Safety in numbers

"Hey baby, you have a big ass, but I like it."

That's what I heard while out on a solo run this evening.

I don't run alone much anymore; I used to run exclusively alone because I hated the pressure of trying to keep up with someone else. Plus I preferred the quiet. I never felt unsafe, not even in the dark or that time in broad daylight when a creepy old guy asked if he could take my picture. (I declined.)

Then I joined the clinic at the Running Room three months ago. I was anxious about not being able to keep up and also just the whole social aspect of it. I don't think I really spoke to anyone until our first long run, and partly only then because we were supposed to use the ability to carry on a conversation to gauge whether we were running at the right speed.

Now my pace group knows about my career aspirations, my really bad dates, my insecurities about my body and my favourite flavour of Carb-BOOM (apple cinnamon). And vice versa. I look forward to seeing them because they're the only people I can talk to ad nauseam about negative splits, goal times, and geeky running purchases like Garmins and Fuel Belts. We've taken up stalking Trevor Linden by running past his house every weekend--we're solid.

But I didn't realize until tonight that I count on them for something else: sheer numbers.

No one yells comments like the above at a group of runners. They say good-natured things, like, "You guys are too perky for this ungodly hour!", or, in response to our alert to one another of "Walker up!", said Walker might respond, "...But I wish I were a runner!"

I wasn't that surprised to hear it, honestly. I was running the loop around a soccer field because it's well lit, there are a lot of people around, and the distance is clearly marked. There was a rowdy group of about 20 guys, in their early 20s, playing at one end. It was Friday; they were probably drinking. I saw one guy walk a little ways off the sidelines, unzip his pants and relieve himself. I averted my eyes and kept running.

As I passed the group, someone made the comment about my ass. He didn't yell, but he said it just loud enough that only I would hear. At least I assume it was for me, though I suppose there is the slim chance it was intended for Mr. Can't-Make-It-to-the-Restroom-50-Metres-Away. The rest of the group heard too; they laughed.

Not that this matters one bit, but I don't have a big ass. I have a lot of large other things, but my posterior isn't one of them. Even if it was, it was completely covered by my running jacket.

But that isn't the point, of course. The comment was meant to humiliate me; to point out the fact that he had numbers and I was alone and powerless; to make me feel inadequate and objectified at the same time. I realized all of this, and I took it in stride--literally, I continued on without pausing or looking back. While doing so, I thought about how disgusting it was that I was practised enough to be able to do that. I'd done it once a few years ago when I was running around a different soccer field and a different group of boys felt the need to comment on my ass every time I ran by them. They had something new prepared for each of the 15 laps I did. (I suppose I could have stopped, but I wanted to see who had more stamina.) Come to think of it, I'm not sure what it is about soccer players and my ass. Really, my ass doesn't merit comment.

When I was out of their sight, I stopped running. I didn't want to because I knew that was letting them get the best of me, but I was angry and upset. I wished I had stopped running when he made the comment, walked over to him, and asked him to repeat it to my face. But I knew I wouldn't have done it, even though there had been lots of other people around. It wasn't my physical well-being I was concerned about.

So it was maybe the worst run I've had in months. I walked the rest of the way home, sprinting only when I got too cold or when I thought about spiting the guy's smug face. I ducked behind a tree on a deserted path because I thought I was going to throw up. I've had a rough week or so, and this incident was the last thing I needed tonight. It doesn't lessen my abilities as a runner or self-esteem, but it just makes me sad that I now associate running alone with being vulnerable.

I'll run again on Sunday, but I'll run with the group.