If I Ever Was Myself

One day I sat in on a class that hosted Joyce Carol Oates, the remarkably prolific Canadian writer whose work I admire. I worked for eighteen years as an English and history teacher in a variety of independent and one public schools, and had gotten to know some of the local literati, some of whom teach at the local colleges. One, my friend Sam, had received a grant to bring Miss Oates to town, and he invited me to the class session she had agreed to meet.

I wasn’t the only person invited of course. There were many others, and they held the class in a large meeting room, the class itself sitting around a long table, with Miss Oates at one end, and I at the other.

She was captivating. A small woman, thin with glasses and a soft-spoken manner, she talked about writing, her life, her life as a writer. At some point in the conversation, she mentioned being younger, and being able to “run 26.2 miles” without feeling the pain of it. Sounded like a runner line to me, but since she was the author of an acclaimed book about boxing, I figured she just knew things.

Later, though, in response to a question about how she occupies the time when she's not teaching or writing or traveling, she gave an answer that could easily have been mine: “I run,” she said. “In fact, I feel most human when I run.”

So do I—I’ve said many times how running even a half-hour makes me feel better every time just for having done it. I’ve talked about the incredible high I’ve felt, running alone in the woods for an hour or two, and then bumping into someone on a bike, say, or hiking. I rant, practically, so stoned from endorphins. My face aches from the grin.

As the class time continued, I kept thinking about running with her, about asking her afterwards if she wanted to go for a run. I figured she had some other engagement, or would think I was maybe just a little weird for asking, or, just maybe, she’d say, “Sure. My shoes are in the car.”

Throughout the class, she had done as any good teacher does—make eye-contact with just about everyone in the room, including me. I always appreciate a good teacher, and she was inspiring and forthright in her discussion. She hates the novel, she said, because it takes too much time and commitment, and the pain she feels when writing one—the pain of trying to get it right on such a large scale (I think it was here she used the 26.2 line)—that pain has become almost more than she can endure. She researches, and researches. And, I thought, she feels human when she runs.

I had, of course, every reason to hang out afterwards to get a word with her. This was my friend Sam’s class, and I had come with his wife Margaret who was a colleague of mine. I hadn’t asked any questions, feeling it was the class and not I that had been granted this opportunity. She had made eye contact with me more than once, so she knew I had been there throughout. Dangit, I even had a tie on.

So I waited my turn. Even if she didn’t go running with me, it was an entrée into a longer conversation, especially to the human-feeling aspect of running, of sweating, of aching, of feeling muscle and bone, dammit. When at last the class had finished thanking her and commenting on something or other, I stepped up to her. I said, “Thank you for coming, that was truly inspirational” (or something equally benign). “I just wondered if you might have time to go for a run.”

She nearly collapsed into herself, stepping away slightly, and murmuring, “No, um, no, it’s very hot down here.” She turned to the door, where the department chair was waiting to move her on to her next gig.

I felt terrible. I had seen her read before, and knew she was shy and reserved. But I scared the shit out of her, I think. Someone said that she’s not used to Southern hospitality, where inviting someone onto your porch for a glass of lemonade isn’t uncommon. She’s a Yankee, and the invitation led her to close up like an apartment door; I could almost hear the locks clicking closed down the jamb.

But I have a hard time with that, since my Southern-ness is suspect; I’ve never liked being lumped in as anything—a man, a West Virginian, a hippy, a runner, whatever it is that confines me into a persona. I just realized that if someone had come up to me after a class, I would have at least talked about running in some way. I thought it a little rude of her not to acknowledge that, or maybe she was, moving to a how’s-the-weather kind of comment that maybe makes it uncomfortable for her. At any rate, I stopped blaming myself, understanding that at least I had a great story to tell.

If I Ever Was Myself

"If I ever was myself, it wasn't that night." Wilco, "Handshake Drugs"

"I feel most human when I run." Joyce Carol Oates