Tales from the road: Runners share their experiences

Stephen Rogers

I have never been propositioned when I was running. If you saw me barrelling towards you, you would understand why.

I am probably red of face, I am definitely scrawny of limb and wrinkled of skin, and, without blowing my own trumpet, I am probably going too fast to hear what you might be saying anyway.

I’m fairly deaf even without earphones and chief of all the reasons for my lack of catcall is that, as I am constantly being told, even at rest that I have a grumpy face.

So can you imagine my visage when I am four miles into a run? People are more likely to run the other way.

That doesn’t mean, though, that on my thrice weekly half-hour slogs, I am immune to harassment.

And while it is almost always much less sinister than the sexist, sickly, cowardly, small appendaged, lecherous abuse dished out by idiots to women, it does occasionally stray into the unpleasant and downright dangerous.

As a road runner mostly slogging through city areas rather than quiet countryside, I’m well used to the shouts of “run Forrest, run” and the “Niaohhhh” engine sound (OK you try spelling it…).

Such utterances spark irritation inside me and elicit a head-shake and a raised eyebrow.

But what if it goes further?

Several hours after the Liam Miller tribute match — long enough for the crowds to have well dispersed — I was running in vicinity of match venue Páirc Uí Chaoimh.

A couple of hundred metres ahead of me a group of lads were walking towards me.

As I got closer, I could hear from their raised tones that they had enjoyed a few post-match cocktails.

I decided to give a wide berth and ran off the footpath and onto the road well before I got to them.

As I was passing, one suddenly jumped towards me arms aloft and shouted, deliberately trying to shock me into jumping sideways — on a road... with traffic.

Unsurprisingly the car that had been coming up behind me didn’t expect me to jerk sideways either, but thankfully the driver had good reactions and no harm was done.

Shocked, I turned to confront the culprit — all four were laughing uproariously and, when I called out our hero for his bravery, all turned towards me, glaring at my impertinence for not seeing the joke.

With my tail between my legs, I just ran on.

This was at 7pm in the early autumn, so still in a decent amount of daylight.

However, with the impingement of childcare, work, and other time-consuming pastimes, I often find I have to run late at night.

This is when the real heroes come out, very often in packs.

I have on more than one occasion been sworn at — once even spat at — just for being so cheeky as to run in their sight.

I find the presence of girls/women tends to increase the likelihood that they will want to boorishly show-off their masculinity.

Alas, I am not a patient man. My face is not the only part of me that is grumpy and I have been known to stop and confront.

Thankfully, to date, it hasn’t escalated to more than an exchange of expletives — sometimes they have even skulked away when they realise that I am not someone who just ignores their alcohol-inspired witty japes.

But why should I have to?

It is ridiculous that I get such taunts.

But what is more ridiculous is that I am sure many women are completely put off going for a run after dark by such idiocy.

That is just downright unfair. Running, for me, is not just about fitness.

It is about clearing my head, boosting my mood, increasing my feeling of wellbeing.

I’m sure it is the same thing for many people, male and female.

What right have these — I apologise for the language — assholes to take that away from us?

On a lighter note, the shock of a sudden, unexpected outburst can actually work both ways.

Only this week I was running down the road and spotted a neighbour ahead of me.

I greeted her with a salutation as I was passing.

Thing is I had a favourite song blasting in my ears so my judgment of my own voice level was somewhat skewed.

Poor woman nearly had a heart attack.

Roisin Burke

I’ve never had trouble out running the streets, not in Cork, Limerick, or Dublin, the three cities I have lived in Ireland.

I have never been attacked, assaulted, or harassed out and about on a run — and the one time I was seriously verbally abused, I gave as good as I got.

A few academics, if you can call them that, a group of male college students, were taunting me as I ran up a hill, so I shouldered one of them into a ditch.

I was around 25 at the time and I suppose they must have been 21-22.

I still feel bad about it, he got pretty scared. It was unusual for me to act out like that.

I wouldn’t be very reactive, but there is something intensely rude about cat-calling that sets off a very rare form of indignation.

What kind of arrogant, self-entitled, son of a bitch thinks it is acceptable to shout derogatory comments across the street at someone for no apparent reason?

It really gets me.

Thankfully, aside from this one incident, I have remained unscathed from this type of thing.

But just because I haven’t experienced the tough stuff, doesn’t mean I’m living some sort of fairytale existence.

It can be a jungle out there.

Mostly it is the stress of it all, all the dangers that are out there for anyone, but in particular for women.

While I myself have not been attacked, I live and run in fear of just that.

I hear stories of other women assaulted while out innocently jogging and it turns the blood cold.

Going running or even taking out the bike, I go through an emergency checklist.

If running I need my phone strapped to my arm and my housemates need to be informed that I’m heading out and how long I’ll be gone.

And if cycling, I need to be prepared for random comments about my Lycra-wearing arse.

That material is comfortable but unfortunately eye-catching.

These are things I do without thinking because to not do them would be irresponsible, for a woman.

But even on the sunniest of days, in the populated heart of the city, you can have trouble.

It seems there really is no safe time to roam the streets as a female runner.

I can’t count the number of times I changed a route to ensure I got home safely, sometimes warping my milage, adding time, or, God forbid, including an unscheduled hill, just to avoid rowdy men or loitering lads that could potentially prove troublesome.

It is a natural thought process to avoid these situations as a woman and I am led to believe it is not something that crosses the mind of a man exercising on city streets.

It was only through conversation with a male work colleague that I really realised the stark contrast between us in terms of our freedom to frequent running paths and roads at certain times of the day and night.

If I was male, I wouldn’t need an emergency checklist. I could run early morning, late at night without a bother.

If I was a man, I wouldn’t have to listen to worried mutterings from my mother every time she hears I went for a run past 8pm, or took a solo cycle down the coast, because the element of danger is heightened for females.

If you think about it too much, it can be quite frustrating.

At times, I have thrown caution to the wind and taken dark paths or secluded routes, but there is nothing that will increase your heart rate more than the fear that runs through the blood when alone at night on a run through what should be a safe pedestrianised area.

It’s just not worth it.

Groups of youths, drunken individuals, the risk runs from a mouthy comment to an actual assault — and all for what, a 10km run.

Other times I concede to the societal stereotypes of the vulnerable female at risk of attack out alone at night.

I cut my route short, run scheduled sessions in a group, or wait until I can make the gym.

Those are my choices and that’s just the way it is.

I’ve never been assaulted and I want to keep it that way.