By Meredith Pinkston

April Wallace rolls out of bed much later than she anticipates. It’s a lazy Sunday, Sept. 13, 2015.

She slowly starts to make breakfast for her and her newfound roommates — her boyfriend, Sam, and his son. She became the new resident in August, so this arrangement is still fresh.

The move was not as easy as she thought it would be — just last week she and Sam argued about something that in the grand scheme of things did not matter much. She honestly did not remember what it was even about. They worked through it, and she is happy.

She is happy because they have found a new groove for the weekends. She is happy as she cooks and reads in her pajamas while Sam works and his son plays video games.

She smiles as she plates her breakfast.

The new domestic normal, she thinks.

She eats her breakfast still in her pajamas, and Sam says bye, grabbing his keys, off to meet with a client, a kid being tested for ADHD. Today, he decides to bring his son with him.

April realizes then she has free alone time.

So, she decides to do what she never finds much time for anymore. Run.

She does not put makeup on, wearing long shorts as she laces her typical old running shoes. She grabs her earbuds so she can listen to Zella Day radio. She hops in her car and heads to her normal running route, Lake Fayetteville.

She reaches the park around 1:45 p.m. and begins her run right by the lake. The trail is crawling with families with their kids, cyclists zipping by, and mothers with strollers and dogs. She likes her pace, not too fast or slow, and the weather is more than ideal. Gone with the scorching Southern heat, onto bright warm breeze-filled days. She does not even need a jacket. 

Her phone keeps dinging. Her childhood best friend Maggie keeps texting her updates after giving birth to her precious new son. She slows down to reply every few minutes. Smiling down at her phone as new pictures of the baby boy come and news of a healthy mother. She is happy — happy for Maggie, happy for her future with Sam, happy for the weather, happy for the run.

She receives another few texts about the baby and hits 2.5 miles. The trail is 5.5 miles of beautiful forest, trees covering the cement casting cooling shadows, and stretches of asphalt leading to a shimmering body of water. April reaches the first bend of the trial, shadows covering her. She sees the last family in view passing her.

She looks up from her phone and notices a man is there, standing, in non-athletic clothes. She notices him, and as a single woman jogger, she makes a mental note. She runs alone for most of her runs if not all of them, so she knows the precautions to take. Her music is never blaring. She is aware of her surroundings. She is a woman runner.

What was he wearing?

Cargo pants, a dark T-shirt. A ball cap and sunglasses. A backpack.

What was he doing?

He is just standing there.

The trail is suddenly seemingly empty. She just keeps her head down. She had heard about the homeless population being around trials. And the Botanical Gardens of the Ozarks is only a mile away.

He waves at her with a small grin, looking directly into her eyes. April keeps running.

Do not give him much attention. Do not give him an invitation.

She reaches the tree line of the trail letting go of a breath she did not know she was holding.

But through the echoing of Zella Day’s radio, she hears big heavy footsteps.

The bottom of her stomach drops.

No. No. This cannot be happening.

The epidemic of violence in America against women is a clear problem, with surveys in 2019 revealing that around 71% of women in the United States have experienced street harassment. According to a study done by the University of Manchester, two-thirds of the 498 women who took part in the survey are concerned for their safety while out running, and 68% of women runners have experienced abuse while running.

Women’s habitual thoughts of fear and violence committed against them have become typical, especially for women runners, specifically in light of the horrific murder of Laken Riley. 

Laken, a 22-year-old nursing student at the University of Georgia, went on a morning run by her university’s intramural fields Feb. 22 and never made it back to her apartment. She was later found by the police with blunt-force trauma to the head. She died at the hands of Jose Ibarra, an illegal immigrant, which sparked controversy. Articles flooded the internet, first about the tragic passing of the young woman but then twisted into something else entirely — a political debate. Many articles came out blaming President Joe Biden, using her murder as a reason to vote for former President Donald Trump. Others were angry that Trump commented on the incident.

A woman being attacked is not a political issue. The blame should not be on a political figure, and it should not be on her. It is on the man. 

