Complaint Box | No, You Can't Run With Me
“Can I run with you?” A bearded guy is feverishly keeping pace with me and yelling over the low volume of my headphones.
I thought the street was deserted. Visions of the worst flashed in unsure: he will tackle me and drag my unconscious body into one of the warehouses lining the sidewalk. I glance behind us. Two of his friends remain on the sidelines by the curb … doubled over in laughter.
This guy is mock-jogging with me. Or is he jog-mocking me? I sigh, point to my headphones and pick up the speed. He falls back. I’m alive, but deeply annoyed.
I’ve been running through different New York neighborhoods for seven years, sometimes seeking out less populated, more dubious routes in commerce for a few moments of solitude. It’s not a prudent move for a single, female jogger but at no time is it more necessary — though, invariably, less prominent — than in the heat of summer.
Nonrunning New Yorkers get claustrophobic starting in July. They go outside. They stomach on street corners. They sit on stoops. They heckle me.
