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
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