The blame shifts upon women for many reasons. The Independent Office of Police Conduct explains the reasoning: “These views may be rooted in misogyny, sexism, ableism, and racism. Others may blame victim-survivors in order to cope with hearing about their trauma…making them feel like they are restoring a sense of control and order in a chaotic and unpredictable situation. They might do this by reassuring themselves that ‘because I would never do XYZ, the same thing could never happen to me.’” 

Jackson County, Arkansas, faced a “this could never happen here” moment in 2021 when Sydney Sutherland, a 25-year-old nurse was kidnapped and murdered on her run by 29-year-old Quake Lewellyn, admitting to first hitting her with his car, kidnapping her, raping her and killing her. 

It also was not Eliza Fletcher’s fault when she was kidnapped and murdered while on a jog in September 2022. It was not Karina Vetrano either, a 30-year-old New Yorker who was killed in 2016, along with Vanessa Marcotte who was killed jogging in Massachusetts. These stories flash in the minds of female joggers everywhere, on every run.

Fayetteville Police Department Sergeant Stephen Mauk advises women to become proactive, minimizing the chance of any crime and being conscious, which means not wearing headphones, bringing a weapon and running with a partner. Coach Cole teaches Krav Maga and preaches something similar.

In his many years as a self-defense coach, Cole has worked with countless women who have been harassed or assaulted, and his wish, other than the safety of these women, is that women start to prepare and take self-defense classes before anything happens. To be proactive. Despite women having to be proactive, Mauk explained the protection that runners are guaranteed with the dedicated trail patrol program under the Special Operations Division of the Fayetteville Police Department. The patrolling of the 45 miles of trails is done by patrol officers either in cars, on foot, or utilizing the electric SPIN and VEO bikes. But he later noted his need for his two college daughters to keep their location on their phones for their safety.

Mauk expresses, “There are people who prey upon others everywhere, but being of a sober mind and being smart can help stop it.”

Though, sometimes you are just a woman in the wrong place at the wrong time. The actions and decisions that women must make to stay safe daily might help, but ultimately might not.

And again, unfortunately of these 68% of women who have been harassed, only 5% report.

Madi Mason and Kate Bailey are a part of the 5%.

I am a part of the 5%.

In 2022, Madi and Kate were freshmen at the University of Arkansas. Madi and Kate were finally settling into their dorms in Reid Hall and were getting used to living in Fayetteville, both moving from Dallas, Texas. Both roommates ran track in high school, so running was normal for them.

Madi texted Kate.

“wanna run today?”

“yeah! Just lmk when”

Madi put on her running gear — a Lululemon top and shorts and her Hokas. Kate met Madi at the dorm and off they went. They decided to run around campus, not needing or wanting to go to the Razorback Greenway, a trail through Northwest Arkansas. The trails seemed more dangerous anyway. And they were not training for anything, so there was no need for a long run.

They warmed up with a light walk, talking about their days and schedules, and after a while, they started on the jog.

Madi and Kate felt safe together. In fact, running in pairs is one of the safety precautions recommended by police and suggested by Mauk.

Madi and Kate’s paces don’t match, so Kate speeds up slightly leaving Madi following for a short time. But it didn’t matter how quick the separation was.

Madi turns and sees a white pickup truck slowing down, and the window is rolling down.

Oh no.

The immediate realization of what is about to happen. The man in the truck starts yelling.

Is he trying to catcall me?

She scans for Kate; they need to reconvene. She speeds up to meet Kate, and the truck follows.

The truck follows both for what feels like forever, still yelling incoherent catcalls. Kate and Madi finally find a turn to try to get him off their tails.

“It was freaky because they wouldn’t just leave us alone,” Madi said. “We were literally just running, leave us alone.” It’s small acts such as this that plant the seed to create a culture of fear around running.

Like Madi and Kate, April in 2015 is just running, she wants to be left alone.

So, when she looks over her left shoulder and sees the man with the baseball cap hightailing toward her, she feels sick. He is not running for exercise; he is after her.

She speeds up, but he keeps gaining on her. She is 2 miles in and getting tired. It was supposed to be a lazy Sunday.

Where am I supposed to go?

Nothing is close, her car is 2 miles away, and the Botanical Gardens is 1 mile away.

But the exhaustion gets to her. Seconds later, he catches her. He hooks his arm over her right shoulder bringing her to the asphalt.

