Why can’t we jog freely?

Often in this country, it seems our bodies are not our own. They are for others to paw, caress, titillate, abuse and even disfigure. As certain as I am when I run that my shoe will hit the tarmac with a slap or thud taking me ever further, I’m equally assured that every morning when I run on the streets of this city, a man will hurl foul and abusive language at me.

It’s like clockwork, and I’m sure many women runners can attest to this, which is why during the early morning runs you’ll hardly ever see us solo; we are likely to be in a pair or a group. I’ve observed over the past few weeks that it matters not what time of the day it is, whether it’s still inky black under a bridge or in the full glare of the winter sun – there will be a whistle, low and uncertain at first but shrieking louder and more brazen as you approach.

Read it at the M&G.

Image – M&G