December international that was mean!

December international that was mean!

While the November international marathon went largely without a hitch, the December one was different.  It was done on the same route, but it got to me bad!  Blame it on the new route that came into the works during the October international marathon.  This new route takes you from Uthiru towards Ndumboini, and then down Kapenguria road, past Wangari Maathai institute all the way to Lower Kabete road.  

The usual runs, before October, would then direct me to the left to head towards Mary Leakey school to eventually join Kanyariri road, to then run along that tarmac to some turning point on the Northern bypass for a U-turn back to Ndumboini and eventually back to the starting line.  This December run, for the third time in as many months, would instead require a right turn as you join Lower Kabete road.  Then the run goes along Lower Kabete road all the way just past Zen gardens, then a U-turn back to the starting line.

This new route may sound simple, but it is not.  It has turned out to be one of the meanest routes that I have ever ran on.  I was initiated in October, did a second run in November, and hoped to nail it in December, but it was not to be.  The October debut was a struggle, as I got to learn the route.  The November run was more of a confirmation that this run could be modelled into the ‘new normal’.  December was to confirm that this route could be conquered and officially unveiled to the rest of the runners as the new route.

The November run, held on the twenty-fourth, was more of a memorial, and I would like to forget it in a hurry.  I even did not blog about it!  I left for that run on that Friday at lunch hour, instead of the usual evening run time.  It had been raining like crazy in that month, as blamed on the El Nino weather phenomenon (for those who do not know better), but the real culprit was climate change (who those who know better).  

In that month of November, it was raining daily, every time, every hour.  We occasionally had a few hours of no rains, and it is during such hours that we had to squeeze in the runs.  Friday lunch time was one such time slots.  The weather was good, and I just left and went for the run, not thinking much about it.  I went through the motions and finished the run at about 2.45pm after 2:16:02 on the road on that 25.25km distance.  My average of 5:23min per km was good enough.

I had largely switched off during that run.  I was still in deep thought over the events that had taken place that Friday.  Just a few hours ago, we had all assembled at the main hall.  The mood was somber, if anything, tearful.  I have never been in such a quiet meeting.  You could hear a pin drop.  There was no cheering, no clapping, no applause, no whispering, in fact, you even felt out of place to just think of clearing your throat.  The memorial service had started at ten.  The departed colleague had succumbed to breast cancer.  She was just a mother of one young child.  The service ended at 12.30pm.  I was downcast.  I could not have gone for the scheduled run that evening, I was feeling drained.  I decided to just go for the run after that service.  I was mostly robotic in my motions that day.  I was in Karatina one week later for Evalyne’s sendoff.

It is therefore the December marathon that was the run to confirm that the new route was a candidate for the new marathon route.  The MOE*, cognizant that December was a short month, had scheduled the Dec run on the second Friday of December, instead of the usual last Friday of the month.  Bad coincidentally, this last Friday would see me attending the last day of a three-day first aid training course.  This Friday was the last day that had the practical and theory exams that determined those who finally got through to be certified as first aiders for the next one year.  I could not make it for the run that should have started at four, when the exams were ending at four-thirty.
*MOE – marathoners of expert, the committee that organizes our runs

The December international marathon would finally come knocking on my door on Monday, December 11, 2023.  I did not feel ready.  I just did the run because it was a run day, and was also probably my last work day in the year.  I was scheduled to leave the city on or after the holiday of the next day.  In fact, this initial plan of starting the holiday the next day was put to the test just a week prior, when it became clear that I would have to miss the staff party on that Friday if I was to leave early.  I therefore had to extend my workdays by another three days after the run due to this last minute change.  Nonetheless, this was not going to change the date of the run.  The run was on.

December had also started with those daily rains, day and night, anytime, every time.  They kept being unpredictable.  Running continued to be timed whenever the weather permitted, instead of by schedule.  Finally, it was run day.  The sun was bright on that Monday at noon.  I was not taking any chances.  I found myself in the changing room and was out for the run at 12.35pm.  I had been on this route two previous times.  I should have been a walk in the park, but this was no walk.  It was a real run.  A real international marathon, where athletes are made… and crashed!  A run that you fail to take seriously at your own peril.  A run can dent your records… forever.  It is a run not to take lightly.

It was a good run, all the way to the U-turn on Lower Kabete road just past Zen gardens.  I even extended my run slightly to the Red Hill road underpass, where I did the new U-turn.  I was momentarily back to Lower Kabete road to run its length past Kenya School of Government, and the UON Lower Kabete campus.  And it is that section on Lower Kabete road that did the most damage to my run on that day.  The section was just hilly without a break.  It went on and on and on, every leg step being more tired than the previous.  It was a stretch of road section to forget.  I laboured on and managed to finally get to Kapenguria road.

However, the turning left from Lower Kabete road into Kapenguria road only offered a short seven minutes relief, as I went slightly downhill.  It was soon time to face the infamous 2km Kapenguria road hill.  The usual marathon routes have been crafted to avoid this particular encounter.  The new route unleashes this selfsame uphill in an equal measure, just when you are already tired after the long hilly section of the Lower Kabete road.

I was already deep in the run, with 19km already conquered, in just under 100 minutes.  Whatever was remaining had to be done.  What else was I to do?  Give up on the run?  Drop out!  Cry out loud!  That last one I actually did do.
“For crying out loud,” I cried out loud, when I reached Wangari Maathai institute where the next hill towards Ndumboini looks at you with a dare.  
With no choice, other than that crying out loud, I ran on and kept going.  I ignored the road repair crew who had reduced the road to a single lane for all traffic, and just kept pushing the legs uphill.

It was a relief getting to Ndumboini.  From there I knew that nothing, repeat, nothing, was standing on my way to the finish line.  And twenty minutes later, I finished my run at 2.50pm, after 2hr 22min and 54sec on the road.  My average speed had gone down to 5:27min per km.  I was happy that I was still standing after this run – another monthly run in the bag, oh, the last monthly run of 2023.  Lessons learnt from these twelve monthly marathons in 2023 – running is not easily, find a recurrent run event that keeps you on the road to force you into a routine, and finally, celebrate your run achievement every time, whatever it is.  You are doing better than you imagine.  Merry Christmas!

WWB, the coach, Eldoret, Kenya, Dec. 22, 2023

Running half naked – when running is a must

Running half naked – when running is a must

If there ever was a decision that I made just in the nick of time that turned out to be ‘healthy’, then today’s decision would be that.  Before this decision, the morning had generally been calm.  It promised to be a good day, even sunny if anything.  However, I knew that my troubles had started the day with me the moment I finished that cup of coffee with accompaniments at about eight-thirty in the morning.  It did not even take me thirty minutes to start being nauseated.  I could hardly settle down by ten, when I almost started drooling and made several trips to the washroom to clear my mouth.  It is then that I made the decision to take the day off and walked home.

That twelve minute walk seems like forever.  I finally reached home and virtually crashed the door down since my mouth was already filling up.  I went straight to the washroom where I threw up violently, almost suffocating from the continued outrush through my mouth.
“The hech,” I said loudly to the quiet house, trying to regain my breath.  Things had escalated quickly.
If I had delayed my walk home by even a second then many bad things could have happened either at the office or along the way.

I did many more spits and regurgitation in a span of thirty minutes while making the endless trips from the living room to the toilet.
“This is worse than I thought,” I thought loudly.
I was ready to get a vehicle to a medical centre.  I could not continue this way.  Any more outpouring and I was surely outa here.

My first aid training pointed to only one thing that could manifest and progress this fast – food poisoning.  There is something that I had got straight from fridge-to-mouth, and that accompaniment is what was the likely culprit.  This f-t-m was a shortcut that I now regretted.  I would normally have passed my fridged stuff to the microwave first, but not today.  I wanted to have a hot-and-cold, and now I was in for a bitter mouth and bile in the mouth.  I finally took some hot water, with the first round f the water triggering another outpouring from my belly, before my situation stabilized when I decided to take a nap in a seating position, empty pail next to the bed, just in case.