Immediately, her head hit the ground. April and the man tumble until he is on top of her. She tries to scream, scratch, claw.

Get him off.

He closes his fist and punches her in the face.

He hit me. Why? Why is he hitting me?

He is hitting her, and all her brain can do is count.

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8.

Her brain loses count then. He starts on the other side. She will not go unconscious. She struggles against him, trying to scream.

“Stop screaming. No one is going to hear you,” he speaks. The first time she heard his voice.

She gets her breath again and screams for help.

I only need one person to hear.

He puts a hand around her throat and over her mouth. Her panic deepens because of his hands.

His hands smell like soil. Why did his hands smell like soil?

Did you dig a grave?

Her brain flashes images of a woman broadcast reporter in Little Rock in 2003, who was murdered in her apartment, she was beaten to death. She was young.

She fought until the end, too.

He keeps readjusting his hands. Squeezing the breath out of her, trying to squeeze the life out of her. Then the horrific realization — there is going to be very little time for her to get away.

This must be what dying feels like.

She needs to find a way to get another breath. She had to make it look like the strangling was working. She stops struggling. She stops screaming. Maybe for the chance he will let up or stop so she can just get one more breath.

For a split second, it seems like it is working.

Then he looks past her, ahead, looking at the trial, as if someone is coming. For April, this is a miracle. Someone can witness this. Someone can call the police.

Someone can help.

But he stands up. He puts his arms under her armpits and begins dragging her to the edge of the trail and the beginning of the thorn-filled forest.

She starts to scream again.

This is my chance.

April screams and screams, but he threatens her. She does not remember what he said, not then and not 9 years later. 

She goes quiet, then she hears the people pass. Her heart drops to the pit of her stomach. He pulls her further and further into the woods while she tries to make her body as heavy as possible.

Make this difficult for him.

He finally stops and shoves her away, and in a struggle, she stands and looks at him. She looks around, she is too disoriented to know where she is, and she is not able to see which direction is the trail.

Then, he does something she never expected, “Are you okay?”

What do you think?

She tells him she is not okay.

“Why did you do that?” she asks him.

He is paranoid, she realizes with his pacing, and he says, “There’s Blacks in the woods with guns.”

He is insane.

He tries to explain they were waiting for her to walk by.

“Maybe that’s my problem,” April spits at him. She is angry. She is disgusted.

“They took my daughter,” he explains. She is finally able to see his face, his sunglasses are gone, and she notices a ring on his finger that reads “Dad.”

He has lost his nerve.

She pulls out her phone and tries to call the police, but he threatens her, so she calls her boyfriend. He asks to call his wife on her phone. She ignores the man. She remembers Sam is at work with a patient.

Pick up, please. Please, please. Pick up.

Sam’s voice comes through her phone, “Hello?”

Her already splintering composure completely snaps. She simply cannot say a word, only a sob escapes her, with one overwhelming horrific thought.

This might be the last time we ever speak.

It is 2016, and the trial is finally ending, and April is thankful. The man who did this to her is finally going away for good. He was caught six weeks after the attack took place. The case went to trial in 2015, and he pleaded not guilty.

He tried to appeal and argue there was insufficient evidence to identify him as the perpetrator or prove that he had the purpose to inflict physical injury or terrorize her. The court disagreed.

She had been public about the attack from the very beginning, first to put pressure on finding the man who was out in the open for six weeks, but then to tell her own story to the public, trying to keep others safe.

But this publicity came with its harmful spotlight for April, with comments on her story from the public blaming her for what happened.

“They said that I must have been running really early or really late,” April said, “sometime when it was super dark and dangerous; with various comments about how stupid it was to run alone, and I should have had a friend or partner. Many said I should have been carrying a gun or weapon. Some people actually even said that my claims could not possibly be true, and I was making the story up for attention.”

Why would someone want attention for that?

Being victim blamed happens to many female victims and can be heard in more common ways, such as a comment about “What was she wearing?” or others, especially regarding sexual assaults, implying that the reason for the abuse or harassment was her fault. Women must first face the fear of running alone, and then, if something does happen be blamed for not “being smart”.

