The Long Running Life of Helena Zigon: A True Story in 21 Kilometers

By Jasmina Kozina Praprotnik

Anthropologist Jasmina Praprotnik met Helena Zigon while running. Over the course of an icy Slovenian winter, the two marathon runners got together frequently, and Zigon told Praprotnik about her life. Here, Praprotnik tells Zigon's captivating story in Zigon's own voice. Each chapter is marked by a kilometer of the half-marathon Zigon ran along the Adriatic Sea on her eighty-sixth birthday, shortly after losing her husband of sixty years, Stane. Zigon's life spanned most of the twentieth century. She witnessed the Second World War, the rise and fall of Yugoslavia, and the founding of the new state of Slovenia. Abandoned by her parents and having grown up poor and mistreated by her stepmother, Zigon demonstrates the stoic resilience of a long-suffering Slavic woman. Though beset with challenges, she found a source of strength in the act of running. From a young girl running errands to an old woman running in the face of new grief, running has been a bright thread braided throughout her life. It has served her as a balm and a joy—one that she is grateful to still be able to savor. This inspirational memoir will appeal to general readers, especially those interested in history and running.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Northern Illinois University Press
• Release date: Oct 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781609092313

Book preview

KILOMETER ONE

EACH STEP COUNTS

AND SO I RUN THE FIRST METER of the first kilometer of the last half marathon of my life. The course is not wide and the runners are practically touching each other. We’re almost like the colorful houses in Slovenia’s bucolic seaside town of Piran, situated on the shore by the Adriatic Sea, so reminiscent of Venice, which by boat is actually not far away: each house for itself, but each right next to the other, thus providing support to his neighbor on either side. I like my fellow runners, because they give me the feeling that I could rely on them if I needed to. I also like the supporters on both sides of the road because I can share my joy with them. They enjoy the race so much; it seems as if our energy was flowing into them. My breathing grows faster, my pulse rises, my legs are grateful that they can finally move. I smell the sea. The music at the starting line cheers me on. The atmosphere is pleasant and I feel good. I am actually enjoying it. Maybe I am running a little too fast.

Helena, I say to myself, slow down.

But my legs just carry me. A beautiful run is ahead of me.

I especially look forward to Tartini Square, the main square in Piran. This is a medieval town of fishermen in southwestern Slovenia on the Adriatic Sea. Until the mid-20th century Italian was the dominant language, but was replaced by Slovene as demographics shifted. From Piran you can see Croatia and Italy.

I haven’t been here for such a long time, though I’ve always appreciated its beauty. I certainly never ran through the square, named after the famous Venetian violinist and composer, who was born here. His most famous work is the Devil’s Trill Sonata, a technically very demanding solo violin sonata. According to a legend Tartini was inspired to write the sonata by a dream in which the Devil appeared at the foot of his bed playing the violin. Regardless of the Devil, I love this energetic sonata.

Remembering it and running now, shoulder to shoulder in a large group of competitors, I feel sheer happiness for the first time in three weeks. The feeling, though still rather faint, is a blessed balm for my heart. As I run, I observe the old town, which, despite all the storms and waves banging against its shores, has persisted for centuries and stands before me in all its glory.

Have I trained enough? I ask myself.

When Stane was still alive and before I broke two ribs, I was extremely diligent. Before training, I decided on the distance I wanted to run and I always did it. If for example, I decided to run ten kilometers and after eight kilometers I was tempted to stop, I said to myself:

No, Helena, you said ten.

That was the iron rule.

But twenty-one kilometers today? That is a much longer distance than I have trained for recently, and a lot longer than I feel I can run at the moment. But what can I do? Like a newborn that spends the first days of life sleeping, I will rest tomorrow. Now I must endure. That’s what I decided.

Radojka, my friend and supporter, is running beside me. I wouldn’t be here without her. In my current state, I wouldn’t have been able to arrange everything that was necessary to participate in an event like this, from picking up the number in Koper—the biggest Slovenian coastal town, where my finish line was, to getting to Piran on time. All of this was only possible with Radojka’s help, and her company. I am very lucky to have her.

I met Radojka in a recreational running group I joined, named Polet, and she immediately became my favorite running partner. We both felt that we somehow belonged together, and we began to meet, especially for doubles races. We encouraged each other. She often told me that it was hard for her to get going and leave her house, but when she thought about how she would tell me that she didn’t feel like running, she just couldn’t do it. She is twenty-three years younger than me. This morning she put on her shoes, got into the car, and made the long drive to get to my place.