I was however lucky that this attack episode was today, and not yesterday.  Yesterday was a Tuesday.  It was the day that I decided to resume my runs after the Sunday, October 29 Stanchart marathon.  I had intended to have a week of rest after the marathon, but things happened and the break turned out to be two weeks.  I was therefore fairly well rested from that grueling 42k at Stanchart.  The intention for this lunch hour run was to do at least a 10k ‘welcome back’ marathon.

The spirit of running took me on a turn for the worse at Lower Kabete road after Kapenguria road.  I should have done a U-turn at this point and earned myself a comfortable 10k run on this dry lunch hour, the first in a long time.  It has been raining like 24-hours for the last week.  If anything, I should have as an alternative, turned left and done the Mary Leakey route and earned a 13k with no sweat.  Unfortunately, the run spirit directed me to turn right onto Lower Kabete road and head towards UON Lower Kabete campus.
“What are you doing?,” I asked the thing that was now controlling my every step.
“Turn back, you runner!”

There was no turning back.  I kept going.  My steps were strong.  I was energetic.
“Where are you going!  Turn back!,” the thing spoke.
I ignored.  I continued.  I soon passed by UON campus.  I then passed Kenya School of Government and the Post Office.  I kept going.  I at some point passed by Farasi lane school signboard.  I stuck to the sidewalk which was not there the last time I ran on this road, over five years ago.

I did not even know the end game on this lunch hour run.  I was supposed to squeeze all the run of the day to fit within the one lunch-hour hour, but here I was going and going.  The terrain was generally downhill.  I finally reached Ngecha road.  This should surely be a turning point, but no.  The spirit of run persisted.  I soon passed by Zen Gardens.  It brought back some good memories when training events used to be held in that compound… before COVID brought all that to an end.

“Turn back damn it!,” something in me begged.
I ignored it.  I kept going.  Even the walkway crossing the tarmac to the other side of the main road did not force me to turn.  I ignored the walkway and kept to the uneven path besides the road that did not have a walkway and trod on.  At this rate, I would soon be heading to the Redhill road and then Spring Valley Police station.  And of course the Lower Kabete roads terminates at Sarit Centre, and these landmarks were now becoming more real possibilities than before.  However, that would mean that the run would no longer be a lunch hour run, but a full marathon.

Finally, just before the Redhill road, I decided that enough exploration was enough and did a U-turn.  I am not sure what my ambition for this run was, but I told myself that I was exploring this side of Lower Kabete road, where I had hardly run for many year.  The roll down was equally easy on the legs which encouraged me on… but spoke too soon!  I almost came to a standstill when I did the U-turn.  The terrain of the return leg immediately turned out to be an uphill.  The struggle that I faced on those 5km back to the ‘tarmac’ junction to Kapenguria cannot be described on this generally hot lunch hour.

There would only be a short reprieve as I rolled down past Kabete Children home and KAGRI towards the river.  And I mean a really short reprieve, since I would then be facing the infamous Wangari Maathai hill section all the way to Ndumboini upto the Waiyaki way.  I almost collapsed in those 2km of real hill.  By then my once average time of under-5min per km was now thrown out of the run track.  I was likely to end up with an over-6, if this hill was to stretch even by a millimeter.

I soldiered on and managed to reach the finish line through lots of willpower despite my tired legs, stopping my timer at 24.12km in 2.03.44.  I was tired, but not as tired as the Stanchart.  I was not the only one tired at this late time of the lunch hour.  I found another run also taking a breather at the finish line at the Generator.


Josh has been in the marathon team for long.  We are in fact family friends.  I used to visit him sometime before COVID, when he stayed in Kikuyu town.  However, COVID spoilt many things including visiting each other, but I had kept in touch.  I know his family.  His spouse and child both run, and I have met them at some Stanchart events.

“You are still at Kikuyu?,” I asked, as we both sat at an umbrella just outside the Generator house, taking a short rest before we got back to work.
“Nope, niko kwangu huko Ngong’”
“Oh, you setup your own?”
“Sure, for the last two years,” he said, then continued, “You should plan to visit soon.”
“The year is still young.  I will purpose,” I answered, “How is Norah and that young runner of yours”
“Both are OK, lakini Norah hates Ngong’ with a passion!”
“Why so?”
“Wizi ni mob, houses get broken into all the time.”
“I thought you are in an estate with centralized security and all?”
“No, we bought plots and built.  Everyone just stays on their own, though we have neighbours.”

As we continued the chatter, now almost fully rested, he narrated a recent incident.  He was out of the country for duty, with the junior having gone to visit a relative, leaving Norah all alone.  On that fateful night, the bad guys jumped into his compound, which has a perimeter wall, but the wall is not very high.  The wife heard something like a commotion at the chicken coop, with the chicks making noises.  She shouted and raised an alarm.

It was not long before the neighbours woke up in their various compounds and started coming towards the direction of Josh house.  His immediate neighbor who has a domestic worker also heard the noises and sprang to action.  He jumped the separating wall and stumbled onto the thugs.  He noted three characters.  The unexpected confrontation startled the thugs who ran away and jumped hastily through the opposite wall of Josh’s compound, into another compound that is not yet inhabited, and soon disappeared into the dark night.  Quiet was restored for sometime, with the neighbours each talking loudly in their compounds, assuring all that all was well.

Finally, the domestic worker who had done the chase knocked onto Josh’s house.
“Norah, Norah!,” he called out, knocking the door, “Ni mimi, Simon.  Mikora imeenda.  Unaweza fungua mlango sasa.”
Norah finally gathered the courage to open the door, with the reassurance from the chatter in the neighbourhood and with Simon’s knock.
“Nimefukuza hiyo watu, wameenda,” he continued next to the still closed door.

Norah opened the door, relieved, but still shaken.
“Eh, nilikuwa nimeshtuka!  Haki ahsante sana, Simon,” Norah greeted him, door now open.  The dim light of the moonlight aiding in visibility and the light in the house now lit.
“Hiyo mikora ilikuwa tatu, iliruka kwa ukuta kama mashetani,” he described laughingly.
“Phew!  Ahsante!”

What a good ending, I thought.  No one was harmed.  And for sure no one was harmed and nothing was stolen this time round.  Previously, some of their chicken had been stolen in the dead of night by similar or same thugs.

But wait a minute, there is a part that I nearly forgot….

When Norah was now about to say her goodnight, she looked down the frame of Simon to note that he was armed with a slasher, but was also stark naked!
“Simon, eh, kuna endaje?,” she gestured downwards.

Simon seemed perplexed at the question, not sure he understood, before he followed the gesture of Norah's hand.
“Oh, oh, oh,” Simon responded and looked down on himself too, realizing for the first time that he was naked.

He abruptly and unexpectedly dashed off in full flight, without a word, and jumped over the fence to his compound, leaving Norah bewildered and at a loss of words.  She heard a loud thud on the other side of the compound as Simon fell over.  She did not know whether to get back to the house and lock or what was going on exactly.

It did not take long before she heard yet another thud as Simon jumped back to Josh’s compound now dressed up, still recovering her breath.
“Unajua nilikuwa nalala tu hivyo.  Lakini niliposikia nduru, nika amka tu hivyo na mzee nje,” he explained himself, and soon even forgot about the double-jump over his fence, and continued, “Lakini hiyo mikora iliruka ukuta kama mashetani!”

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, November 15, 2023

Marking Stanchart ‘2-0’ with a ‘2-Ouch’ run

Marking Stanchart ‘2-0’ with a ‘2-Ouch’ run

I had no doubt that I would finish the grueling 42km run at the Stanchart Nairobi International Marathon of Sunday, October 29, 2023.  I had after all done at least two preparatory runs that were each 30k in the two months prior to the run.  I had also religiously, since last Stanchart, participated in the monthly 21k IKM marathons that take place every last Friday of the month.  Running a better time was another thing altogether.  I now run to finish the run.  I have a pool of young runners whom I have left to run better time and break records.

