A while ago, I "rescued" a lost and confused runner at Busse Woods. I was taking a break at my car between bike laps of the 7.7-mile loop path. She approached me to ask directions. I started describing where she was relative to where she had started, then said, "Wait a minute..." and reached into the car. "Here, let me show you a map in this book I wrote a few years ago."
"The book you wrote?" she asked incredulously. It's pretty funny -- what are the odds of asking directions from some random cyclist and it turns out he wrote a book including the path you're on?
Anyway, as I showed her the map, it dawned on both of us that it would be a long way for her to run back to where she had parked her car. It was one of those 90-95 degree days in July, and she had already run about as far as she was able at the time (she was training for a marathon several months away). Being a much nicer guy in person than I usually am in this blog, I offered to drive her to the parking lot.
She accepted, so I put my bike in the car and cleared the passenger seat for her. In my peripheral vision, I saw her doing something on her phone.
When I told my wife this story later, I mentioned that she was doing something on her phone, "probably texting a friend to say she's getting in a silver Ford Focus with license plate XXXXX and 'If you don't hear from me in 30 minutes call the police.'"
"That's good," my wife said.
I understand that my wife was just thinking about what a woman should do for safety, but come on, it was me this woman was getting into a car with. It's reasonable for the runner to be concerned that I might rape and kill her in the forest preserve, but my wife?