I never had trouble getting out of the house. When I decide to do something, I just do it. I think that’s the smartest way to live. There should be as little procrastination and putting things off as possible, because there’s not a lot of time in life. In truth, there is less and less time, but what counts is what we do in the time we have. And we can do a lot, because in every instant we can take a step.

And each step counts.

Today I’m going to take a lot of steps. My step is getting shorter, approximately half a meter, so I estimate that I am going to take about forty-two thousand steps today.

When Radojka and I train, we run a range of distances, sometimes five, sometimes fifteen kilometers, whatever we decide for that day. The distance depends on whether we are training for a specific event or whether we are just running to maintain our condition. Sometimes I would run a kilometer before we started our run together, just so I would be warmed up. When that happened, Radojka would pretend she was angry, as if it weren’t right that I ran farther than she. But even if I run a kilometer more here and there, she is still younger and faster than me. We both know that I have to make a real effort when running with her if I don’t want to fall behind.

After our training sessions we would go for a coffee at the Strmec mountaineering center and talk about how well we had run and how much we planned to run next time. We also chatted about other things. Several months ago I suggested that we sign up for today’s half-marathon.

All right, she said calmly. Then we’ll have to start training more seriously.

A half-marathon right on my birthday, I said happily the day after we had made the decision. That can’t be a coincidence.

I looked forward to the goal. It was like a gift. I had enough flowers in the garden and Stane took good care of them. I don’t really care for a birthday cake since I can’t eat too much if I want to stay fit for running. So the best gift would be the actual moment when I ran across the finish line. Then I could share a modest celebration of the achievement with Stane and our two daughters and their families.

If only I hadn’t taken the bus the next day! I prefer riding my bicycle through Ljubljana whatever the weather. Though it’s the capital city of Slovenia, Ljubljana is relatively small, without too many hills, and even some good bike lanes. But that afternoon, I had plans to meet my friends Majda, Ana, Ida, and Ruza at the restaurant Pri Jovotu. It was Ruza’s birthday and she wanted us all to go by bus together like we used to do in the old days. I wanted to be with the friends I had known for such a long time, so I consented and left my bike at home.

When the bus pulled up at the bus stop, I didn’t hold on carefully and lost my balance. I fell awkwardly, with my body hitting the seat in front of me. I didn’t even make it to the celebratory lunch that I had been looking forward to. My ribs hurt so much that I had to turn around and go straight home.

If I had only gone on my bike, I complained helplessly to Stane when lying in bed, I wouldn’t have fallen on that bus.

And it only got worse from there. When I couldn’t take the pain anymore, Stane, beside himself with worry, offered me two kinds of pills he took for his illness. He put them on my tongue, and lifting the glass with an exhausted trembling hand, I swallowed them down. Relief came quickly. I actually slept for the next couple of days. Sleeping seemed to help, so I kept taking the pills. Better to simply rest so that my injury, whatever it was, would get better. That’s what I thought anyway.

A couple of days later I decided to get up—Radojka was anxiously waiting for us to continue training—but I felt so dizzy I couldn’t even stand. Stane decided that I needed more professional help than he could offer. An ambulance arrived and took me first to the emergency room and then to the neurosurgery. I was put to bed and neurosurgeons began to circle around me. I lay there several days waiting for them to figure out what was wrong with me, and then I decided to go home. I sensed that my dizziness wasn’t because of my fall, but because I wasn’t used to medication, let alone the strong stuff Stane gave me. The doctors observing me suspected something more serious. I finally insisted that I was going whether they liked it or not. If they didn’t let me, I would leave on my own responsibility. And that’s how I left that place and all those people in white who asked a lot of questions and answered so few. I was happy to return to my precious freedom.

My dear good Stane had wanted to help me with those pills, but it seems I would have been better off without them. I wasn’t angry with him. For more than sixty-six years he had made my life pleasant, and I could easily forgive him this small mistake. Now I had my own medicine, simple pain-relievers. The x-rays had revealed that I had broken two ribs when I had fallen on the bus.

Broken ribs, I fretted. How will I manage to run a half marathon?

