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WATCHING MY STEP
Kelly Sokol 09/29/2021
Kelly Sokol 09/29/2021
9.2K
I see the man on the trail three times during a long training run before he
stops me. Each time I perform a safety scan: pale, brown hair, dark eyes, solo,
blue muscle tee and blue shorts. Most of the people running, biking and hiking
the trails at First Landing State Park move with purpose. If not solitary,
they’re in conversation or foot fall rhythm with partners in exercise and
exploration. We share a “good morning” or a quick smile, a nod or wave as we
pass.
Here, in southeastern Virginia where colonists breached the shore in 1607, the
trails traverse thick mud through stumpy swamps and up shifting sandy dunes.
Some trails are sharp with gravel, others are layered in fallen leaves and pine
straw. I’m a shuffler and trail running requires me to focus on lifting my feet
high and placing them deliberately. I trip a lot. Most of the time I catch
myself before hitting the dirt, but I wear my scraped shins and scuffed palms
with pride.
My cadence speeds up. I sip electrolytes and suck down a packet of applesauce.
When I run, I carry everything I need—my route is in my head, my heartrate and
pace read on my wrist. For runs over 10 miles, I wear a small backpack with
water and fuel, and a Ziploc bag with a few squares of toilet paper for
emergencies. A small canister of pepper spray rattles around in the bottom.
I don’t care whether strangers understand my “why” for running, but I do expect
them to let me be. This man isn’t going to do that. I recognize that each time I
encounter him on the trail. I list more details: no headphones or water bottle.
As a woman running alone, I’m always watching. I’ve changed the headphones I
wear from Airpods to Aftershox. The latter don’t go inside my ears. Instead,
they conduct through bone so that I can hear what’s going on around me. Another
expense for safety.
The first time I saw the man, he was talking with someone on the side of the
trail. A half hour later or so, he ran toward me, chatting up a female runner.
Finally, he passed on my left only to stop again 500 yards ahead of me. Maybe
he’s lost. The pandemic flooded First Landing State Park with new hikers,
runners and bikers, and I’m often asked for directions to the park headquarters
or where trails connect. I love helping people make sense of this special place,
a quiet, natural space in the middle of a city of over one million people.
The man waves his pale arms to stop me. I pause my watch, cock my head and say,
“Good morning?” and anticipate his request for directions. I am 10 miles into my
18-mile run and have a full day of Zoom calls, deadlines and parenting ahead.
“I just love running so much,” the man says. He’s lean, not much taller than I.
“So, you know where you’re going?” I ask and restart my watch, picking my pace
back up to a jog.
He keeps stride beside me. “Oh yeah. I’m in town for a fundraising race.” His
voice nears a yell. “You look like you’re out for a long run. You’ve been out
here a long time. What are you training for?”
I want to say, “I prefer running solo. Have a great run,” and either change
direction or speed up. But I know the dangers of the male ego when wounded, and
the relief of a locked deadbolt with the comfort of my rescued shepherd mix at
my feet. Don’t upset him. De-escalate. Adrenaline prickles through my
bloodstream but I keep my voice calm. The Cape Henry Trail is wide and heavily
trafficked. “I signed up for a marathon in two weeks,” I say instead. “I was so
excited for an in-person race I jumped at the opportunity.” Three ultramarathons
loom ahead in the first six months of the new year: two 50ks and one 50-mile
overnight trail race. Less information is always better, so I shush.
“Where is it? The race.”
“The Dismal Swamp.” I hate running in the Dismal Swamp. The course is flat and
paved and boring, nothing like the varied trails I love.
“I love the Dismal Swamp.”
Why is he speaking so loudly? Is this his normal volume? I nod and keep running,
willing him to peel off and find someone else to run with. I make purposeful eye
contact with every runner and bicyclist who passes me. At the west end of the
Cape Henry Trail, a small side trail, Osthmanthus, winds a beautiful, rooty and
hilly five-kilometer semi-circle. It’s primarily single-track and one of the few
trails spurring off of Cape Henry that I often run without encountering another
person.
“Have a good day and good luck with your race,” I wave. “I’m headed this way.”
“Oh, what trail is that?” he says as he scans the trail markers. “It’s only
another 5k. I’ll run with you.”
My stomach drops. I consider turning back onto the wide, well-traveled Cape
Charles Trail. If I do that, I need to recalculate my route, and my body has
only enough glucose to keep my feet turning over. Also, fuck that. Why should I
have to change my plans? Why didn’t he even phrase it in the form of a question?
