Running up the Ngong Hills

by Adharanand Finn

My alarm goes off at 5.15am. I sit on the edge of my bed trying to wake up. It's still dark outside. I'm in Nairobi, about to head out into the Ngong Hills to run with a group of Kenyans I've never met before. Right now it all seems vaguely ridiculous. I'm 37. An average runner. I've got a nice, warm, cosy bed. Why am I leaving it to try in vain to keep up with a bunch of stupidly fast Kenyan runners? I must be mad.

It's a thought process that runs through my mind virtually every time I wake up for one of these early morning runs. But today it's worse. I've been given directions to a side street in Ngong, a busy, run-down satellite town on the outskirts of Nairobi. At 6am, apparently, a group of athletes meet there every morning. That's all I know. Just turning up unannounced is a daunting prospect.

I drive up to Ngong and pull my car up on the side of the street. I turn off the lights and sit tight, listening to the Christian rap music on the radio. I'm about 10 minutes early and the side road is deserted as far as I can make out in the darkness.

A figure comes walking past suddenly, peering in through the window at me. I turn off the radio. I feel suddenly vulnerable sitting here in my car. I imagine what the runners will think when I step out of my car and walk over to say hello. It would be better without the car, I decide. I've got 10 minutes to kill, anyway. It would be safer parked on the main road.

I turn the engine back on, like a loud cough, the headlights glaring at everything as I turn the car and head back up into Ngong.

Once I've parked, I jog back along the edge of the main road to the side street. And sure enough, there they are. About eight athletes stand stretching in the tiny beginnings of morning, a red glow scratching the horizon behind them.

They all turn to watch me as I walk over. One smiles. "Jambo," he says.
I shake his hand, and ask if it's OK if I run with them.

"Fine, fine," they say.

"We're running up the hill," says one. That doesn't sound promising.

"I'll try to keep up."

"Up the mountain," he says. "But not fast. Easy." Like other Kenyan runners, he over-emphasises the word "easy", as though he means it's going to be the easiest thing you've ever done, like lying back on a sun-lounger as someone slices up a mango and feeds it to you piece by piece. Not like a run up a mountain in the cold dawn.

We set off jogging slowly and I slot in behind the front few runners. After a few moments we start our ascent, going at a comfortable pace. I've seen the Ngong Hills from a distance. They didn't seem that high, so I'm not too worried. I'll just stick with them for as long as I can, I think, trying to remember the way we've run so I can turn back if I need to.

After a while people start dropping off from the group. Is the pace too quick, I wonder. Perhaps the runners here are not as good as in Iten. They all look like decent runners, with their long, skinny legs and calf muscles like bricks inserted under their tights. My calves just don't look like that, even when I tense them as hard as I can.

After about 20 minutes we're still climbing, running past small houses and children walking to school. The dawn is in full bloom now, striping the sky in red and yellow. One of the runners turns to me.
"How are you feeling?" I'm fine, actually. My legs don't feel tired. I'm breathing OK. But I don't want to sound cocky.

"OK," I say. "A bit breathless." Suddenly I do feel breathless. Another of the runners looks at me over his shoulder.

"Is it OK?" he asks. They seem surprised that I'm still with them, and their lack of belief is sowing doubts in my mind. Before I know it I'm starting to struggle. I wonder what happened to the other five runners. Maybe I'm going too fast. Perhaps I should slow down and wait for them.

"Where are the others?" I ask, but almost before the words are out I hear the patter of feet as they run up behind us. The pace suddenly picks up and they all start pushing on. The path seems to be getting steeper. I'm done for.

One of the runners kindly slows down to wait for me. Up, up, up we go. Out of the houses and on to a neat, sparse mountainside.

On we run. Every time I think we must be reaching the top, it turns out to be another false summit. And each time the next bit is even steeper. I begin to labour like a 20-stone jogger. Tiny pitter-patter steps that barely seem to inch me on. And still it goes on. Past huge swooping wind turbines, like spaceships from a distant future that have landed silently in the night. Up more, along a path so smooth, so steep. And all the time, the other runner stays with me, quietly encouraging me.