However, the Stanchart 2023 event was yet to unveil its mysteries that would include many unexpected and unimaginable occurrences, all in a span of four hours…

I had to call and email our Stanchart marathon contact twice to reconfirm that the marathon was really starting at 6am.  This would be a first.  It has over the years started at seven.  The earliest it has ever started has been at 6.45am.  Six o’clock was a different territory, and that is what the 2023 marathon demanded of those on the 42 thousands metres run – any of the 1,091 registered runners who were brave enough to join in.

The bus carrying the marathoners from Uthiru left five minutes late, at 0505 hours.  It was full by any standards even in this early hour.  Last year it was hardly quarter filled.  This year it was over half full.  We picked two other runners along the way and were soon at Mbagathi road, then joined Langata road at 0530hrs.  It took another ten minutes to navigate the one kilometer road to Uhuru gardens due to the traffic snarl-up caused by the vehicles that were mostly headed to the same Uhuru gardens, which was the venue of the marathon.

The bus attempted to find a parking spot on the already filled up Carnivore grounds parking yard, even as I jumped out of the bus at 5.45am and started navigating my way through the big crowd of runners who had already filled the road around Uhuru gardens heading to Southern bypass road.  It took me about five minutes to move through the less than five hundred metre road that had no navigation space due to the sheer volume of humanity.

I was at the starting line with less than ten minutes to spare.
“The big forty-two kilometer run is just about to start,” someone announced on the public address system as the crowd of hardly five hundred jostled on the tarmac space behind the starting line.
“This is big,” he continued, “It is like going round a playing field for 105 times,” he let it sink a bit, before continuing, “Nairobi and the world, are you ready!”
“Yes,” the crowd of runners responded.  It was still dark.
“I did not hear you, Nairobi and the world, are you ready!”
“Yes,” we roared back.

By this time a team of security guards had formed a human shield and interlocked arms just in front of the crowd, about ten metres to the starting line.  They attempted to hold the runners back with some success but not for long.  The shield of about twelve beefy men stretched all across the tarmac would soon start being pushed forward from the back by the crowd.
“We have a countdown in two minutes,” the PA blared.

That announcement intensified the pushing forces.  The security guards were forced to move the shield some metres ahead due to the sheer force of the push that was coming from behind.  We were now just about five metres from the elite runners who had been advantaged to be allowed to gather undisturbed in front of the human shield.

“Nairobi and the world, we now have the countdown,” the PA announced.  My phone was by this time already on airplane mode and the Runkeeper app timer set for run activity and ready for the start.  My runner no. 1394 had already been affixed to my NMMT Tshirt the previous night.  This was it!  The morning had by now started being a bit bright.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven,….,” the countdown started.  
The excitement rose towards a bursting point and it finally did burst when there was a popping sound to mark the start of the run, the sound coming from somewhere ahead.  It was exactly 06.00.00 when the run started.

I started the run amongst the middle crowd runners.  I had already calculated that this would be a long long long run.  I had given myself a running window of 4 hours.  I was bound to be on this road for many hours, all the way to 10am.  It was now just six.  There were still many many many minutes of feet on the tarmac on this Sunday.  It is with this in mind that I took off relatively slowly and followed the crowd.  I settled on a comfortable pace that was slightly slower than a fast run that I would adopt on a half marathon event.

I was still lost in thought when we encountered the first water station.
“This cannot be true,” I did self-talk.
The not true was about the distance.  I expected the water station to be at the 5km mark.  It seemed to be a bit too soon, but maybe I was just running faster.  I have made it a habit of not looking at my timer when I am on a long competitive run.  I just let go and enjoy the run.  Let the timer do its thing.  I do not change strategy based on the timer.  I just run.
I picked a packet of water.  Yes, packet of water!  This was new.  I am used to plastic water bottles, or worse an open plastic tumbler, but this time we were getting them in 250ml packets.  

“This is now true,” I did a second self-talk about ten-minutes later, when I saw the ‘42k/21k/10k – 5km’ sign.  My body was behaving well so far.  The weather was still calm at this time of the morning, hardly 6.30am.  It was still on the darker side of light and the overhead clouds did not seem to be ready to give in to the sun on this Sunday.  I kept going.  It was the same run route as that of last year and I therefore knew the general profile.  We would run towards Mombasa road towards the Internal Container Depot then do a U-turn to run back along the Nairobi National Park fence towards the Uhuru gardens starting point.  However, we would then continue on the Southern bypass to reach the ultimate U-turn somewhere far, to then bring us back to the finish line at Uhuru gardens.

There were adequate water stations, at least every 5km.  Each had water.  Some had soda!  Yes!, for the first time in living memory Stanchart provided soda for the runners.  However, they served them in some very small plastic tops, akin bottle tops.  Anyway, something is better than nothing.  But the 20th anniversary celebrations of Stanchart still had many surprises in store.  They provided the runners with some fruits, bananas, melons and pieces of orange.  This was surely Stanchart ver. 2.0.  It was not the same old.


On these very long long runs your mind can play tricks on you, so do not believe in what your mind tells you, believe in what you see.  I had almost been cheated at that 5km mark distance marker, and my mind was about to cheat me again at the 20km mark.  I knew that we were already back to Langata road flyover near Uhuru gardens and I should have now done about 20km.  However, I knew that I could not trust my mind when it came to judging the distance, especially when tiredness was now starting to creep in.

By this time we had already seen the 21km leader-board group follow us from the opposite side of the road having starting their run at seven.  I knew that they were still behind me but not far.  Later on I did see the 20km mark sign.  I was once more vindicated that distance does not go that fast when running a long run.  You just keep going and trust the distance markers.  You can easily assume that you have gone and gone, yet you have hardly done a kilometer of distance.  Trust me!

The run from Langata road flyover for the rest of the Southern bypass was lonely.  This stretch had only 42k runners, since 21k runners would turn back to the finish just a few meters after that flyover.  The 42k still had to go and go and go and go for another ten kilometres, before turning back to face the same distance towards the finish line.

I was ready to run and run and run, and so I kept going through the lonely run.  I did not look back.  I could see one or two runners somewhere beyond the horizon.  I could hardly hear footsteps behind.  Occasionally I would overtake a runner.  Occasionally I would be overtaken myself.  I just kept going, picking water where I could, picking fruits when provided, and finally, picking re-hydrating salt solution offered in plastic tumblers, when offered.  This was also a first at Stanchart.  They did not end there.  We even had sponge stations in at least three sections of the course.  Stanchart spoilt us rotten on this twentieth edition!

I finally made the ultimate U-turn at the extreme end of the run course, then made it to the 32km mark.  Now I had only 10km to run back to Uhuru gardens.  My mind went to a usual lunch hour run when I and my team would usually squeeze a 10km run over the lunch hour.  That is what I would now had to survive after having already run for almost two and a half hours.  What has to be done has to be done.  This was to be a long run, and running for long is what I was going to do.

Then….

Then I knew that it was happening!  I was just getting to the 35km mark when it came and it came fast and abrupt!  I was hit by a sharp pain on my right thigh.  It was so painful that I stopped running mid-step and moved out of the road to the periphery.  I almost collapsed due to the pain.  I could not fold the leg at the knee.
“Oh emm geee!,” I shouted loudly as I dropped out.

Runners came by and passed by.  A duo of runners whom I had overtaken not long ago passed by, with one of them being sympathetic, “Relax, alafu tembea, bora umalize” he said while he kept his run.
Some two guys walked by next to me at the road periphery.  They were just passersby.  They seemed to be headed to church by their clad and prominent exposure of the Holy book.  They passed me by while I was still at a standstill, hands on knees, pain still running deep in my right leg.  They said something in Luhya language that I understand, to the effect that ‘that runner is finished’.