I focus on my breath and my nerves settle. I’m strong. I’m loud. I can fight if
necessary. “My husband is meeting me on the trail in a little bit,” I say. I
think of Bella, my frankendog—part shepherd and bull mastiff, part chow, part
cattle dog and 100% lovebug—and wish she could hang for more than 15 miles. No
one bothers me when she tugs at the end of my leash. So, I lean on the existence
of the husband and lie. He’s at home working.
Running, particularly trail running, is one of the safer activities for women.
We’re never entirely safe in our homes, and we’re certainly not safe at bars or
fraternity parties or walking back to our cars or apartments after the sun has
set. And women are far more likely to be assaulted or injured by someone they
know intimately than by a stranger. I have lived that fact, so I should have
been more scared of my ex-boyfriend than I am of this boundaryless stranger. But
we don’t learn backwards. He keeps talking. I stop hearing the words. My ears
are buzzing and I’m too busy watching for a move he shouldn’t make, some break
from the single-plane movement of running. As long as he keeps talking, every
step I take that bends us back to the Cape Henry Trail is a step closer to
safety.
His uncomfortable proximity reminds me of why my running shifted from road to
trail. While I was training for my first ultramarathon, I had to wedge my
training hours within the rest of my life—just like every other recreational
athlete—so, often I started jogging out my front door and had to log anywhere
from 10-20 miles in Norfolk, VA. I frequently ended up on bustling Shore Drive
or Ocean View Boulevard. Twice, cars swerved at me into the bike lane, with the
male drivers laughing as I lunged out of the way. Another time, a man slowed his
pickup truck to a crawl to match my pace, rolled down the passenger side window
and stared at me for more than half a mile.
Finally, I realized it was worth the 20-minute drive to the wooded trails of a
state park. The irony was that the man awaiting me at home during those fraught
Ocean View Boulevard runs—my boyfriend at the time—was a greater danger. It was
the first time, outside of my years playing competitive soccer, that I tasted my
own blood and was dizzy with the ringing in my ears. I excised that boyfriend
from my life. A friend sat in her car in front of my house, one finger poised to
hit call on 911, when I told that man to leave. I changed the locks, blocked his
number and thought that I was safe, and it was over.
The man remains inside an arm’s reach as we pass a wooden bench. I exhale
audibly. We’re only a few hundred yards from the main trail. Soon we’ll
encounter dog walkers and families and other runners. He was originally headed
west on the trail when he stopped me. He should turn right at the trail
junction. I have to make a left turn and run east. He turns right but quickly
doubles-back when he sees I’m moving in the opposite direction.
“You trying to lose me?” he chuckles.
I have learned to never drop my guard. As soon as I eased back into a routine
after that terrifying breakup and began sleeping through the night again, the
notes appeared. Next came frightening text messages and voicemails from a new
number. And then the unwanted gifts. He moved into my neighborhood, a few blocks
away from my home. Fence doors that I knew I’d locked, swung unlatched and open
when I returned home. Then he showed up on Halloween as I handed out candy, his
face obscured and a long object glinting in his hand. He took off when I told
him I was calling the police.
I faced that ex-boyfriend in a courtroom and listened to the judge ask him if a
restraining order would impair his ability to work, and say, “You understand
that if you have any guns, you have to turn them in?” I was unsure whether I
would be granted the opportunity to live my life without threats. He would be
emboldened if the judge didn’t grant the long-term and I would be in more danger
than before. All I asked was to be left alone. My knees were weak and my vision
was blurred as the judge deliberated, finally signing the order. I left the
courtroom with a paper stating legal protection. Thankfully, I haven’t seen him
since. I’m one of the lucky women, the ones for whom a court order is enough.
Still, I live on high alert. Once learned, I can’t unlearn a man’s capability
for violence, his expectation of my attention, and the way the male judge
automatically looked out first for his interests. The running stranger keeps my
pace for another five miles. I am exhausted when I reach the barely noticeable
nameless and unmarked trail that meanders off to my new neighborhood. (Yes, I
moved. I wasn’t going to rely on a piece of paper for protection.) I don’t tell
him where it leads. I only say, “I’m taking this back to the base.” Fort Story
is also at the end of that line. I’m not in the Navy, but he doesn’t need to
know that.
“I haven’t seen that trail,” he says. “How far is it?”
