Of course, you don’t break world records, like David Rudisha has done, without some analysis and careful thought going into your training. But this process is usually kept from the athletes. “I might spot something in his training that needs changing,” says Brother Colm, “but I won’t discuss it with Rudisha. I’ll just alter the training a bit without him knowing.” For those without a coach, it is the watch that does all the thinking.
“Three, two, one, up,” my companion repeats, and we’re off again, her watch beeping along.
Eventually we catch up with groups of people walking slowly along the road, like stunned survivors making their way from the scene of some terrible catastrophe. All along the dusty road we pass people in sweaty T-shirts, leggings, and running shoes, hands on hips, not talking. They’ve all finished the fartlek, it seems, and they’re walking the rest of the way back to Iten.
My companion doesn’t stop, though. “Three, two, one, up,” she says as her watch beeps again. We weave through the bodies that turn to watch us, the mzungu and the girl, still going. Up the final hill back into Iten I drop back. She is too strong. The altitude still zaps me when I try to run uphill. At the top, she stops and I catch up. She’s walking now. That must be the end.
“Asante sana,” I say, shaking her hand, catching a glimpse of her face for the first time. She looks young, still a teenager. I wonder if she would like to join our Lewa team. She’s about the same speed as me. “Do you run marathons?” I ask.
Her eyes skirt away when I talk, looking down at the ground. I feel like I’m crossing some forbidden barrier. I’m being too friendly. “No, track and field,” she says.
Others, intrigued, are walking next to us now. They’re looking hard at me, as though trying to fathom whether I’m real. We walk in silence the rest of the way back into town. The sun is hot on the back of my neck. I’m tired, but still standing, my first fartlek session done.
Thirteen
The Iten Town Harriers are born. From left to right: Chris, Shadrack, Josphat (crouching), Godfrey, Japhet, Adharanand, Uma, Flora, and Lila
“It’s like we’re going to war,” jokes Godfrey as we pile out from the back of the pickup truck and start stripping down to our shorts and T-shirts. Marietta is scooting around taking photographs, while the children watch sleepy eyed from the truck cab, piles of water bottles on their laps, a bunch of bananas up on the dashboard.
We’re about to set off on our first Lewa Marathon group training run. We’re now officially the Iten Town Harriers. The rest of the team didn’t fully join in the debate about choosing the name, but looked at me blankly as I offered up a number of alternatives. They liked them all, they said. Godfrey tried to humor me and get involved, but his suggestions, the Iten Runners or the Iten Warriors, were made tentatively. It was like asking hardened farmers what color they would like the handles of their shovels to be. These were serious runners and I was drifting into the territory of fun running, coming up with team names. Next I’d be asking them what color vests we should wear. (In the end I made that decision by myself: yellow.)
I’m amazed this team run is happening at all. The night before, Godfrey rang to say that the truck he was hoping to borrow was being used by someone else, but that Chris was going to find another one. I get nervous when Chris is organizing things. He is always telling me to relax and to trust him the whole time. But true to his word, the gates to our house swing open at 6:00 A.M. and a big, shiny pickup truck comes rolling through, a grinning Godfrey at the wheel and Chris running behind after having opened the gate. The truck actually belongs to a top runner named Isaac Songok, one of Brother Colm’s athletes. He needs it back by nine, so we’ve got to get moving.
Our newest team member, Shadrack, has come all the way from Kamwosor for the run, traveling to Iten the night before. It’s a big effort for a training run. Godfrey tells me that Shadrack has been running with David Barmasai. The two have been best friends since they were children. Barmasai, however, has just won both the Nairobi marathon and the Dubai marathon, one of the richest races in the world, where he collected over $250,000 in prize money. Shadrack, I suspect, is feeling a little left behind.
“But they say Barmasai can’t keep up with him in training,” Godfrey tells me.
If that’s true, then he has huge potential. It’s exciting having him on our team, although I can tell that Chris is less thrilled. He nods toward him, looking at me for an explanation. “Godfrey knows him,” I say. “He says he’s good.”
