Still Running by Gill Hunter

Still Running

by Gill Hunter

@gillhunter_eku

I ran two half marathons in the last two weeks. The performances themselves are certainly nothing to write about; I finished way, waaaay back in the pack in both races. I could write about the uniqueness of the races or courses – both were first-time events, both were hilly, and both were definitely scenic. On November 2nd, I ran in the Shakertown Half Marathon, the first trail race I’ve run, and my slowest ever. I was faster, but by no means fast, on November 16th, when I ran the Renfro Rock ’n Run Half Marathon.

I can spin those details, right? More time to enjoy the view…. Made sure to get my money’s worth…. Started my recovery run halfway through the race….

The thing is, though, that each time I crossed the finish line, more than an hour after the top runners had finished, it felt like a victory. Because I couldn’t help but think about how far I’d come.

***

I went for a run on July 9th. I didn’t get a particularly early start; I had run Lexington’s annual Bluegrass 10k on July 4th and left for a short vacation with my family the next day. We got back late on the 8th so I slept in a little and moved slowly to start the day. By the time I set out it was nearly 10:00 and the temperature was already climbing. I had envisioned an 8 miler, but cut back those plans, heeding the weatherman’s heat advisory. I still wanted to be tough, though; after all I’m a runner, so I followed a familiar 6 mile route.

That route offers little shade, and the sun beat down. I ended up walking more than I usually do, and by mile 5 or so I didn’t feel very good at all. I decided my blood sugar was low, so I stopped at a hotel about a mile from home and asked for a Coke. Taking pity on me, they gave me one and I sat outside for 5 minutes or so, drinking and hoping things would improve.

Things didn’t improve, so I self-diagnosed some more: my body temperature had to be too high. I went back in to ask for a cold towel. I just needed to do enough to get back home. No one was up front, so I balanced myself at the counter and hollered my request toward the back.

I don’t know what happened next.

I heard a man’s loud voice, “Sir! Sir! We’ve called the paramedics!” I looked up, discovering I was lying flat on my back on the hotel’s hardwood floor. I tried to sit up, but couldn’t really do it. I asked the man to call my wife – I said something like that anyway – and tried to give him her number. He was nervous and I couldn’t talk clearly, but I knew enough to point to my shoe: my wife feared the Road ID tag she bought me would come in handy. On this day it helped save my life.

Two young ladies came around the corner. One brought the towel I had asked for, several of them actually, and the other was pushing a bucket and mop. It was then that I noticed the pain in the back of my head.

Again, I don’t know what happened next. Evidently I drifted in and out of consciousness, with the towel-bearer kneeling behind me, putting pressure on the gash in my head and holding me up as much as she could. She told my wife I was humming/mumbling/singing; I wish I knew the song. The bucket and mop-bearer cleaned up the pool of blood that had poured from my head and – a really good thing – got it cleaned up before my wife showed up. I was thrilled when my wife rushed through the door; it dawned on me that it was a miracle that I was seeing her again. I saw immediately the concern on her face. The paramedics, for whatever reason, didn’t share her concern: 19 minutes after the hotel’s manager called, they still hadn’t arrived. So my wife helped me to the car and we left.

She took me home, helped me get cleaned up a little bit and I sprawled, rather pathetically, on a towel on the floor trying to get the blood to stop flowing from my head. It wouldn’t quit, so I agreed to a trip to the emergency room.

It’s amazing how quickly a patient gets attention when his head is pouring blood. The nurse had never stapled a head closed before, but 5 staples later she considered herself an expert. Two bags of fluids got me to the point where I could at least comfortably sit up. The ER’s biggest concern, though, was my heart. Their thinking was simple, really: lots of people run in the heat, and lots get overheated, but I had passed out, and there had to be a reason.

Multiple blood pressure tests, an EKG, and an Echo test. A brief visit from the cardiologist, a follow-up appointment with another cardiologist, and a treadmill stress test. A baby aspirin every day, avoiding ibuprofen (did I mention the renal failure?), opting for the treadmill when the heat and humidity are high. Lots happened on July 9th, and lots has happened since then. I learned that day – and had to confess it to the cardiologist before he released me from the ER – that I have to be smarter than I am tough. My wife holds me to it, but she doesn’t have to. I now understand that taking care of myself the right way is literally a matter of life and death. I’ll exercise – doctor’s orders, after all – but I won’t be stupid.

And I’m going to race. Well, maybe not race like those at the front of the pack, but I’ll make strides. I’m still running, and I’m competing with myself – especially with what I would be if I weren’t running at all. And I’m steadily and purposefully and carefully, if slowly, running away from what could have been on that day in July.

The Fragility of the Life-Run Balance by Gill Hunter

The Fragility of the Life-Run Balance

by Gill Hunter

Several years ago, I quit running because I started writing. I was in graduate school at Purdue University (Boiler Up!) and starting my dissertation. I had been running off and on for several years, never really seriously, and mostly as a brief diversion from the hours of reading required by a doctorate in literature. I reached my breaking point, though, when I started the dissertation. Every mile made me flinch as I thought, “that’s another page I could have written.” So I backed off, then quit altogether.

