There is no better time to go for a run than 5am. Especially in March.
Two or three mornings a week at the moment, I edge out of bed, creep down the stairs and stand fully naked in the kitchen. The curtains are closed and there’s nobody awake to see me anyway. Then I change into my running things – out of earshot of my partner and sleeping son – and, turning the front door as quietly as I can, slip out.
Stepping into the inky blue dark, I am hit by a cold that is almost more of a taste than a temperature. Still warm from my bed, I meet the soft, earthy tang of dew and mist and soil. A few stars hang in the night sky above. My neighbours’ windows are drawn closed; like eyelids. I am entirely alone. Well, nearly. The magic of an early morning run is also that, even in a city, you can flush out unsuspecting wildlife. Muntjac deer, rabbits, foxes and cats scatter as I turn out of our little estate, run through a nature reserve or across the park. Along the river I hear the hooting of barn owls. Bats swivel through the sky above my head.
As a woman running through the city in the dark before dawn, I feel safe. No, I feel determined to feel safe. Other runners say bright and breezy good mornings or hellos as we pass each other on the towpath or in the gaps between streetlights. I pass men and women, in headscarves and puffa jackets, walking into town to start their shifts. Occasionally, sweaty and wearing a bumbag, I pass groups of students, listing down the centre of the road like ships buffeted by high winds, sliding down from the summit of a night out. At five in the morning, there are few cars on the road, making the air sweet, the world quiet, the hills and asphalt mine to explore. You don’t get that at 11am or 3pm or, God forbid, in a gym.
If there is a danger in this situation, it is not me. I have the right to be outside, in the dark, moving my body, breathing steam. Nobody has the right to hurt, bother, hassle, intimidate or harm me. So I take up space. I get out there. I wave to other women running as a show of solidarity and mutual reassurance. The dark and the outdoors is ours.
Nell Frizzell is the author of The Panic Years