They were right, but only momentarily.  I finally managed to fold my leg and the pain started to subside as I attempted to walk with a limp.  I started walking with a limp as runners continued to pass by, and then momentarily restarted my slow jog.  The pain subsided slightly and I resumed my run, with a little limp and with reduced speed.  I would rather limp-run the last 7km than the alternative of either walking the whole 7k or the dreaded DNF!  I even laughed at the prospect of a first DNF and that encouraged me to regain my almost normal pace.  The pain was soon fully gone and I resumed my normal pace.

Lightning would however hit twice when the same symptoms repeated in the same sequence hardly one kilometer later.  I once again started feeling the onset of that muscle pull while it was still a mile away in my central nervous system and when it finally hit without warning, I had to do another abrupt stop!
“This is not my day,” I lamented quietly.

There was no way I was going to do any run from this point on with all that pain.  But how would I even run when I could not even bend my knee?  I once again dropped off to the roadside and let runners pass by.  I again persuaded the leg and it finally accepted to bend on the knee, before I resumed a walk, then a slow jog, then finally back to the run.  This second episode did not however go away completely.  I kept feeling it deep in the bone and had to jog along with a slight limp.  I intended to get medical help but did not see any medical station on this side of the road.  Coincidentally, we had at least two medical stations on the other side of the road.  I wondered whether they thought that runners can only get injured upto 32km turn back point, after which they should survive on their own to the finish?

I kept picking water, fruits and that re-hydrating salt whenever offered.  It reached a point just with 5km to go when I saw some soda at a water point and slowed to a standstill intending to get some.  I could see the sodas in the big 2L bottles bundled in hundreds at a corner of the tent, but there was nothing at the tables next to the running track, where only packets of water were neatly arranged.
“I need some soda,” I asked one of the scouts servicing water.

She looked a bit perplexed, so I pointed to the tons of soda bottles just behind her, “I need some coke”
She also looked back, a bit surprised.  She kind of gestured in desperation, “We have no cups”.
I know that I had already encountered such no-cup situation in some station when I still have the strength to suggest to them to empty a water packet and pour the soda into that pack.  This time round I was just too exhausted to make suggestions and so I just left, a water pack on one hand, two sweet bananas on the other, phone in pocket.

With the finish line hardly five kilometers away, I was not letting the lack of coke in the blood stop me from finishing the run.  I had already survived two muscle pulls and was still nursing a pain from the second pull.  I was surely going to survive soda deficiency.  I kept going.  My mind was now focused on nothing but the finish line…
“Focus on the finish line, there is nothing but the finish line,” I re-crafted a tag line I had heard in some cartoon episode that features some sea creatures, one of whom wears pants.

My intention to finally get a good finish from the setbacks would however be messed up with the same mess that Stanchart-20 repeated from last year, mixing the finish line for 42k, 21k and 10k runners.  It was now only a mere 2km to the finish when the three run categories mixed, with the 21k and 10k runners being in the tens of thousands and having completely blocked and filled up the road.  Most were just walking and even having photo ops along the route and the signage.  There was hardly any run in this section of the route despite my best effort to get by.  I tried my best but the energy of colliding and avoiding to stumble on runners was just too much.  I slowed down to the best pace that could ensure coexistence with the crowd, even as I weaved my way through.

I finally finished the run at Uhuru Gardens, with my timer recording a 3.33.09 though I knew that I had stopped my timer a bit too late since I was still recovering from the effects of the long run.  This was confirmed when the final official time turned out to be 3.32.27, taking position 231 out of 730 total starters in this run.  The men and women winners had already done their bit in 2.10.18 and 2.24.31, with the half marathon having been conquered in 1.02.39 and 1.11.18 respectively. It took me over 5 minutes to figure out where the medals were being issues.  It was not the usual finish as you get a medal as before.  This time the medal issuance had been relocated but there were no directional signs and the sheer size of crowds at the finish line area did not help matters.

However, for the first time in many years at Stanchart I finished the run and remained standing.  I would previously collapse with hardly functional limbs.  I had to seek medical attention last year due to the muscle pull that had hit me in the last few kilometres to the finish and had persisted after the finish.  This time round the legs were still strong and that unfortunately double episode of muscle pull was a non-issue.  I was not feeling it at all.  The run stats showed that the run was good.  4.08min/km by 3km, 4.22 by 8.5km, 4.25 by 18.9, 4.48 by 29.4, and as expected 5.03min/km by the finish.

We left the venue and first passed by Langata Police station, where one of our runners was going to record the loss of her phone that was stolen from her marathon bag by some ‘runner’ who had slit through the bag in the course of the run.  It was on Monday, a day after the run, that the runner updated me that she had found a big crowd at the Police station, most of them in Stanchart Tshirts reporting lost items mostly phones.  However, there was a reported loss of laptop and just when it could not get worse, two runners were reporting lost vehicles – stolen from the public parking of the marathon grounds.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Oct. 30, 2023

Running with babu during the September international marathon

Running with babu during the September international marathon

The September international marathon was to be a merry-go-ground run, as we call it, within the workplace compound.  Runners were to go round and round the 1.3km circuit on a tarmac route that had been crafted by the MOE*.  It is a route we have run once before, during one of the monthly international runs of last year.  It is therefore familiar, but a nightmare to many runners.  Many avoid this run, as either boring or difficult.  It forces you to run through a half route section that is uphill followed by another half route section that is downhill.  The run has three stipulations that determines when it should end.  You can either drop out once you have had enough go-rounds or be forced to drop out when the clock hits 7pm, for a run that starts at 1630hrs.  The final option is that you can drop when you have achieved your desired run distance – 5k, 10k or 21k, provided this is done by or before 7pm.

*MOE - marathoners-of-expert, the committee that organizes marathons for the team

Like any other monthly international, this run was being held on the last Friday of September.  However, it was just three days to the run that a new development came up, forcing me to update the marathoners that I would be on an ‘early bird’ edition of the run, on a Thursday before the real Friday run.  I was therefore set to be on the same route a day prior, and was even ready for any early-birds that I had extended an invitation to.  I had already calculated that I needed to do 16 go rounds to achieve the 21k, actually, 17, since the 16 would fall slightly short of the 21k.

The weather was just perfect on this Thursday as I started my first circuit at 4.40pm.  There were no other early birds.  I would have to represent them all.  The sun was still high on the western side of the sky.  It was not that hot.  It had rained two nights before, and more rains were expected as per the weather forecast, hence the cloud cover kept the overhead heat contained.  I did a first ‘route survey’ run around the almost oval shape of the course, technical, hand shaped circuit.  The route was as expected – an initial half circuit of uphill run, then a final rolldown to the starting line.  The tarmac was as tough on the feet as was expected.  The sharp turns were a real test on the braking and turning systems of the body.  It was the route that I knew, no doubt, no changes.  With the survey done, I now proceeded to keep a count of the number of rounds done as I went round and round.

I needed 17, I desired 21, but I actually did 22, finishing just after the time stipulation.  After all, what was I to do, when the last circuit started just a few minutes to the finish time and I still had to finish it?  But why was I doing an early bird?....

I left the city on the timely Easy Coach bus to Busia on Friday morning.  I call it timely because it was a 6.45am bus and it did leave at 6.50am.  I am used to such a bus leaving about an hour after the scheduled time.  The fare had been hiked by almost 30%, from the usual 1400 to a new 1800.  However, seeing my people was a must, and I just had to do what I had to do, to make this happen.

I had deliberately booked an isle seat, somewhere mid-bus.  I did not want to suffer the sunshine that hits those seated by the windows.  Being positioned somehow near the exit was strategic, to enable me get out easily when I would alight somewhere midway between Kisumu and Busia.  The online booking system had anyway prevented me from booking a window seat, with the ‘reserved for ladies’ caveat affix on quite a number of seats that were therefore unbookable.  

“Discrimination,” I almost said as I hit the select seat button on the phone app and picked 4C instead.