“Ah-kay,” Chris says, in that clipped way he does when he’s not entirely happy.
The two runners shake hands, not saying anything to each other. All around us, Iten is waking up, stretching and yawning in the yellow glow of morning. Godfrey gives us a little pep talk. “No racing,” he says. “Take it nice and easy for the first fifteen kilometers and then push on. I’ll be in the truck with water and I’ll give you your splits every five kilometers. Everyone okay? Japhet, you okay?” Japhet grins at being singled out. “Finn, ready?” I nod. “Okay, let’s go.”
The plan is to run thirty kilometers (almost nineteen miles), although I’ll be happy if I can keep up with them for ten miles. Marietta, Flora, and the children are to ride with Godfrey in the truck.
We set off at a gentle pace (we go through the first five kilometers in twenty-four minutes), and I run at the head of the group with Chris. We follow the path that runs along beside the main road, down and up and out of town toward Eldoret. My legs are feeling fresh after a massage the day before, and I’m even able to chat with Chris as we run. After about ten minutes, the truck drives past us along the paved road, the children waving, Marietta crouched in the back snapping away like a war photographer.
“It’s good how much support you have,” says Chris. “Your whole family is here supporting you.”
Marietta later tells me how much she enjoyed coming along. I realize that through running I have been able to explore the surrounding countryside, while she and the children have been largely confined to our compound and our tightly packed neighborhood. We occasionally attempt to venture off farther for a walk, but at every corner we are stopped by people who want to chat with us, shake hands with the children, or invite us home for tea. It’s nice to feel so welcomed, but it means we rarely get very far.
Soon after the five-kilometer mark, the route turns off the main road and we head out through the lush patchwork of fields that surround Iten. The dirt road wanders gently through small homesteads, clusters of huts dotting the landscape like huge kilns. Occasionally a car or motorbike will come by in a cloud of red dust, beeping at us to get out of the way.
At ten kilometers, Godfrey stops the truck and Lila and Uma hand out water bottles, which we grab on the run as Godfrey shouts out that we’ve completed the last five kilometers in twenty-two minutes. Things are speeding up. “Keep it up,” he says. “Finn, you’re looking strong. Just maintain. Maintain.” He’s a good coach.
“Where’s Chris?” Japhet suddenly asks. We look around, but he’s not in sight. We carry on running, hitting a long hill that rises up through fields back to the main road. I push on. Although I struggle with the hills out here, I’ve decided that the best approach is to attack them. If I give in to them and slow down, they grind me into the ground, sucking at my legs until I’m shuffling like a dead weight on sticks. But if I shoot up them, I’m past before they get a chance to grab me. Of course, it’s a risky strategy. If the hill is too long, it wakes up while I’m only halfway there, spying me with a wry grin, and then, as though it has tipped up suddenly against me, I’m done for. Today, however, I’m feeling fine and I lead the charge up the hill, passing my water bottle to Shadrack as we go. He keeps coughing and blowing his nose as we run, and sweating hard. Right now he doesn’t seem like a Lewa champion.
At the top of the hill, I spot Tom Payn, chugging along behind his pacemaker. We’re like busy trains heading this way and that, runners crossing the endless network of roads and tracks.
On we run, over the main road and into the countryside on the other side. Behind us we hear the quick patter of feet. We all glance behind as, without a word, Chris comes past. We follow on, close to him, but the pace has increased. I don’t know if Chris is trying to assert his authority, but suddenly the talking and joking stops.
The route seems to be heading slightly downhill, so the pace has no chance to slacken. Josphat, who is running up front with Chris, beckons me to take his place. I oblige, but we’re really on the charge now. I’m not sure how long I can keep this up. Chris turns to me with a grin. “You okay?” he asks.
Surprisingly, I am. I’m quite enjoying the new pace, even. But I feel as though I’m pushing my luck. Chris’s question sends doubts, excuses pinging around in my head. Before I’ve fully made the decision, I blurt out: “I’m just going to run fifteen-K.”