Kate Knox, a woman self-defense coach, tells me about the blame she and the women she works with have faced. She has had her fair share of being harassed on runs while cycling and running. She remembers a man standing 10 feet away from her car at a gas station before work one morning, and when she returned to her car with her fresh coffee, the man sped to her car. Before she could even think, even lock her car door, a police car pulled into the station. It taught her she must be more aware of her surroundings.

But she, similar to many women, has been blamed for the things that happened to her.

“I had a man grope me at a restaurant,” Kate said, “and I was told it was because ‘I must have looked older than I really was.’ I was in my prom dress. I’ve seen a lot of ‘Are you sure?’ attitudes toward women when they’re vocal about what they have experienced and people rationalize or make excuses for the offender’s behavior. It really sucks to see women being invalidated as they try to be open and vulnerable, it sucks to see women having to spend energy defending why they feel what someone did was wrong or how what said person did was wrong.”

“It’s not fair,” April said.

Blaming women for men’s actions is one of the many reasons women do not report, and the blame makes no sense because women are not the only ones being harassed.

It is 2016. April’s case is finishing, and 140 miles away in Little Rock, Arkansas, I am a brace-faced 13-year-old. A minor. A girl. I am on a run with my mother; she walks, and I jog.

She never lets me go alone.

I am not allowed to go to many places alone. We have a compromise on certain places, such as the promenade where I can go with a group or the park with my older sister. But running, I absolutely cannot go without someone.

Not until I am older. When even is older?

I don’t understand my mother’s persistence until we see a blue, beat-up car slow down on the busy street we walk by and pull into the neighborhood right next to our street.

“That was weird,” my mom mumbles.

My mom and I turn onto our street with a steep incline, and I sprint the hill.

I need to get faster for soccer.

But then, the blue, beat-up car turns right onto our street. And I am at the top of the hill. My mom is at the bottom. The car gets closer and closer.

Maybe it will pass?

I am 13, not stupid. I know this will be bad. I feel my anxiety ignite, and suddenly, I am planted to the ground when the car stops right beside me. The window rolls down, I cannot see him, but I know it is a male.

My mother does not waste a second. She sprints up the hill, and before he can open his door, he stomps the gas and shoots up the rest of the street.

So, that is why I do not run alone.

“Run,” Sam pleads with April.

She did not know where the trail was. She did not want to risk it; she did not even know if she could. She did not know the extent of her injuries.

Then, with limited options, she looks at him and asks, “Where is the trail?”

He motions her to the trail as if she were to walk in front of him.

No.

So, instead, he is the one who leads her to the trail and swiftly leaves the scene once she is out of the woods. Sam hangs up to call the police, so does April.

She limps to the Botanical Gardens, the dispatcher asking her question after question, as April looks over her shoulder, terrified. People pass her. She just wants to talk to a uniform.

She sees the police cars, a cop escorts her to the parking lot, as the ambulance arrives at the scene. Sam arrives at the scene seconds later. She has a concussion, she is bruised. She is missing patches of hair. People ask her what happened. What the man looked like.

But her only thought is, I escaped.

I escaped.

Nine years later, I parked my car at the Botanical Gardens and put my running vest on with the water compartment full and pink taser in the left pocket. I normally ran from my parent’s house, which is only around a mile away from Lake Fayetteville, but today, I wanted to try a new route. I tied my shoes and placed only one air pod in my ear. Maybe it was writing this story or my interview with April two days before, but I had become much more aware of my safety, almost hyper-aware. A squirrel scared me on my last run.

Nevertheless, I started my warmup jog. I decided to run toward Lake Fayetteville. The hills seemed much less steep. I planned on running 7 miles, and when I looked at my watch I was already at 0.5 miles. Until I saw a woman with her hands out, she signaled me to stop.

I took out my air pod.

“Hey, I just want to stop and warn you, there’s a man on the trails, and he is really creeping people out,” she continued on and on about him.

I had already heard enough.

“Thanks. I’ll find somewhere else to run,” I said. 

I turned around and walked directly to my car. Flashes of the stories I had been researching raced through my mind. In 2022, 47% of female runners had been assaulted, by 2024 in 2024, the percentage grew by 21%. The women that I had talked to. I walked to my car and took off my vest, with only three words April said in my interview repeating in my head.

“It’s not fair.”