Nairobi Marathon: In life and on the road, I run my own race

I guess a Kenyan who cannot run must be a private expatriates’ joke. Sort in the same way we believed, as naïve children, that all Chinese people were martial arts experts. Kenyans have proven over and beyond that they can run. Kenya’s contribution to the culture of enduring dominance and excellence in high performance running is about as ingrained as the pyramids are to Egypt.

Kenyans do not think of running as a stereotypical national characteristic, but as cliché as it sounds, the average Kenyan ran a fair bit to and fro and in school. Schooling always involved some running. You had to run around the football field - sometimes for play, many times as punishment. It did not seem to bother the teachers that many were not built for speed. Whether you waddled or galloped, everyone had to run.

Toppled by liberians

In Kenyan households, a common phrase was, “Go run outside.” I would graduate into what I imagined was a sprinter in school. I was relatively faster than my overfed middle-class peers in junior primary, until two Liberian boys showed up. That is when I realised why they called it a sprint.

n high school, I tried distance running, but I never had the patience to put up with the training. The idea of running for an hour seemed incomprehensible. Then I was transferred from a school where a guy who ran five laps around a football pitch was considered fit, to a school where school boys and girls ran fast enough to be crowned World Junior Champions.

In the hilly lush landscape of the then Keiyo District, running had been taken to new heights. What we considered serious training would be a sorry excuse for a warm-up in Chepkorio (Google it)! I learned to appreciate the work that goes into the making of a pro athlete. The work ethic of athletes is stuff of fortitude.

The big names on the scene were Sally Barsosio, Daniel Komen and Samuel Malakwen et al, all World Junior champions in the 90s. In the Mecca of Kenyan running, at St Patrick’s Iten, the champs had to train long and hard. For amateurs, that kind of running would surely kill you.

I made it to the University of Nairobi and joined the rugby side because I thought it would make me popular with the girls. Running fast was at the heart of Mean Machine’s winning formula. In university, as the smallest side in a big boys’ league, running and audacity was a student’s only edge. Most teams consisted of beefy veterans who played formation rugby and hated any activity that involved chasing a ball or a player around the park.

Strong, Daddy

Post college, I would take up the challenge of my first marathon. It was the Lewa Marathon, a run in the wild, through someone’s private ranch and man! Did I talk trash on the eve of the run? My colleagues were guys 10 years senior. I secretly hoped they would not be expecting my company to the end of the race. Everyone was running the 21k, but I insisted on the 42k.

I had a camel water pack strapped to my back to re-hydrate on the go. I raved my engine at 3km and broke from the pack. At 6km, the camel pack on my back had become a beast of a burden weighing me down. My mates caught up with me at 7km and everyone who looked at my face knew that I had blown a gasket. They eventually left me in the wild with the encouraging words, “Strong, daddy!” Hours later, I finally got to the 21k mark and nearly strangled the race official who insisted that the label attached to my vest meant I had do another round.

It was at the Nairobi Stanchart that I eventually completed my first marathon, four and a half hours later. There were no cheering squads, coloured balloons or smiling nurses. The traffic was already gridlocked, drivers clearly agitated by all this running activity. At the gates, the guards shot me a look that said, “Where has this one come from?”

Last weekend, at the Nairobi Marathon, I joined Nairobians for the 13th edition. The 10k section was packed like an ODM rally in Kibera. At about 3km, I noticed this young boy, all of six maybe, in leather shoes, brown trousers and a red T-shirt. He kept running, keeping up with the pack. I lost sight of him as we joined Uhuru Highway, then saw him again at 6km.

Fatigue caused me to forget about him before noticing him ahead of me in the final two-kilometre stretch. He disappeared over the hill to Nyayo Stadium and I never caught sight of him again. Therein was a reason to protect and build more running spaces, if only, so that the kid in a red T-shirt at the Nairobi Marathon could run just because he wanted to.

I am a much slower and laboured runner these days. I am secure enough to watch older white women run past me. Often, there will a 60-year-old or a six-year-old in a road race that I would never be able to keep up with. In life and on the road, I run my own race.