“Sure,” says Chris. I feel like I’ve given him the answer he was expecting. “We’re nearly at fifteen-K,” he says. “Just two more corners.”
I should go on, but the pronouncement has been made. Once you decide where you’re going to stop, it takes a reckless surge of energy to overrule yourself. You’ve done enough, I tell myself, you’ve kept up this far. This is just a first run. Reasons, reasons, reasons. The decision is final. Up ahead I see the truck stopped at the fifteen-kilometer point. “I’m stopping here,” I announce, just to be clear, as I move into a sprint. I hear a few chuckles as I leave them behind for a moment, charging to little Lila who is running to meet me with a bottle of water.
It feels good to stop. The others run past, and on, following the dusty road disappearing into some trees.
“That last five kilometers was just under twenty minutes,” Godfrey tells me. “That’s fast.” It’s not bad, but I can’t help feeling I bailed out too early. I clamber into the open back of the truck and sit down on the spare tire next to Uma. Godfrey starts the car and we drive on to catch up with the others.
About two miles farther on we see Chris walking along the track. He hops in the back of the truck. “I twisted my ankle,” he says.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, man. It’s fine,” he says, giving me his million-dollar smile. “I just didn’t want to push it.”
As we pass the others, Godfrey holds out water bottles while he drives alongside of them. “Time to push,” he says. “Just five kilometers to go.” They’re flying now. Little Japhet is hanging on, his ripped shoes almost falling apart on him as his feet pound back and forth. Along the last stretch, Shadrack, the young buck, pushes on, but Japhet matches him stride for stride. Josphat, to Chris’s annoyance, starts to drop off the pace.
“Come on, Josphat,” he says. He turns to us, giggling. “Josphat is too slow,” he says.
A few minutes later they’re done. We gather by the truck as they catch their breath. Godfrey hands out bananas while Marietta, getting into her role as the official team photographer, gets us to line up beside the truck for a group photograph. Then we jog the last mile back to Iten for a cool down. Inspired by watching the run, or perhaps just fed up with sitting in the truck, Lila joins us, skipping along up and down the banks at the side of the road like the Kenyan children on their way to school. By the end of the run, she’s feeling very pleased with herself, her face beaming as Chris lifts her back into the truck. Godfrey drops us all off back in Iten and we head our separate ways, resolving to meet up again for another group run in a few weeks. The Iten Town Harriers, it seems, are up and running.
Later that afternoon, Chris arrives at my house with a friend. A few days before, he called to ask if there was a prize at Lewa for the first masters runner (one who is over forty years old). It turns out there is, for the first three over-forty finishers, though it doesn’t say on the forms what the prizes are. Never mind, Chris has found a runner who, unlike him, is officially over forty, and Chris wants him on the team. As I’ve offered to pay the entry and accommodation for everyone, I’m concerned about the rising costs, so I tell him that I think we’ve got enough runners already. With Shadrack, we’re five. That’s a good number. But, as Godfrey would say: “You know Chris.” I open the gate and he slinks his car in. He gets out, wearing a neatly pressed shirt. The children, getting to know him by now, run over and give him a hug. Another man gets out the other door.
“This is Philip,” says Chris. “The masters runner I told you about.”
“Hi,” I say. He has a friendly face.
“Hi,” he says.
It turns out Philip is actually fifty-one, but due to the usual Kenyan age-stretching techniques, he’s officially only forty-two. Still, it’s old enough to put him within shot of winning a prize.
“You going to run Lewa with us?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, watching me closely. Philip has run around fifty marathons, many of them in Europe, and has a best time of 2 hours 8 minutes. He’s an experienced man. It’ll be good to have him around.
“Do you need any more runners?” Chris asks me, as though I’m collecting them. Still, I’m thinking it might be good for balance to have a woman on the team. Someone not too fast, who I can keep up with perhaps.
“Maybe a woman?” I suggest.
“Okay,” he says thoughtfully, nodding his head. I realize it’s a done deal. He’ll find me someone.
