🌄 Expectation in front of the door

I had been looking forward to this meeting for days. Inside me, a special kind of tension was building—a mixture of curiosity, respect, and a quiet hope that I would carry something away from this encounter that would leave a mark on me. Questions were echoing in my mind, questions that had been accumulating for a long time: How does she do it? What is her secret? How does a person survive everything life throws at them and still remain so bright?

When I stepped in front of her door, I felt as though I were at the start of a trail run—my heart was beating faster, my palms were slightly clammy, and my thoughts were scattered. But when the door opened and her smile greeted me, everything settled down. Kazimira possessed that rare ability to dissolve tension with her presence alone, as if someone had turned on a light in a room that had previously been in twilight.

In the kitchen, a table awaited me, prepared with a gentle care that spoke louder than words. “Shall I fry you some eggs? Shall we have a glass of wine?” she asked in a voice that was both playful and maternal. Beside a photo of her late husband Miloš, she softly added: “My Miloš is always with me.”

In that moment, I knew I wouldn’t be asking those typical questions that an interview expects. I felt that she wanted company, not an analysis. And I decided to give her what she truly needed—time, attention, and warmth.

🏅 Stories, memories, and those wounds that remain

Her joy at my visit was almost childlike. It was as if she wanted to open all the drawers of her life in a single afternoon and show me everything hidden inside them. She guided me from trophies to medals, from photographs to small keepsakes that held priceless value for her.

Every story was told with a passion that only people who have truly lived possess. When I asked her how she manages all of it—the running, the willpower, the indestructible energy—I expected some special secret. But her answer was so simple it almost took my breath away: “You grit your teeth when times are tough, and you keep going. Even bad times eventually pass.”

Hearing those words, I felt there was more truth in them than in many a book on motivation.

Only when she spoke of her late son did her voice break in that quiet, barely noticeable pain that only mothers carry. There were wounds that time does not heal, but merely covers with a gentle layer of memories.

Several times she interrupted the conversation to ask: “May I read you a poem?” And I always said yes. She read from her favorite book, in a voice filled with reverence for every word. And I promised her that I would find the author she admired so much. And I kept that promise.

When we made our way to the piano, I saw something awaken inside her. The fingers of 92-year-old Kazimira glided over the keys with an incredible lightness, as if returning home. Her face glowed—she was playing for someone, not just for herself, and that meant more to her than she would admit.

Taking photos was a constant theme. “We’ll take a picture here, we’ll take a picture there, wait until I comb my hair properly.” Her hugs were soft, genuine, full of that warmth that cannot be faked.

And then there was that story from a mountain trail race—when she got lost because the route markers had been taken down. Her husband was waiting for her in the valley, frightened, while she emerged from a completely different direction, smiling and filled with a new story. That was who she was—unstoppable.

❤️ Kazimira – a heart that sees only the good

Kazimira is not just the oldest runner. She is a person who sees the good where others no longer notice it. Everything bad that had happened to her, she accepted as part of the journey, not as an injustice. Her will to live was contagious, and her attitude toward people was so pure that it almost caught you off guard.

The hours in her company passed too quickly. We talked about her beginnings, about family, about a life that was full of ups and downs. Yet through it all shone a special kind of light—the kind found in people who have accepted life just as it is.

When it was time to say goodbye, she placed her book in my hands with a dedication: “My favorite words are Love and Thank you.”

Those words hit me deeper than I had expected. I saw how deeply she wished for our time together not to end. How much loneliness was hidden behind her thousand activities. How much longing for simple human closeness.

Her hugs were long, sincere, almost pleading. And in them I felt something that moved me—a desire to be there again, to bring her what she desires most: company, conversation, presence.

Kazimira, I will come back soon.