I am known to be a loud-mouth in the corridors of marathoning, and I can easily be heard when over one kilometre away, should I be talking.  I enjoy a good talk, and I talk loud enough for the world to hear – that is what I am told, I do not know for sure, so let me tell it as I am told.  I therefore got into the bus just around 6.40am with this talkative spirit hovering around me.  The person sitting on 4D was already there, if anything, occupying both seats by spreading paraphernalia and stuff on both seats.

“Excuse me,” I said, as I pushed my bag into the overhead compartment and tried to take my seat.

“Oh,” she said shruggingly, and removed some clothing and stuff from my seat.

I took the seat, belted up and pushed two earphones into my ears.  I connected the wired earphones onto the phone and opened the music player app.  I was going classical today.  The app has the bad behaviour of arranging play files alphabetically, even if they are arranged otherwise on the storage system.  I was therefore going to start on Bach today.  Beethoven would be next.  I would have to really wait to reach Mozart, and probably not reach Wagner, but the journey was long.  That is why we left early anyway.  Going home is a full day event.

I proceeded to take a nap, more of a sleep, since I completely blacked out and did not even notice any landmark past Uthiru which just within Nairobi.  I would find myself jolted back to wakefulness at Gilgil weighbridge, some 120km out of Nairobi, where the imposing bumps must surely wake you up.  Additionally, the bus had to do a 360-turn to go to the other side of the road to be weighed, before returning to the road towards Nakuru.  I took advantage of the wakefulness to appreciate the environment briefly, as I glanced onto the phone screen.  It was just about nine.  I found myself taking another nap, this time a nap for sure, since I was in between sleep and sobriety, and could hazily notice the going-ons.

We finally took the first break at Nakuru at a petrol station at eleven.  Nakuru is a familiar town, sorry city, since it got its city status by charter just two-years ago, so let us be politically correct about Nakuru.  It was my major town when still working at Gilgil, being just 30km apart.  That was way back then in the past history.  It was now a stopover like any other.  I alighted and took the break like the rest of the passengers.  This was the first bus to get to this stopover station.  There was no other bus there, or did any bus stopover while we were there.  This place would have been full, if the bus was to arrived around one, when buses going both directs meet up during the break.

I should have resisted, but I did not.  I told myself that I was being polite.  This happened just as the bus left the stopover at about 11.30am.  Coincidentally, this was the second time such an offer was being made in a period of about a year, same bus company, different routes, despite ‘do not accept food from strangers’ warning slapped all over the waiting room.  On that first time, I was on the Nairobi-Malaba route, and ended up getting acquainted with a top seeded Kenyan tennis player.  I was on 4B on that occasion.  I ended up conversing from Nakuru to Eldy on that day.  Today was different.  I was on the Nairobi-Busia route and I was on 4C.

“Have a sandwich,” the lady at 4D unwrapped the cling film from some slices of bread with stuff in between and offered a bunch in my direction.

Instinct told me to decline, but being polite ruled the day, “Thanks,” I took a sandwich and returned the rest.

“I have already taken enough,” she protested, and kept her hand stretched in a manner of take-it-all-since-I-have-had-enough.

“Ok, but maybe for later,” I responded and put the remain ‘wich into a woven carrier bag and dipped it into the front seat pocket.

I had planned to re-nap, but now I had to deal with the sandwich first, then see if another sleep was possible.  It was also getting hotter, and my sleep deprivation had now waned after that long sleep from Nairobi to Nakuru.  I was likely going to remain sober for the rest of the trip.  

This was not meant to happen, but soon the stories just started.  How they started, I do not know exactly.

“Imagine mtoto wa colleague yangu died, just like that,” she started, sandwich munch going on.

“How comes?,” I wondered.

“Wakumbuka that see-ee-oh who was found dead?  Yule alikuwa killed by the girl?”

I started flashing through my Brain-GPT.  I soon remembered that entry, where the Finance Director, not CEO, of a famous Kenyan hospital had been found murdered, with footage showing some lady jumping out of his house compound through a fence.

We talked about that for some time, as the bus kept going.

“Ingekuwa coast, such thing hiwezi fanyika,” she volunteered.

“How so?,  Yani mambo ya coast ni tofauti?”

“N’me zalima na kuishi huko maisha yangu yote!,  Sisi twa respect culture sana.  Mtu kama huyo should have been married off by the traditions by now.  Hangeweza kuwa bado ana pick tu girls that he does not know”

“He was probably bewitched,” I put in a word in the FD’s defense.

“Mimi siamini hiyo mambo ya babu,” she stated, “Mimi ni mkristo.”

“But waganga are all over, they even advertise themselves.  Hujaona kibao cha mganga anayetibu vitu vilivyo potea?”

“I can tell you my friend, kuamini mambo ya babu ni imani potovu tu.  Kuna wakati mimi na mme wangu hatukuwa na kazi, tuka ambiwa twende kwa babu atusaidie.  Ng’o!  Nika kataa.  Lakini waona sasa, sisi sote wawili tuna kazi, hata watoto wetu wamepata kazi zao vizuri.  No need for such.”

“But people still go to them?,” I protested.

“True, watu wengi bado wana amini babu sana.  Hata huko pwani kuna wengi wanapenda kutembelea babu, lakini they suffer in the long run.”

She would go on to tell me real cases where blood sacrifices had led to the death of some of her close relatives who had engaged ‘babu’, and sacrificing family members was a requirement in order to attain the wealth that they needed.

“Kwanza watu wa bara ndio wengi huko pwani, wakija kuona babu.  Do not trust many of these land cases you see in Nairobi.  Nyingi zao zina saidiwa na babu, wa kule Mambasani.”

Time flew very fast, and we were soon done with the Kericho and Kisumu stopover breaks.  I knew that my destination was near the moment the bus crossed River Yala.  So, as I finally alighted at Dudi, informing her that her Ugunja stage would be about 30-minutes away, I slowly forced my tired legs across the tarmac and onto the market centre.  The tiredness being from those 29km of run round-and-round the September international marathon route.  The run was also still done in good time, achieving an average of 5.04min/km.  It was now just around 4.30pm and I knew that the real run should now be taking place back in Nairobi, some 450km away.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Oct. 7, 2023

The run that I did not finish… almost

The run that I did not finish… almost

Runs can be mean!  And no other run has turned out to be meaner than the August international marathon of Friday, August 25, 2023.  This was meant to be a run like any other.  I had already done seven other similar runs and they had all turned just fine.  I did not think anything of this eighth run on the 2023 calendar.  If anything, my last run early in this same month had been a 30k on the same route within 2hr 43min, and it came and went without much ado.

That last run had been my motivation as a prepared for this August run.  My mind was already preparing for a repeat of this 30.  My scheme was to do a 42k full marathon this Friday.  Let me explain….

I had started my day by walking to a medical centre at Kangemi on Waiyaki way.  It was a routine 3km walk to the centre and another three back.  Something had, however, been off with that particular visit.  I had arrived early, as early as nine, and found the centre just preparing to start their operations, which they should have started at eight.  I even picked ticket numero uno.

I was momentarily at the pharmacy, where I presented my medical card and started waiting for the attendant to finally call me up.  The centre had gone paperless and I therefore did not have a prescription to present.  It was somewhere doing rounds ‘in the system’.  He called me up at some point, after a forever wait.  He soon pointed to some paper and asked me to sign.  He then asked me to pick my card as he presented back one copy of the signed receipt.

The procedure did not seem right, but I still picked up the card.  I was just about to leave, when I decided to ask him if he had done any billing.  I know the billing process should have required the scanning of a fingerprint and all, which had not happened yet.

“Oh em gee!,” he exclaimed, “Imagine, I forgot!  Place the card on the reader again.”

I was taking my black tea some one hour later after that event that it dawned on me that that pharmacist had not given me the medicine.  It was therefore with lots of curses that I did another 3k walk back to Kangemi to go and get the medicine, before I ‘cursingly’ walked another three back to the office.  Anyway, bad things happen to even good people, so it was just one of those bad days.

