After being out for two months with an Achilles injury, I've been dying to get outside and get back into running regularly. And after talking myself out of it time after time for fear of hurting myself again, I finally took advantage of the clear Boone skies and high temperatures: I slipped on a pair of workout shorts, a neon green tank top, Nikes and my headphones, and I hit the road. I left my apartment and headed down Highway 105. My ankle felt sturdy with no pain and I could feel my endorphin levels increasing along with my good mood. It was about this time that a car passed me and did something that caught me off guard...They honked.
I jumped and slowed down to a fast walk. I looked around, trying to spot which driver had honked. And why would they do that? At first, I thought maybe it was a "Hey, you go, kid! I wish I could run! Keep on keepin' on!" But I realized even as I thought this that I didn't feel encouraged at all. Instead, I felt violated.
Let's get something straight: I am aware of the fact that people are going to watch me run if I choose to do so in public. I understand that there are few places in Boone to run where I don't have an audience of some kind, especially if I'm running along main roads. But let's get something else straight: I am not your entertainment.
I felt violated after being honked at because while I was entirely aware that people would see me running (and dying trying to catch my breath), someone had decided that my running was amusing enough to draw attention to it. Didn't they? Or maybe they honked because something happened in traffic. That's what horns are for, right? I started doubting myself. Was it me? Was something about my running funny? Did I jiggle when I ran? Was I sweating too much? Or maybe it was my thighs rubbing together. Did they think something about it was attractive? Sexual? Which was worse? Should I feel honored that they honked? Proud? Ashamed? Embarrassed? What the hell does a honk while running even mean?
A single honk had sent me into a downward spiral of self-consciousness, doubt and self-loathing. In that instant, I hated my body because a complete stranger took it upon themselves to call attention to it without so much as an explanation. They left me there to wonder whether or not the honk was meant to support or degrade; my anxiety happily took the opportunity to point out every flaw in my imperfect, fleshy body.
I finished my run in a walk, music blasting so I wouldn't hear any of the passing traffic—or their horns. My self-esteem was crushed and those endorphins I was working up were completely depleted; I felt sick. And dirty.
I've gone over this scenario multiple times in my head trying to accurately evaluate the situation. But as many times as I tell myself that the honk was simply a traffic gesture, I can't come to honestly believe that. I've been honked at before while running. My little sister has been called "baby" by greasy guys at gas stations. Close girl friends of mine have been followed around at bars. This type of sexual harassment has been a part of my life as a woman for all of my 22 years, and I can't come to believe—now, after society has spent this much time engraining the sexual icon of the female body into my mind—that this particular honk was as simple and as innocent as that.
I'm not done running, of course, but it's going to take some time for my confidence to build up enough courage to run in public again. That one person really got to me. At least cat-callers crudely tell you exactly what they're thinking about you, your body or they're sick fantasies. At least they give you an explanation.
