Ich möchte euch Cullen Kuntz vorstellen. Cullen und ich haben uns über den Blog kennengelernt, als er nach Deutschland kam. Per Mail fragte er nach einem passenden Laufverein. Obwohl ich ihm den TV Waldstraße Wiesbaden empfahl, weil er dort als Mittelstreckler sehr gut aufgehoben war, verloren wir uns nicht aus den Augen, sondern wurden – insbesondere durch gemeinsame Läufe – zu Freunden.
Obwohl wir auf unterschiedlichen Kontinenten aufgewachsen sind, verstehen wir uns sehr gut. Neben dem Laufen verbindet uns nicht nur das Schreiben, sondern außerdem fast gleichaltrige Kinder:
Cullen is a writer and runner from the US who lives with his wife and two children near Frankfurt. Previously a 1500-m-specialist, he raced a half marathon this weekend after a three-year-break from competition.
Cullen hat uns einen Gastbeitrag mitgebracht, den ich gerne im Original mit euch teile:
89 Seconds to Midnight: Running in the Dark
Only 4% of the universe can be seen – light reaches the rest, but it passes right through. We call this substance “dark”. In January 2025, the Board of Atomic Scientists moved the Doomsday Clock one second closer to midnight, citing the risk of nuclear war, climate catastrophe, and disruptive technology. 89 seconds remain.
On the edge of town, returning from the woods, I heard the air raid sirens. My stomach clinched and I factored the time it would take to run across town to my children at daycare. My wife was at work with the car.
Two women out walking had stopped on the sidewalk to look at their phones, each sounding the unmistakable tones of a national alert. I searched their passive faces for a sign – no luck.
A block from home, I turned to veer across the road and cut a corner, but an old man was approaching on a bike, and I had to wait. He at least seemed unalarmed.
I turned the key and strode into the living room with muddy shoes, my phone on the table emitting the same unnatural sounds, frothing up the panic that had somewhat settled in my gut.
It was a test – of course it was.
I walked back to the entranceway and shut the open front door. Maybe I would chuckle at myself – not yet.
In the dark.
Some changes happen in the dark. I used not to picture long-range bombers sweeping in like a veil over a brave new world, nor run contingencies of how to reach my family before we die apart. I keep breaking news at arm’s length, but I know what’s afoot – and what’s at stake. A glimpse of hell through the gate keeps my ear out for the hinge’s creak.
I’m just a runner and a writer. I see the world as it is and reflect. But it seems the world I see is made of slivers in the dark. Most of what I pass offers no reflection and can’t be seen.
To run is to move through uncertainty.
Runners delight in gentle suffering and treasure what little they control. To dare to take this step. To take another. Their hands are empty, but their feet are on the ground. Seasons shift, the roads wash out, aches emerge and fall away. They tie their shoes and leave again.
Runners know great beauty because they lose everything. Hurtling past whole worlds, they smell roses and don’t stop. Distant music calls on them to swim for shore at times, but they will tie their body to the mast and sail on.
Things fall apart. Policy shifts on a whim. What is lush can be made barren.
I search for meaning in an uncertain moment. The sound of water after silence. The arc of a bird across the sun. It is enough to keep running.