“About five more miles.” Another lie. It is two. Yet, I know instinctively that
if he insists on following me, I will not leave the Cape Henry Trail. The back
trail is too remote. My heart races.
“Shit,” he says, stopping and shaking his head. “My car’s parked at the 64th
Street entrance. That would mean 10 more miles. I’ll let you go.”
I pause to see which direction he takes. He runs a few steps and then stops,
looking both ways over his shoulder. My gelatinous quads move my legs so fast.
All I want is distance between that man and me. A twig snaps behind me. I pull
the Aftershox down on my neck so I’m not distracted by Chaka Khan. I look
around. Nothing. I start running again. I can’t shake the sense that he’s behind
me, so I glance over my shoulder. No one is there. But I catch my foot on a
root. I fall hard, scraping the heels of my hands and my knees. I stand,
relieved that there’s no one around. I dust myself off and run home.
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KELLY SOKOL
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13 COMMENTS
trek 09/30/2021 - 9:42 am
Thank you for sharing this story. Glad you are ok! I have three teenage
daughters and have been learning a lot about how they need to protect
themselves.
Are you able to carry some self defense spray? (would that help?)
Trek 09/30/2021 - 10:03 am
Oh – I missed that sentence the first time…it’s in the bottom of the pack. It’s
sad that you should even have to carry it.
John 10/14/2021 - 5:51 am
Oh gosh, what an idiot! I’m always aware of women running solo on the trail, I
especially don’t like coming up behind them. I try to be especially loud so they
have plenty of notice I’m near and then I move by with a friendly hello and give
them space. Unfortunately, no matter how friendly, to a stranger us men are a
threat on the trail. I wish it wasn’t this way but it’s the sick world we live
in. Sorry for the trauma you’ve lived and for the idiots that don’t think beyond
themselves.
Sarah 09/30/2021 - 9:59 am
Encounters like this are all too common. Even if intentions are totally
innocent, men need to realize that attention like this is 100% inappropriate. I
always carry my pepper spray and know where my exit points are. It shouldn’t
have to be like this but it’s the reality for most women. It’s tiring. Thank you
Kelly for sharing your story, but it’s sad that this story still needs to be
told.
Beverly Young 09/30/2021 - 4:59 pm
Thankful the Lord protected you! I am also pleased with all the stuff you
carried to stop a stalker. You amaze me with how much running you do!
Congratulations on you full filling your goals!!
bud phillips 09/30/2021 - 10:20 am
Thank you for sharing. I am a 74 year old male, and this should be required
reading for ALL males.
RoyS 09/30/2021 - 2:22 pm
Nice comment Bud. I sometimes wonder, is there something proactive we could do
as men to safeguard the roads and trails for others who are threatened? Other
than be the best possible influences we can be on our male running friends?
Melissa 09/30/2021 - 11:25 am
This turned my stomach to read. I know this feeling. I have some similar history
to you (I imagine a lot of us do) and the fear has stayed with me. Wishing you
many uncomplicated runs.
Vix 09/30/2021 - 12:23 pm
Sadly, I bet all women have experienced this in some form or another. It’s so
frustrating and maddening. We don’t want your attention, you don’t have to chat
us up, and if you do happen to be running in the same direction, give us some
space.
CardiacRunner 09/30/2021 - 12:41 pm
I avoid(ed) trails for the reason the writer chooses them. The
trail-less-traveled felt too isolated for my safety. And since I prefer to run
solo (well, me and my pepper spray), not running them is a sacrifice among many
I make as a female runner.
RoyS 09/30/2021 - 2:20 pm
That was so touching. My eyes are wet too. I do understand that this is the kind
of anxiety that women (and some men of course) are forced to go through. As a
male runner who sympathizes, I have this urge to approach every woman runner and
assure them — I’m on your side; if I ever suspected you were in danger, I’d
protect you; I have your back; etc. But of course, that would feel just as
threatening. 🙂 I do the best I can — give female runners a wide berth, don’t
make eye contact or flirty conversation, and change my route if it appears I
would be coming up behind someone or making them uncomfortable.
Ivan L. 09/30/2021 - 5:58 pm
Thanks for sharing. As a man I haven’t considered much about what women go
through (daily). I am more mindful these days about not doing or saying things
that come off as threatening, making people uncomfortable.
Ib Erik Söderblom 12/21/2021 - 5:45 am
Terrible, that you live in a violent culture like that, where physical threat is
the norm.
Comments are closed.
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