'Yeah, but this is my lake'
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.
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.