Virtually every athlete I have met in Kenya has shown me the same kindness. Many of them are struggling to make enough money even to buy food. They live in small shacks without electricity or running water, struggling to make headway in a saturated field in which only a very few will succeed. Yet they do it so well, and with such dedication, that every one of them would be a champion in virtually any other country in the world, would be lauded and celebrated, instead of being just another nameless runner making his way along the roads and tracks of Ngong or Iten.

Yet in this struggle there is no resentment towards the hapless mzungu [white man] with the car and the money to shop in supermarkets and travel the world and eat ice-cream. Instead, all they ever show me is compassion. As a fellow runner, no matter how slow, they offer me only encouragement. It is quite humbling.
As we finally approach the great peak of Ngong Hill, the whole of Kenya seems to stretch out around us. Distant mountains poke up out of the dawn mist, as a huge orange ball of sun begins its own ascent up into the hazy, pink sky. The air is cool and fresh, breathing life into me with each gulp.

"It's beautiful up here," I say to the runner beside me. He looks around as though he hasn't considered this before. "Yes," he says.

We're almost at the top when the rest of our group comes trundling back down the slope towards us. "Turn around," they say. Relieved I turn my weary legs. It's hard to believe how high we have come. It's like looking out across the world from an aeroplane. Did I really run up this far? I must be getting fitter. Surely.



original article in the guardian can be found here

born to run?

a very well-read friend of mine recently posted the following on his facebook, by the well-known christopher mcdougall, journalist & runner.

born to be a trail runner

now, i've definitely had a love & hate relationship with running. i never noticed it as a kid, until i got throw into an unexpected cross country race when i was 9. they put with me the upper age-group, only because i was tall for my age (i actually was one of the tallest kids in my class until about grade 8. no, seriously).

i had to run this course with pretty much no training, but little did i know then. i was crammed side by side with lots of other girls, all running madly for some unknown reason. i instantly disliked this - the pushing elbows, the mismatched rhythms, and especially the fact that i was expected to run faster than all of them. it was an odd thought because i was an incredibly competitive child. i did not take losing for an answer. but i was also very stubborn, and when something didn't suit me, that was that.

midway through the run which i was grudgingly doing to begin with, i caught a cramp. that was it. i decided i don't want to run it anymore, i didn't like running with the other girls, and it wasn't even my race. so i stopped. & walked the entire course, non-chalantly. i came in 64th, out of a total of 65 girls. apparently one fainted in the woods.

that was enough to put me off running for a good three years. it was common practice for elementary schools in canada to have 'cross country' season in the spring, where one usually male, athletically-inclined-but-well-past-his-prime middle-aged teacher spends his lunch hours organizing the cross country team.

it ought to be mentioned: lunch hours at schools i went to consisted of mandatory eating for 20 minutes and then mandatory playing outside for 40 minutes. being on the cross country team meant mandatory running for 55 minutes & mandatory gulping your lunch for 5. i have no idea how but a certain mr. p got news that i was captain of the soccer team and made me join cross country. i had no choice.

at the end of my first run, i was spitting all over the place because i was certain i had blood in my throat. the same thing happened the next day. i kept pointing at little gobbits of saliva & saying 'blood! blood!' after a week, i was off the hook.

throughout my four years at highschool, i cannot recall doing single bit of exercise. i was running around, indeed, doing all sorts of other things (mostly licking ass, tbh) but that was that. it wasn't until university that i picked it up again, this time of my own accord.

my first day at uni i noticed i had a 3 hour gap between international history 101 and geology 101 (this was my 'rocks for jocks' course). so in order to live up to the name, i started regular gym sessions with a friend. and so began the running, but it was non committal. it wasn't until my then much-older boyfriend broke up with me that i took it hardcore.

for some strange reason, all my periods of the most intense physical training have always occurred immediately after breakups. i ran off every breakup i had, and this one was particularly bad. it was my first real heartbreak and i was angry. i needed to come up with horrible things to say and the best way to clear one's head was with a bit of air. and so in -10 weather, i wore thermals and went running. when it was 2 degrees celius, i was wearing shorts. i ran laps around a stadium and i ran cycling paths and neighbourhoods. i ran & ran & ran until i felt better. i did & it worked.