I took a lunch hour coffee while still feeling good and ready for the run.  I had already registered 12km on my legs so far, and was already scheming to add another 30k run to the mix.  That would give me the magical 42k – a full marathon all in one day!  Can there be any other better day than this?

I started the run at 1600 hours.  Mathew had already informed me that he was not joining in.  It was therefore going to be a lonely run, but a runner gotta do what a runner gotta do, so it was all well.  The weather was just perfect.  Just a bit of sun, but not that type of sun that burns.  It was the type that jus keeps you warm.  The air was still.  I wished it was a bit windy, but not today.  I would have to run on the still heated air but with a moderate solar heat, so not bad.

My troubles started on the fifth kilometre as I was running downhill towards Wangari Maathai institute on Kapenguria road, after having gone past Kabete Poly, crossed the Waiyaki way and had joined Kapenguria road.  I had already passed through the Ndumboini stage and survived the matatu and motorbike madness that keeps that road junction impassible.

Contrary to expectations, running downhill is never easy.  However, it should also not be very tedious.  In my case I could hardly ‘roll’ down.  My legs started developing a strange sense of tiredness.  I did self-talk to the effect that the downhill would soon come to an end, and I would eventually face the uphill towards Lower Kabete road.  It did not get better.  The uphill became worse than I thought.  It was just painful climbing that hill, where I was sprinting hardly twenty days ago.

Another self-talk propelled me upto Lower Kabete road and I did the left turn to run on the mild hill towards the rough road to Mary Leakey school and eventually to the University farm.  It got worse!  Worse I tell you!  And it did not improve, it kept getting worse!

My legs could hardly move, even as I finally crossed through the Uni farm and emerged at the tank on Kanyariri road tarmac.  It is at this point that I almost just turned back to my left to get to Ndumboini and back to the finish.  But even that very thought was a bit of a stretch!  My real intention was just to DNF* at this point and take a motorbike back, and there were plenty waiting at the roadside boda boda stage.

*DNF – ‘did not finish’, one of those things that happen to others, and you wish does not happen to you

I looked at my timer.  It had recorded just 13k.  Here I was ready to stop my run at just 13k!  I was not going to think any twice about this decision.  This was it.  I had had it for the day.  Of course, I could try and squeeze some run into the equation and run the about 4k back to the finish and register a 17k marathon.  But any thought of the way ‘run’ was just painful at this point.  However, it is this very thought of doing ‘just 17k’ that shamed me into action.  I do a 17 on a typical lunch hour run!  How can I register the same on a monthly international marathon?

I found myself caught up between a ‘13k DNF’, a ‘17k marathon’ or doing something about this run to still salvage it.  My mind instructed me to salvage it and forced my hardly movable legs into action.  I turned right and continued onto Kanyariri road, counting every painful step as I went along.  For the first time I kept a close watch on my watch, waiting for a 15k turnback point to eventually show up on the screen.  I was going to make a turnback at 15k and be heading back home, if I was even going to get to that point.  It was that bad!

I finally, amid hardly-movable legs, made a U-turn at the 15k mark somewhere along Kanyariri road and started running back towards Ndumboini.  My legs were tired and painful with every step.

“What did I get myself into,” I found myself saying out loudly at some point as I faced the Ndumboini hill.

“What did I get myself into,” I kept repeating audibly as the hill slowed me down almost to a standstill.

It is now about two weeks later, but I cannot tell you how I even managed to finish that run.  I do not know what was happening to me on that day.  I just know that I eventually reached the finish after 21.15km in 2.04.44, recording my PW (personal worst time).  I was just a few more steps before I could have collapsed.  I am glad that I finished run before this happened.  On reflection, I now know that even those 12km walks that I did earlier in the day counted.  I had initially assumed that they would have no bearing on my performance but I was wrong.  Even a seasoned runner can be wrong.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Sep. 8, 2023

When the marathon is washed off… with you in it

When the marathon is washed off… with you in it

“What did I get myself into?,” I muttered to myself on this Friday of April 28, 2023 at about six in the evening.

It was now about 1hr 45min into the run.  It was probably the second time that I was saying this statement.  The last time I said this very statement was hardly forty-minutes ago, almost at the very same place.  I had by then just waded through the worst mud ever!  It was bloody muddy!  The whole section through the University farm was just impossible and impassable.

I had even been forced to grind to a standstill and had to walk a very impassible section of about four hundred metres with that Uni farm.  My shoes were heavy with mud.  Every lifting up a foot usurped double the otherwise amount of energy needed to lift and run.  It was also slippery and careful baby steps were needed in the whole of that section.  I was hardly halfway through that section when I had said loudly, subconsciously, “What did I get myself into?”

My colleague Mathew had already passed by that section.  I believed that he must have also talked to himself when passing through that section.  He had overtaken me earlier on the run, just after we left Lower Kabete road towards Mary Leakey school.  Though I had been leading the run till that time, I had then decided to divert to a different route to tweak my run and add some mileage, sorry kilometer-age.  

But he need not have said anything anyway.  After all, he was to blame for this exact predicament by daring nature when I had proposed otherwise.  I did not mind running through any terrain or difficulty.  If anything, it is him that I had worried about albeit now too late to do anything about the situation….

We had started our run at the Generator ten minutes later than planned.  It had rained the whole day that Friday.  The run had technically been cancelled, only for the weather to change for the better, just at four when the run was to start.  I hurriedly swapped work for sports attire and ran towards the generator.  I was surprised to even see Mat there, since I was not expecting anyone to turnup for the run.  Not in this weather.

Though there was no rain as we started our run at 1610 hours, the dark clouds remained perched on top of the big overhead umbrella.  It was dark.  We left and ran away.  We would just deal with the weather and its children when its brings forth future surprises.

The weather remained calm, despite the dark clouds.  I had initially suggested to Mat that we do ‘marathon route 2’ instead of the usual.  This route-2 is tweaked from the usual route but formulated to keep us confined to the tarmac.  This would however mean doing a U-turn as we hit Lower Kabete road, then coming back to Ndumboini.  There we would take Kanyariri road on the right and run as usual all the way past Uni farm turnoff, to Wangige-Gitaru underpass to do the extreme U-turn back.

“Halafu tupande hiyo mlima yote ya Wangari turudi nayo?,” Mat had asked, as we just started the run and were discussing the route.

“Yes, that is the only way to avoid the Uni farm mud, but if you are upto it, then we do it.  I do not mind.”

He thought about it for a minute.  By the time we got to the gate to start the run proper, he had made up his mind, “Hiyo mlima, hapana, let us just go through the Uni farm.”

I knew the better but kept this knowledge to myself.  We kept running and finally left the comfort of the tarmac at the 7km mark, 8km in my case, and diverted off to the left.  It did not take long to reach the dreaded Uni farm.  The Uni farm was muddy due to the earlier rains that seem to have fallen all the way from Uthiru to that section, some ten kilometres away.  I was ready for this and so waded through successfully.  I am not sure how Mat managed to get by, but I could see his prominent run shoe footprints well defined on the muddy path, mostly on the edges of the road.

We finally got off the mud and joined Kapenguria road tarmac.  We kept running and the weather remained stable.  We even made it to the Gitaru-Wangige underpass and made our ultimate U-turn, with Mat always on the lead as I tweaked around.  Trouble started on the way back, as I got to Kapenguria road after the U-turn at the underpass.  By this time Mat should have been about six-minutes ahead from my calculations.  That means that he was now turning towards the short Uni farm diversion that is part of this route to emerge back on Kapenguria road.  It was at this time that I realized that the sky was darker than usual, and some drizzles had started.

I kept running.  The drizzle remained sparse.  I would probably survive this.  After all, the cool shower spray from above was cooling the body in small measures, just at the right level.  I even increased pace on this section as I reached the Uni farm diversion for a three-minute run, before getting back to Kapenguria road.  However, getting back to the road marked the beginning of trouble…..

