I N THE DARK , the headlights cast a distorted version of my silhouette on the industrial building to my left as the vehicle makes its way past me. I’m running along an otherwise desolate road, not far from my house. The car comes to a halt at the stop sign about 300 feet in front of me—and idles. My legs instinctively slow down, my body reacting before my mind has a chance to catch up. I quickly calculate what to do next. There are no side streets I can turn into—I either have to run past the car or turn around, which would add a few miles to my run that I’m not ready for. Maybe the driver is just checking his phone, I tell myself. I decide to zip by. But the broad-shouldered man with a long graying beard at the wheel is waiting for me with the window rolled down, his arm resting in its frame. He starts shouting before I can make sense of the situation: What do I think I am doing, running in the dark? Am I trying to get killed? My body tenses, anticipating the man’s possible next move.…