Fourteen
Beatrice outside her house
“How are you?” a small voice somewhere calls out. It’s a sound we’re used to by now, a childish, precise call, with all the stress on the you. It’s a greeting, not a question. There’s no expectation of an answer. Ossian is the only one who still reacts, running out the door to look up the garden toward the gate. The flap in the gate, for reaching in to unbolt it from the outside, is open and a little face peers in. “How are you?” it calls again.
“Somebody here,” says Ossian, chugging back into the house.
“Why don’t you see who it is?” Marietta suggests to Lila and Uma, but they’re not interested. They carry on with their game, ignoring her. All the attention is becoming too much for them, and they’re beginning to withdraw more and more from the world outside our garden fence. That is, until the day Flora takes them to the local salon to get braids put in their hair.
It has been both my daughters’ dream, ever since they were old enough to entertain such dreams, to have long flowing locks like the Disney princesses in their books. Unfortunately, their hair grows very slowly, if at all. Sometimes it seems to be getting shorter. But once they hear that you can actually “make” long hair, they want to know how. And, more important, when.
So one bright morning we head out of our gate, along the dusty dirt road into town. Down a small backstreet, through a broken gap in a stick fence, we find a sign for Limo’s hair salon. Ducking through the gap, we walk along a narrow track through what feels like someone’s backyard, passing an upturned bucket for laundry and an empty clothesline. At the end of the track are three small salons arranged in a square, with small, wooden benches, painted blue and yellow, in front of them. The doorways are draped with hanging ribbons. On one of the walls there is a painted picture of a woman in hair braids.
We pull back the ribbons in the first doorway and enter the salon. Inside, four women are sitting drinking tea and listening to a crackly radio playing Kalenjin music. They get very excited when they see us, asking the children to shake their hands and giggling when they refuse—Lila and Uma are too agog at the rows and rows of wigs and hair extensions to be greeting people. The walls are covered with pictures of women with different hairstyles, as well as the obligatory portrait of Kenya’s president.
Despite the cabinets full of hair accessories, the salon doesn’t have enough light-brown extensions to do both Lila and Uma’s hair, so they have to send someone out to buy more. The two girls sit down quietly on plastic chairs in front of cracked wall mirrors, looking around as we wait until a woman comes back with a plastic bag full of extensions. “Right,” she says, handing them out to the other
women, who pull up their chairs, and the plaiting begins. It takes four hours, with two women working on each head. Uma sits happily talking to herself in the mirror most of the time, but for Lila it all goes on too long. By the end she is crying and begging to be set free as four women work frantically on her to get it done. “It’s finished,” she says, looking at me all teary eyed. “Tell them it’s finished.”
Despite the tears, they run home, bouncing along the path, eager to show Marietta and Ossian. Flora and I watch them go. “I think they like it,” says Flora.
From that day on, something changes. I don’t know what it is about the braids, whether somehow this crossover with the local fashion has broken down some barrier, or whether they just feel rejuvenated and invigorated to have long hair, but suddenly they want to play with the other children again. Every evening when the other children come home from school, Lila and Uma rush out to meet them, skipping around in their flowing plaits. I have to wander along the rows of tiny wooden huts, ducking under clotheslines, poking my head into lace-walled rooms, looking for the girls. “Sorry, have you seen my daughters?” I’ll find them curled up on a velvet sofa with eight other children watching Catholic sermons on TV, or drinking tea and chatting away on someone’s front step. They can be gone for hours.
They become particularly good friends with three girls from the neighborhood, Maureen, Hilda, and Brenda. Maureen is a livewire of a child with a little shock of electrified, fuzzy hair and a permanently mischievous grin. Every time I ask her how old she is, she gives me a different answer. Hilda and Brenda are sisters and, as far as I can work out, nieces of Japhet, who lives in the adjoining house. Brenda, who is twelve, is the oldest. Slow moving and easily confused, she is always the last to arrive and the last to leave. Hilda, who is ten, is as bright as a pin and has taken a particular shine to Uma.
Running with the Kenyans Page 11