The good news is that the writing continued: I finished the dissertation and have the tenure track job teaching college English that we all wanted. But that something gained was unfortunately added to: thirty pounds I hadn’t had before, points on my cholesterol score (come to find out cholesterol’s like golf – the lower your score the better). The something lost – fitness, health, work-life balance – nagged at me. The dissertation-forced break from running became prolonged. I settled in. I was (and still am) very happily married, with two stepdaughters who kept (and keep) me active and filled with joy. For three years I stayed settled in that way.

In other ways I was unsettled, though, and on Christmas Day 2009 I started running again. Just like in every story you’ve heard about starting running, or returning to running, I started slow and kept it short. I wanted to go farther, but really couldn’t. I wanted to go faster – and I think I used to – but couldn’t, and pretty much still can’t. But I ran. I know why I did it, and I’m proud of why I did it, and I know the difference it’s made, to me and, surprisingly, to others. And that difference it’s made is the story I love to share.

First of all, I run because God told me to. Just before Christmas Day 2009, the preacher at my church – my wife’s brother – resigned in order to move and plant a new church. As we struggled to accept his decision, I felt a pull to start a “movement ministry” at our church. I wanted to include – and create – runners and walkers, and I convinced several to join me for some Saturday morning jaunts, a couple charity walks, and a few 5k races. But most of these folks didn’t share my call to run, and I found myself showing up for races and going out for runs alone. So my impetus shifted slightly, and I began to look for ways to build community at races, and among racers, and between friends who didn’t go to my church but were inspired to run. Four half marathons (with a fifth coming at the end of March), a handful of 10k’s, countless 5k’s, a Warrior Dash and a Tough Mudder later, both my community and my motivation are strong.

The rest of that story, then, is the impact running has had on the rest of my life, including, importantly, my teaching. It took very little time to discover that I’m not a talented, or even a good, runner. But I have no trouble now, after three years of mostly productive and always-inspired running, describing myself as committed. The same can be said of my teaching. I’m in my seventeenth year. I’ve followed a winding road that has included a jail, two high schools, and three college campuses, and that has always entertained and along which I’ve strengthened myself through determined perseverance rather than sheer brilliance. Early in every semester I stand before my students and declare to them that I’m no expert. I let them know, instead, that I’m just really interested in the content of a class, in how learning happens, and in them as individuals. This is probably not the stance college professors ordinarily take, as a doctorate might suggest expertise, and classes, maybe stereotypically, indifference. I’m not sure whether running caused my mindset or not, and I don’t know if it’s humility or what, but I much prefer to sit beside my students, to work with them, to understand how they think, what they prefer, how they’re growing and how they see themselves, to standing up in front of a class and acting like I have all the information they want. We slog through the tough stuff together and celebrate when we reach the finish line.

Some of my favorite moments are those few minutes before a class begins, when a small number of students have arrived and we’re waiting for the rest to trickle in. I know what these students do for fun, because I ask them. One reason I ask, I admit, is for the quid-pro-quo of it, so that I can tell them about a race I just ran or have coming up, or explain why one day’s hill repeats make me sorry the next day’s class meets on the fourth floor, or marvel at the way the sun broke through the clouds at exactly the moment I set out for my run the day before. I know some of my students run, too, and sometimes I’ll see them at a race, or hear about their time spent on the track, or check out their new shoes. For these students, and eventually the rest, running becomes a shared metaphor: the semester is a marathon not a sprint; there will be hurdles to be overcome; we spend a lot more time training than we do racing; we have to stretch ourselves in order to get stronger.

I love my job. I mostly teach British and Irish literature and classes for pre-service teachers. The content of these courses – Dickens, Yeats, Woolf, Joyce, Heaney and others in the literature; pedagogy, writing instruction, assessment, reflection, even the Common Core in the classes for education majors – is stuff I love to talk about and the kind of reading I do for pleasure, not just work. Similarly, I love to run. I love that I can run, and I enjoy thinking about it, reading about it and, because I can’t help it, talking about it (which is why I have to often insist to my wife, my most available audience, that I’m not obsessed). My running is best when I approach it the same way I do my job, as an academic and a physical thing. I run or cross-train nearly every day. I stretch most days. I eat way, way better than I used to. And my bookshelves are growing crowded. Arthur Lydiard and Jack Daniels (a little tough to explain to college students exactly who he is) deserve spots next to Virginia Woolf and James Joyce. Each author helps me understand how to push myself, how to embrace difficulty, and how to get the most out of life. In the same way, Born to Run and Running with the Kenyans and What I Talk about When I Talk About Running belong with Wondrous Words and In The Middle and Write Beside Them. They all rely on rich experiences, include unforgettable stories, connect to the mystical, and blend the highest of theory with the most practical of application. So, they do what teachers do.

Maybe there’s a class in there somewhere. But I’m no expert.