after that year at uni, i moved to france for my exchange. it was a stupid idea to begin with, and having secured a small apartment (if i may even call it that, but that's for another time) in the 16e, i went for runs around the rolland garros & the bois de boulogne. this was short-lived however, as the patisserie just below my flat and the banks of the seine lined with art called for a much slower pace of life. & so my running came to a halt.

again, it was another breakup that made me start again. this time it wasn't as bad and i was quickly thereafter occupied. & this happened a few more times. then there was last summer - cycling had taken over running as the ultimate break-up cure. i needed a channel for my anger and i was hooked on the endorphins. it got to the point where i was cycling the british countryside for about 2 hours a day, more on weekends. running was a change of scenery, that's all.

it's not that i don't run in between, it just never had a particular function. from time to time i enjoy a good run but when i'm rowing or busy with work it becomes less necessary. until recently.

my boyfriend had a friend over who runs for 2+ hours a day. she does marathons, was a blues rower. hearing about her bothered me a little, but it wasn't until i actually witnessed her going out for one of her morning runs that it hit me: cascade of competitiveness, jealousy & admiration. i don't like people that like the same things as me. it's a strange feeling, really.

within a week i was running again. the thing is, it had little to do with her. in fact, nothing. i had been fidgety for a while & my utterly dissatisfying job only left me restless in the evenings. so back i was, up to 5 times a week. i happily wake up at 6 and greet the dawn across port meadow. sometimes i'm lucky enough to catch a last bit of the night's frost.

around the same time, i read mcdougall's article. i can relate, in a way - the idea of running a marathon has never appealed to me. in fact, i think i would hate it and am already tensing my vocal chords in disapproval. i don't like the idea of running for money, or having to pay to run. i don't like running near urban space. & i ESPECIALLY don't like running with people.

this happened to me TWICE recently & it completely ruined my runs. it's alright to pass a fellow running along the way, usually heading in the opposite directly, or to run past others enjoying the open air. but to have to run alongside someone, or worse, behind/in front of someone is hell. i hate it. i rather not run at all. i was out for a run a very well-hidden woodland when i heard breathing. i saw a man coming up behind. i was angry for having him invade my space so i didn't let him pass. i kept him off for a good while but what was supposed to be an enjoyable run became this stupid game of showing him i'm better. or maybe he wasn't trying. i don't know. i could hear his breathing, it angered me. he had poor rhythm. finally, i found a path to diverge on and ran away. that completely ruined my run.

then, the next day, someone else was running ON THE SAME PATH. it was two guys this time, fucking talking. talking! running is not motherfucking chitchat time. if you can chitchat you are not running hard enough. fuck off. & shut up. gah. i was pissed off enough at this point that i slowed down and let them pass. then i stopped. completely stopped until i couldn't see them anymore. & i waited for a while until i was certain they were gone. i couldn't pick it up again as well as i had been & it had worked me up so much i knew i had ruined another run. fucking bastards.

yes, the idea of running a marathon is appalling. but mgdougall's idea of a fatass run sounds doable. so long you don't see anyone for miles. and hey, if i was running that far, a fistful of warm frenchfries would be a very welcome gift. omnomnom nom .

but mcdougall raised another point - running method. he studies the tarahumara people - an ancient tribe renowned for their long distance running abilities. as he points out, they run on the balls of their feet, & what's more - they run barefoot. which brings me to my next venture:

vibrams!

oh these are definitely on my christmas list this year, along with lululemon pants & a bike. oh right, a bike! we'll get on that later.

but the thing that attracts me to these shoes, more than anything, is this:

you can put your fingers in between your toes! oooh that feels sooooooooo good. it's right up there with q-tips! that's how good it is! (anyone who has seen me clean my ears will understand)

but the point he makes in an interesting one - like all other animals, it seems ironic humans are not made to run. perhaps we do not make the fastest sprinters in the animal worlds, but researchers have found that we do make pretty damn good long distance runners. which is contrary to the belief that sprinters are muscular and healthy, while thin, strung out marathoners are weak & gangly. take for example this article from harvard about the evolution of humans and long distance barefoot running.

i could go on forever but i'm up tomorrow at 6am for another run, so imma sleep.

but if christmas can't come too soon, tell santa i want this pair in black.

brrap brrap boom.