I was seriously worried about it, but I said nothing to the doctors. They had enough work asking me questions like what month of the year it was—as if I had completely lost my mind. It’s a good thing to have them, doctors and medicine, but personally I feel a lot better when they are as far away from me as possible. My broken ribs hurt a lot, but I preferred to experience the pain and have a clear mind than risk the confusion I felt after taking Stane’s pills. Because of this incident, my medical record is now filled not only with information about my ribs, but also with something else: dementia. I was worried that I wouldn’t be allowed to drive. It is true that I prefer to cycle, but I am also proud of the freedom of possessing a driver’s license, and, on a practical level, I often have to drive Stane somewhere. What would he do if I lost my driver’s license? Ride on the handlebars? I couldn’t afford to have it taken away.

Coincidentally, my license had to be renewed two days after I left the hospital. I went to take care of all the papers. I was extremely nervous when I went for the medical examination, but the doctor must have recognized me. She asked me when I had run my last marathon and when I would run the next one. Then she checked my eyesight and declared:

"You’re in excellent condition. Enjoy running and driving!"

I still had to take the rest of the tests, but everything went well, and soon I was driving Stane around Ljubljana on a short errand. My right side still hurt and I had to change gears with my left hand, but I could do it, and I felt certain that all was well again. Stane, as always, felt content next to his reliable driver.

So one thing was settled. I had my driver’s license in my pocket. But now another even greater worry hung over my head: how could I possibly run a half marathon? There was still a good month before the race, but I was no longer young. I knew that I needed to accumulate enough training kilometers. There was a time when I wouldn’t have needed to, but things were different now. I had difficulty walking because of my broken ribs. I had to sit down very slowly and in general I moved in a way that an attentive observer would have had trouble believing that I would be capable of making more than a few shuffling steps.

What makes a human being human is walking—moving upright through life, gazing at the stars and at the future. One of the first tasks in a person’s life is to learn to walk and one of the final privileges in the end is simply to lie down. I was determined to not yet satisfy that final privilege: I wanted to run.

Heal yourselves, ribs, I sternly instructed my body. I’m in a hurry. I don’t have much time left. Experience had taught me that such a conversation with the body can actually work.

Around that time, I also got an invitation from Bled. Bled is one of the most beautiful towns in Slovenia, with an Alpine lake resting in a circle of mountains, a castle overlooking the lake, and, in the middle of the lake, a magical island with a church. It is also a place that has great sentimental memories for me personally. The organizer of the Bled Dancing Festival invited me to come to the spring dance and open the whole event by dancing with my chosen partner. Now that would be like old times! How wonderful it would be! The invitation tempted me more than I can say, but I knew it would be more prudent to wait for another invitation next year. What a high price I had to pay for that ride on the bus!

I have to do something to get better as soon as possible, I told myself.

And so I turned down the invitation to the dance. I was determined I mustn’t miss the race. Radojka sensed my determination as well. She called me on the phone and said:

You’re not going to sit at home doing nothing. I’m coming to pick you up.

We went to the same Ljubljana coffee house that we go to after our runs in the city. She lost no time while we waited for our coffee.

You know what, Helena, she said, I can see that you can’t run today, but in two days’ time, we’ll meet at the Slovan stadium and you’ll run one kilometer. You’ll be able to do that.

Do you think I can do that with broken ribs? I felt afraid and excited at the same time. And besides, Radojka, what does one kilometer matter when I have to run twenty-one?

But it was what it was. You don’t argue with a friend. So a week after the day I broke my ribs, I put on my running shoes and, with the encouragement of my good friend, slowly started to cover the distance she had determined. I wouldn’t have been able to do more.

If it hadn’t been for Radojka, I would probably have stopped running years ago. She is a friend in the true sense of the word, the kind who helps you get up and get to work. We only needed to look at each other and we already knew when and where we were going to run. I used to run alone, but as the years passed that got harder and harder. I need to run with someone else. An encouraging word carries me a long way, but ultimately I knew that I would have to do it on my own.

As it turned out, the first little kilometer in the company of my broken ribs was extremely important. Without the first, there can be no second, or third, or the many more after that. I returned home from those training sessions incredibly tired. My abdomen hurt, so did my back, and my arms didn’t obey me. But slowly things began to get better. I knew fully well what my cautious Stane would say when I told him that I hadn’t cancelled my plan for the event in Istria. He still hoped I wasn’t running. It would never have occurred to him that I would start training for a race with such an injury. Let alone for a