I started hearing the sound that accompanies a heavy rain coming from somewhere and getting louder with every step that I took.  I wished that it was not true, but the sound of the rain got louder and louder and louder until it finally busted out loudly on my path as the heaviest, coldest, shock-inducing, unexpected and painful water droplets hit me.  I was just approaching ‘the tank’, which marks the Uni farm turnoff, the very turnoff where earlier on I had almost got stuck due to the mud.  However, this time round I would be sticking to the Kapenguria road tarmac as I head towards the finish.

“What did I get myself into?,” I muttered to myself for a second time.

It was now about one-hour forty-five minutes into the run.  I had another at least thirty minutes of run ahead to cover the remaining six kilometres or so.

The rain increased in intensity.  There was no place to shelter on this fairly deserted road.  I was stuck.  I could not go back and going forward was proving difficult with the pain and cold of the rain.

“This is messed up!,” I shouted to no one in particular.  

I kept running.  The road was hardly visible due to the white sheet of raindrops that had enveloped the air.  I shoved the phone that was doing the timing into the pocket of my shorts.  I kept running.  Soon I was facing the 1km uphill towards Ndumbo market.  The rain did not relent.  It just increased the pain of running uphill.  I was dripping wet by this time.  My run shoes were heavy with the waters.  My clothes were freezing cold and dropping off water in my wake.  I was shivering along as I ran.  I did not stop.  I kept going.

I finally reached Waiyaki way.  It still raining heavily.  I could hardly see the oncoming vehicles.  Some were courteous enough to put on their headlights.  Others decided to remain invisible.  It is only the sound of their engines on approach that signaled their presence.  I somehow crossed one side of the road to the middle island, despite the invisibility caused by the rain.  I had to wipe off the rains from my face many times in the process of waiting and crossing.  I once again finally crossed the other carriage of the road and got to the edge of the Waiyaki way.

It was now time for the final run past Kabete Police station, then do the sharp U-turn towards Kabete Poly.  My run would be over in a moment.  I caught up with Mat at the Uthiru roundabout with less than two hundred metres to go.  It was the best feeling to finally finish the run, just as the rain as subsiding into drizzles.

I stopped my timer at 25.16km, 2.14.15, 5.20 average.

This is a run that I would have liked to forget in a hurry.  I did not want to reveal anything that happened on that Friday.  However, the best way to forget about something is to get it out of your system, which I have now done.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, May 10, 2023

Running short of words

Running short of words

This was the last day of my holiday.  It has gone well and I had had a good holiday since last week.  It has been the most relaxed week ever.  I even got my research project that had been stuck due to lack of time and motivation back on track, and it was now working well.  I do not wake up early during my holidays.  It was therefore not my day to wake up early, but the morning had destined that I would have to be forced to wake up early on this Friday.

“Wowi! Wowi!,” I kind-a heard a shout.  It was just about six thirty.  This would normally be a time to prepare for the last three hours of sleep.  But that was not to be.

“Hebu niue!  Niueeeee! Niue, niue, niue,” a definite woman’s voice shouted.  It came from the grounds of the next compound, with the noise permeating clearing onto the second floor where I was, window facing the open ground where the sound was coming from.

I ignored it, turned, tossed and tried to get back to sleep.  But not for long!

“Wowi! Wowi!  Leo lazima utaniua!  Nimechoka natabia zako!,” she continued and continued some more.  She kept talking, shouting, crying.

There was generally no answer.  Just murmurs from apparently other people around.  The woman would then finally give a “Umenichapa!  Leo utanijua!.”  That was the last I heard of that as she retreated sobbingly out of earshot.  It was just about six-forty-five.  The air become quiet once more.  I even tried to sleep, but this was not my morning.

I started hearing some crying from afar, and some muffled sounds that gave me the impression that someone was talking amid cries.  This lasted for some time, though the sound was just in the background without clarity of deciphering what was being said.

But at seven the muffled sounds come back to clarity as the distinct shouting of the same woman came into earshot.

“Sasa nimerudi!,” she declared, amidst crying, “Hebu sasa Senior atoke nje kama yeye ni mwanamme!”

Mmmhhh, this is it!  

The lady then kept shouting and calling names.  She said that she is not leaving until Senior came out and confronted her if he was a real man.  She said that she is now ready to die, and even gave her death time as sometime in the next one week.  She said that she is doing down since she fears that she is infected with HIV that she got from the promiscuity of his man, Senior.  However, she had a death wish.  She wanted to confirm to Senior’s face that he is responsible for her ailment.  She lamented how her mother had warned her against marrying Senior.  Now she was regretting and wishing that she had listened to her late mother.  She cried some more.

Some men tried to cool her down, from her shouting position, out of view, but she could not hear nothing.  She told all those talking to her to save themselves the trouble by just getting Senior out to face the music.  That was the only way she was going to keep quiet.

“Atoke twende tupimwe saa hii,” she said at some point, amid sobs and many other lamentations.

Finally, after many minutes, the accused popped out of the iron sheet walled den.  I could see his frame standing at the wooden frame iron sheet door.  That is the furthest he stood.

“We mama wachana na mimi,” he slurred, “Hi kelele yako ndio sababu nilikuacha!”

“Hebu toka nje kama wewe mwanamme,” she responded from her concealed location.  I could guess just on the covered walkway out of my view.

“Mimi nilikuacha,” the guy repeated, “Tuliachana tayari!”

“Nimefanya investigations,” she countered, “Umekuwa ukilala na Sandra hapa tu kwa hii nyumba!”

Oh my!  What are we having this morning!

“Hebu twende test kwanza, kabla sijajiua!,” she added, amidst loud shouts.  I think Senior had ignited a fighting spirit in her by his responses.  She had now become completely mad!

“Kama una pesa, enda ununue hiyo test kit tujipime hapa!,” Senior in his don’t care attitude responded, by this time egg on his face by the morning embarrassment.

“Hapana, lazima twende hosi kufanya test na wewe!,” she sobbed back.

One of the drunks would throw spanners into the whole mainly monologue, “Kupimwa si ni free?,” he slurred, almost inaudibly.

“Thank you!,” the lady heard and responded animatedly amidst sobs.

I could still see the blue cap that marked the head of the accused firmly affixed to the door post.  He did not have the courage to face that woman.  That woman had energy!  How can you shout for over two hours and remain strong and still shouting!.  Senior kept bass-ing in the den, but now completely rained on.  He was not the usually jolly noisy domineering male bass that I had come to associate with that figure.  Today he had got his match, if that can be described as such.

And his match he did get!  That woman was blessed with voice, shrill, noise and shout!  She had it all in maximum measures.  I did not get to see her, but could only make out her voice and imagine her form.  I imagined some small lady, probably one-point-five metre tall, maybe fifty kilos in mass.  And she was far from done…

“You are the devil himself,” she added, “I must go with you devil!”

“Siendi mahali popote na huyu malaya,” Senior responded, which just led to more shouts and cries from the lady.  The lady was so loud that the whole three storey building facing the den could hear each and every word loud and clear, whether they like it or not!

“Tangu hi kelele ianze hakuna customers wamekuja hapa!,” another mature woman, whom I have associated with being the owner of the den, complained, “Hata wale wakamba hujuka saa moja leo hawajakuja”

Her complain got an immediate reaction… 

“Aweke chupa chini kwanza ndio nikuja,” Senior attempted to leave the door post, but remained put.  I now learnt that the lady was armed, and Senior was afraid!  He waited for affirmation on this request, but none of the three gents or two ladies who were in the compound witnessing the confrontation responded.  

The shouting lady continued shouting.  She swore that she was going to die… but not alone.  She was going the one way street with Senior.

