Health - Injuries.
When I chased him to the running trail’s parking lot, he was easy to catch. I pushed him with all of my strength into the side of his car. I wasn’t thinking about the fact that he weighed twice as much as I did, or about the possibility that he could be carrying a weapon. With a heavy thud, he hit the metal door.
His heavy breathing was deafening to me as he shoved me back. It was his last desperate attempt to escape the nightmare that he created for me.
That’s because the man wasn’t on the trail to exercise—he was there to film women using the restroom without their knowledge. And I caught him.
It started in December, when I went out for a run with a good friend. I run almost every day, and for the majority of my life, it’s been my safe place, This Self-Defense Tool Is Already in Your Pocket. Women Deserve to Feel Safe When They Run.
But what happened was anything but ordinary. About a quarter of the way into our run, I stopped at the public restroom. I couldn’t have been squatting over the toilet for more than a few seconds when I noticed someone in the stall next to me holding an iPhone in between the floor and the stall divider.
The camera was filming me. It was hard to believe what I was seeing, but there I was—front and center in the shot in one of my most vulnerable states.
Sometimes when I run, I imagine what I would do in a situation where my safety was threatened. I’ve never had any self-defense training, but I try to imagine myself fighting back in every possible way. I try to reason that I could potentially out-run anyone who attempts to attack me. I could kick him in the crotch. I could punch him in the face. I could make him regret his decision to come after me…I hope.
I actually think this is a fairly common mind game that women play out in their heads, which is pretty devastating when you really think about it. When I was a kid, I was instructed to never talk to strangers. When I was playing sports in grade school, I was told to speak up if a coach was inappropriate. When I left for college, my dad bought me pepper spray and attached it to my dorm keys. The reality is, as a woman, I have been conditioned to live in a somewhat constant state of fear. The degree of fear varies depending on the situation I’m in, but it’s almost always there.
The recent tragedy of Mollie Tibbetts’s death is a devastating reminder of this fear. She was on a run by herself when a man allegedly attacked her and killed her. What happened to Mollie is the ultimate nightmare for every female runner, and a reminder that the fear we experience when we exercise alone is real.
And, unfortunately, stats back up the fact that our fear isn’t exactly unfounded: According to a Runner’s World survey from 2017 of over 2,500 women, nearly one in three say they’ve been followed by someone—whether on foot or in a car—while they were running. What’s more, 43 percent of women say they’ve sometimes, often, or always been honked at, catcalled, or received unsolicited sexual attention on their runs. As a result of these safety concerns, women often find themselves re-thinking the way they run. For instance, only eight percent of women say they run outside at any time, and don’t take into account whether it’s light or dark out. As women, we have been trained to expect the worst and to live with it in.
Until this run, none of those mind games had ever played out in my real life. So when I realized that I was being filmed while going to the bathroom, I reacted. I screamed. I ran. I quickly caught the man filming me and I shoved him hard into the side of his car. I cursed at him with a level of anger that even still makes my blood boil. I wasn’t thinking about the fact that he might have a weapon. All I knew was that he violated me, and I felt like I needed to fight back.
While this was happening, my running partner bravely ran after him with me, and took pictures of his license plate before he shoved me off and drove away.
But my friend wasn’t the only one on his heels—five other women also joined us in the chase. To this day, the quick reaction from my friend and those women is the only thing that has consistently reassured me since this incident took place. Most of them didn’t know who I was, but they reacted to another woman in need, no questions asked.
The man got away, but we were confident in the pursuit. We did, after all, have a picture of his license plate. We filed a report with the police department, and soon made an appointment with the female detective who was assigned to the case.
Two weeks after the incident, I met with her. She took my statement and explained the process. While taking a photo of his license plate was good, she said that there was no way to trace a suspect with the car because the vehicle could belong to anyone. She also explained that the police department was already pursuing a suspect who was tied to a related incident from the previous summer.
My job was to identify the suspect in a photo lineup. The photos were taken from the neck up, and could be several years old. I chose one of the photos almost instantly, sure that the man in the photo was the same man who filmed me.
But the suspect I chose didn’t match the suspect they had in mind. This, as they explained to me, meant that my case would be closed for the time being. At this point, another incident with the same suspect would have to happen in order for the police to have a chance at catching him.
I tried to remain composed while hearing this news, but eventually, the tears started to fall down my face. My chance at some hope or some form of justice was crushed with a few words. In that moment, I felt like I had failed.
How could I not pick out the suspect I saw with my own two eyes? I was positive that the photo I picked was of him. How could I have been wrong? Was this all for nothing?
I’m thankful that the detective sent in a counselor. Because when the incident first occurred, I didn’t think I needed any help. In fact, when the police gave me the victim support pamphlet at the scene, I threw it on the floor of my car. I was convinced I didn’t fall into that category.
At the time, I was angry, and I would not acknowledge the thought that I was a victim. I was a strong, confident sports reporter who traveled all over the world for my job. I was not going to let this creep occupy any more space in my brain—let alone make me feel like I was a victim, when way worse things happen to millions of women every day.
But what I didn’t know was that the anger would eventually fade, and be replaced with bouts of depression. I didn’t know that the fight for my sense of safety was just beginning.
It took some time to realize, but that day in the detective’s office made it clear. This man had violated my sense of privacy and my sense of safety. He attacked me when he pushed me away, and now there was very little chance at catching him.
I thought we had taken all of the correct steps. We had a photo of his license plate, we filed a report immediately, and we had multiple witnesses who saw his face. Unfortunately, that still wasn’t enough to catch him.
I am a victim. It’s even difficult to write now, but it’s true.
Being a victim with very little answers doesn’t mean you can’t fight back. I fought back when I caught him filming me, and I’m still fighting back. And what I learned, through all of this, is that I’m not fighting alone.
My parents, who—though I know it’s painful for them—listen to me break down on the phone, then tell me that I am brave. My husband, who left work immediately to be by my side, runs with me almost every day to make me feel safe. My best friend reminds me during our weekly coffee dates that I am not alone.
So many strong women who didn’t even know me have gone to battle with me at every step, from the pack in the park that chased down my assailant to the counselor who advised me to the female detective, on the case to protect me and future victims.
I don’t think I will ever feel completely safe when I’m alone. Perhaps there will be a day when I stop double checking every corner of every bathroom. Maybe I’ll stop having flashbacks at random moments. Someday I might even go for a run by myself without imagining how I would react if someone attacked me. I’m not there yet. But I’m hopeful.
And even when I feel my own strength ebb, I’ll summon what I can to stand with other victims. So when a friend, shaken by a fight with her partner, calls, I’ll drop what I’m doing and meet her. When I’m doing an interview for a story and the topic turns dark, I will always offer a compassionate ear.
And if I’m on a run and see a woman chasing a man, screaming and swearing, you’d better believe I’m sprinting right after her—no questions asked.
Taylor Dutch is a writer and editor living in Austin, Texas, and a former NCAA track athlete who specializes in fitness, wellness, and endurance sports coverage. Her work has appeared in Runner’s World, SELF, Bicycling, Outside, and Podium Runner.
