alone. I claim the sun, the moon, the wind, as my own. I scoff at litter and overparked cars. I relish the sweat that collects in the curve of my spine and above my top lip.

Sometimes I close my eyes. I listen for it. The sounds of sunrise and awakening. The sounds of dusk and retreat. I listen to Biggie Smalls and Carly Simon and Beethoven and so many books that I lose track of characters and plot lines.

I have no burning desire for speed. Fast is not who I am. I am measured and slow. I am a pacer. My chart is predictable and familiar; barely a spike to be found.

Even when injured, I am available. Present. I am invincible. A force.

My home is not a 900 square foot studio apartment. This is my home. This ever-changing and completely stagnant landscape. This place filled with so many scents that it is nearly assaultive. Nearly, but not really.  This is my place. My zone of comfort. My retreat. My refuge. This place has seen my devastation and elation. I have mourned and celebrated on these streets. I have lost myself and found myself, over and over again.

My response, my piece, my words, came to me almost immediately when the prompt was presented for consideration.

My personal slice of paradise is the road. The asphalt. The track. The dirt. The grass. The sand. Flat land and hilly land. Pastures and mountains. This country and other countries.

Running outside. Jogging. Jog-walking. Limping along slowly, slowed by sore quads and a tender lower back, but fueled by love.

I’ve written about my runs, my jogs, in so many ways on so many occasions. I’ve documented these precious moments so often that I’ve lost count.

And truthfully, I mostly prefer to enjoy this activity solo and when most humans are inside somewhere, or sleeping. And so, my recollection is tested from time to time. Sometimes I strain when I try and remember which turn I took, which side street I tried, or how I snuck in that last quarter mile I needed for my self-imposed goal.

I have memorized one thousand sunrises and one hundred thousand sunsets. I have watched my shadow dance in the glow cast by street lights. I have taken mental photographs of so many different flowers and trees and creatures. The best that nature has to offer, adorned with frost and dew and filth and sometimes, fresh, powdery snow.

I’ve felt the heat of the pavement through the souls of my sneakers and lost feeling in the tips of my fingers. I’ve worn base layers and no layers and headbands and hats and vests and high socks and no socks at all. I’ve gotten bruises and blisters and bumps and scrapes and sprains.

Somehow, even the stifling humidity or the most brutal chill, feels like fresh air and like home and like freedom.

I will never win any races, but every single time I step outside, I pray that I can run as long as my heart desires. That day, that month, for years, until the day I leave this earth.

So, when I hear about runners as the subject of violence, female runners, something deep within me vibrates. An uncontrollable quake. A fear, a rage, a disappointment.

When I read the story about Eliza Fletcher, something broke deep within me. When I read the comments that were posted to one of the first articles I poured over, trying to understand, and well before her tragic death was confirmed, I lost a little more faith in humanity.

Why would she run so early?

Why would she run in that area?

Why didn’t she carry something on her to defend herself?

Why? Why ask those questions? Why damage and criticize and destroy the victim of a senseless crime? Why not demand that the world is a place where women can run safely, no matter the time of day?

I’ve been approached. I’ve been asked if I’m someone who I know, they know I’m not. I’ve been driven by slowly, so slowly that I can feel my heart beating, throbbing in my ears. A year or so ago, a man waited by my local crossing guard for a few days because I had a day off where I ran later than usual, and he was hoping to talk to me.

I’m not adverse to meeting new people and making new friends, but my runs are not an opportunity to do so. That is my time, alone in the world, to just be. To just be before I need to be on and plugged in and social and professional and responsible and accountable. For those moments, I am answerable to me, and me alone.  

I don’t want someone to demand that I be selective with what I wear or how I look at people or to people or what time I run or where I run. I am not reckless or arrogant when I run. I am joyful and yes, on some level, I trust the universe to do right by me. I am hoping for safety and comfort. I am praying for what I do every time I run. Calm. Peace. Disconnection. Connection. Stamina. Happiness. Love.

I run early in the morning.

I run late at night.

I run without weapons.

I run without fear.

I run with joy.

I run because it frees me.

I run to run and not to win.

Women shouldn’t be afraid to run alone.

Stop making excuses.

Stop victim blaming.

Women deserve better.

We all deserve better.

I am #elizafletcher.