A Morning Run into Fear

It was a rainy, gray morning when I got ready for my 6:30 a.m. run. I enjoyed running in the rain because it meant I’d be alone, and I loved the feel of cool raindrops hitting my face and body. In the middle of summer, a cooler run was a welcome relief. And the bonus was that there would be few people out—the fair-weather runners and the ambling dog-walkers who took up half the sidewalk and didn’t seem to hear me coming wouldn’t be out. I smiled. This was heaven—a quiet run in the rain alone.

I closed my front door, put on my headphones, and headed down my walkway. A dented, old white van was parked in the middle of the street, motionless. I glanced at the driver through his open window. He had dark hair, pale skin, and appeared to be in his forties. I’d never seen this man or this van before. As he stared, a shiver ran through me. Why wasn’t he moving? I assumed he’d start driving as soon as I passed him. But after I ran by, the van didn’t budge.

I continued down several residential streets until I reached Sheridan Road, a main route leading to the Northwestern University campus. From there, I ran to the university, then looped along the lake and back toward home. I always did this loop twice. After completing the first circuit, I noticed the van again, this time idling on a side street near my house. His hazard lights were on, and he was drifting slowly up the street. He made a U-turn and drove onto another side street, both windows down.

Was he a contractor looking for an address? Was he lost? The van had no markings to suggest it was associated with any business. I looked closely. It was dented and rusty, with an Illinois license plate, although I couldn’t read the number because my glasses were speckled with raindrops. I now wished it wasn’t raining after all.

He pulled into a long circular driveway and paused in front of an elegant home. I couldn’t make out much, only that he lingered there for a few seconds. A moment later, he pulled out of the driveway and crawled down the street to another house, where he pulled into another long driveway.

What was he doing? Why was he moving so slowly?

I turned a corner and jogged down the sidewalk toward the university again, my eyes scanning for any sign of the van. My shoulders slumped when it reappeared. Was he following me? I picked up my pace. He crawled along behind me, then veered left onto a private side street along the lake. Did he turn off because I’d looked back at him?

There was nobody else on the street. No dog walkers or runners. Suddenly, I wished there were other people around. If I needed help, there would be no one nearby. If I ran to someone’s home, they might not be awake. They might not answer the doorbell. I couldn’t remember where the nearest university security camera was. There were no retail stores nearby that I could run to. How long would it take to reach my house if I sprinted? My throat tightened.

“Be safe!” my husband yelled as I opened the front door to leave that morning.

“I’ll be perfectly safe,” I retorted.

“I think you should run with your phone,” he suggested for the one-hundredth time.

“The phone just adds weight. I’ll be fine! You worry too much.”

Now I wished I had my phone. I wished I’d listened to him.

I turned off my music. I wanted to hear everything.

The rain came down harder, and I glanced over my shoulder. The van emerged from the private drive. I tried to run faster, but my limbs felt heavy. My pace slowed.

All the true crime shows we’d been watching lately flooded my mind. Women out jogging disappeared without a trace. Women abducted and murdered. Some had escaped—how had they done it? I tried to recall. One woman reasoned with her kidnapper. Another had called for help from inside a car. And then I remembered something I’d heard in a college class once, that criminals often targeted women who seemed passive, who looked like they wouldn’t fight back. I wasn’t even sure if that was true.

My body shook. Even though I wasn’t far from home, it felt like I was a world away.

The van pulled up alongside me. I wasn’t going to go down without a fight. I narrowed my eyes, clenched my jaw, and stared directly at the driver through his open window. He slowed the van even more, meeting my gaze. Our eyes locked.

Then he held up a newspaper in a blue plastic wrapper. He tossed it onto the front step of the nearest house from his window. 

He was a newspaper-delivery person.

I had been afraid of someone who was just delivering newspapers. He had probably been on this route for a long time, but I’d never noticed him before—perhaps because I’d never been out alone at this time. Being alone, I’d been more vigilant, more fearful.

I wondered how many times in my life I’d made snap judgments about people who posed no threat. And how many times I’d felt afraid when there was no real reason to be.

Embarrassed, my face reddening, I ran home.

When I got back, I ordered a running belt to hold my phone and keys. I didn’t like the feeling of being unsafe, and I didn’t like how afraid I’d been that day. So I started running with this oversized belt. It added weight. It was uncomfortable. But I felt safer.

I’d stuff my phone into the belt, slip my keys into the side pocket, and feel ready to grab either at a moment’s notice. This was my security belt, my sense of safety. I resented having to run with a phone. I wanted to be like the guys who ran without any extra stuff. No wonder they were faster. 

Why did being female mean I was so often afraid? Why couldn’t I just live my life without constantly being on guard? We were taught by our mothers and grandmothers to be vigilant, to be wary, not to walk alone at night. There are people out there who want to hurt you. That’s how we live—with that constant voice in the back of our minds. It’s unfair. It’s exhausting. It’s… just the way things are.

But an odd thing happened. I started seeing the guy in the gray van along my route all the time. Sometimes I’d spot his van several times during a single run. I’d wave at him each time, and he’d wave back, smiling. Eventually, I looked forward to seeing him. I’d scan for that familiar gray color and his slow, careful driving. I think he looked for me too. Seeing his familiar face became a reassurance. 

Now, when I pass his van, I feel strangely… safe. Almost grateful. It’s funny how a complete stranger—a harmless one—ended up reminding me that maybe the world isn’t always out to get me. Sometimes, it’s just people doing their own thing, driving their old vans, delivering newspapers at dawn.

And sometimes, a wave and a smile are all it takes to make you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

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