It's 5:30 on a Saturday morning and instead of getting ready to run before heading into a day's worth of track club volunteering, I'm sitting in front of the computer trying to figure out what to do with myself.
Yesterday evening I saw a local TV station van pull into Miramar Lake. I assumed, given it was just before 4, they were doing a weather shot, though it did occur to me that they may have caught that "bloodied migrant worker" mentioned in yesterday's post. It turns out a crew was there to report a woman was attacked while jogging on the lake path -- the same path I take at least two or three times a week. And she was attacked at 12:30 in the afternoon, not in the early morning hours when I am usually out there.
My friend Louise called last night to alert me. Anytime someone's attacked while running, you get a little freaked out. "Yeah, but this is my lake," Louise said. I knew immediately what she meant.
Maybe if I weren't coming off such a crappy week, this wouldn't have hit me so hard -- hard enough that I am currently a little scared to get out there alone. I'd been telling people all week about how invigorating it's been to run in cooler temps around the lake under a full moon, humming that 70s song "Moonlight Feels Right" to myself. Now, even waiting until the busiest part of the day is no refuge. Not right now, at least.