It was now just over one and a half hours since I was woken up.  The shouting lady has kept shouting, though the voice seems to be retreating.  I can still see the group of five milling around the open space.  A young lady in brown jeans is serving the three guys, pouring something from a plastic bottle onto their metallic tumblers.  One of the guys gives her some money.  I cannot see how much, but she give back some change.  The other two gents just drink on.  Th elderly lady, who seemed to be the mother of the girl, keeps sitting around.  She must still be lamenting the loss of business due to the morning noise.

Senior and his shouting ex-wife, as he had claimed, must have somehow sneaked away amidst the chaos.  The shouting lady on her part claims that senior is still his husband, but he does not like his ‘sleeping’ ways, to put it politely.  She said the unprintable on the ‘sleeping’ issue, even mentioning names.  One of the drunks has taken advantage of the absence of the shouting lady, to update his colleagues and the neighbouring block where I am.  

He updates us that the shouting lady had earlier in the morning blocked the road in front of the den by lying across it.  No vehicles could pass through.  She kept shouting and crying while on the ground.  Only some lengthy persuasion convinced her to bring back her wrath to the den.  The same drunks let it slip that the owners of our apartment had met and sent a petition to the police due to the persistent noises that come from the den that disturbs their peace - this was a new one.

What a morning!  I should have just gone for my morning run and missed all this earache.  Now I have to get medication.

WWB, the coach, Eldoret, Kenya, April 14, 2023

Valenthon that was tougher than Kili

Valenthon that was tougher than Kili

If all had worked out, I would now be recuperating from a run at Kilimanjaro mountain.  But things did not work out.  I did not manage to travel to Tanzania, despite the best of efforts.  I still missed the bus.  It is for that reason that it is a run day Sunday in Kili but I am still in Nairobi and surviving another hot afternoon, a second hot afternoon.  Though I missed the Kili, I still had my own International marathon on Friday, February 24.  This was yet another monthly marathon arranged by the MOE*.

I know that folks are wondering what happened to the January international, since there was mention nor a blog story about it.  I will tell you why there was no story about it.  It turned out to be exactly as what I had written about in November and December, that is, I was alone on that long 21km route and I lived to tell.  I did not want to duplicate a story already written in November, so I left it untold.

I have just seen postings of the performance by the Kenyan team members who went to Kili and who did their run today, Sunday.  I congratulate them.  I do not envy them.  I know how hot the run must have been, though they had the privilege and opportunity of being supplied with water, soda and fruits.  I did experience a similarly tough run on Friday, albeit without any water or nourishment in that hot Friday evening.

Let me thank Mathew for ensuring that this story is written, otherwise I would be skipping the writing and referring runners to the December event if I would have run solo on this hot February.  In fact, I was prepared for yet another solo run, with Edu having conveniently cancelled his participation hardly 3-days to the event.  He was the only team member that was capable to taking up the challenge.  His excuse this time round was an evening meeting on the Friday, but I knew better.  While the meeting was convenient, the real reason was the fear of being roasted in the scorching sun.  He even let that sentiment slip, but it was too late to state that this was not his reason for cancellation.

I started the run at four from the locker room, and headed to the ‘real’ starting point at the generator.  I did not expect anyone to be joining me on this run.  I just ran there as a routine to get this run officially started.  It was a pleasant surprise to see Mathew, a second time runner at that starting point.  The last time I did a run with him was sometime in November, when Edu was also in that trio.  We had run the Mary Leakey route on a 13km distance in an evening.  It was a general slow run.

We were meeting for a second run, four months later.

“Where is your water?,” I asked, as we prepared to reflag the run.  I had my own 500ml water bottle, whose content was already warm, despite having filled in some cold water hardly ten minutes prior.  The weather was just blazing hot.

“Will I need it?”

“Did you not read the notice?  We said that every runner must carry some water.  This heat is nothing to joke with!”

“I will buy some along the way,” he shrugged.

We started the run, as he confirmed that this was his first run on the 21km route.  It was a slow run ab-initio.  We ran together through the designated route to Waiyaki way and crossed over to Ndumboini.  We went down Kapenguria road, past Wangari Maathai institute and ended up on Lower Kabete road.  From there we turned left and ran about a kilometre, to once again turn left through the rough road past Mary Leakey and eventually traversed the university farm.  We finally emerged at the tank, and joined Kanyariri road.  We turned right and kept going, slowly, though I could at times increase pace go gain over five minutes, only to stop and wait for Mathew to join in.

Running on Kanyariri road from the tank to Gitatu underpass and back was the hardest part of the run, with all the sun and the tiredness continuously setting in.  Eventually, Mathew took a break to buy his water at ‘the tank’, which is the junction to the rough road towards University farm.  On the return leg we would however not go back to the farm, but instead keep to the Kanyariri road tarmac all the way back to Ndumboini and do the same route back to the starting line.  I had hardly touched my water.  It was already boiling inside that plastic bottle.

I did a few tweaks and variations of the run to give myself some extra mileage as I also allowed Mat to catch up.  Finally, after almost 2hr 30min in the hot sun, that was now slowly fading off as the sun sets, we did finish the run.  I stopped my timer at 02.27.01 after 24.30km, with an average of 6.03.  I did not know that running slowly can be that tiring.  But that was not my Kili tiredness moment.

The tiredness moment came when I was walking home at about eight in the evening.  My body was just too lethargic.  I struggled to get to the home and literally collapsed into the house.  I took a litre of coke soda, but that did not seem to quench my thirst.  I tried to eat something, I do not even know what, but I was just not myself.  At some point in the night I did fall asleep.

I woke up yesterday and found an open bottle of soda by the bedside, and some half eaten food.  I cannot even remember how I left these leftovers, yet my mind had convinced me that I had partaken them all.  At that moment of waking up I surely confirmed that dehydration was real.  Worse can really happen if an athlete lets dehydration have its way.  This was the worst feeling that I have had in many years.  I survived the last Kili over the 42km in 2020, but it did not feel this bad.  The aftereffects of the Valenthon were just from another world!

*MOE = marathoners of expert, the committee that organizes for marathons 

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Sunday, Feb. 26, 2023

Why run on New Year Day?

Why run on New Year Day?

I really do not have an answer as to why anyone should do anything, leave alone do a run, on the New Year Day.  I kept asking myself that question today, especially after the second out of a five-circuit run at the home of champions, that is Eldoret town.  I was on the same circuit that lies on one side of Sosiani river.  It is generally hilly, and I was facing yet another hilly section when this question came to mind.

It was morning.  I had started the run at eight.  There was hardly anyone on the road.  Even the motorbike people who are usually at the road junctions in groups of at least three or four were missing.  I was on the same route where I had had a fall just four days ago.  My knees were still aching.  In fact this was a deliberate run to confirm that my knees were still working well.  I have major runs this year, starting with the Kilimanjaro marathon in TZ scheduled for February 26.  I have to be ready for these.

My knees were not yet fully healed.  The wounds were still visible.  But that was not the test that I was doing today.  The test was on whether they were folding well and could withstand the pressure from the run over the varied terrain, some of it stony.  The pressure of the run was a bit too much as I could really feel that something was wrong on the knee, especially the right one.  I found myself relying on keeping my weight on the left leg, keeping my right leg in contact with the ground for the shortest of time.  Anyway, at least I was able to run.  I was afraid that I could not even run at all.

I was however just too careful with the run to enjoy it.  I was focused on where I was stepping.  I could not afford another tumble and fall.  I wanted to heal and be ready for the many runs in the year.  The test was therefore necessary, carefully done, and it went well.  The roads were deserted.  Even the church services at the three or so churches that I run past on my route did not start on time.  I could hear the loud church activities by eight-thirty when I did the Christmas run last Sunday.  I could hardly hear any church by nine-thirty on this day, when I was two more circuits from my finish.

Eight hours early was midnight that ushered in the New Year.  It was the usual dark night with the sky being lit by the fireworks when the clock struck midnight.  The noises were however not as intense as they were last year.  Even the drunkards den just downstairs was unusually quiet on this night.  It would usually be noisy and evidently drunkard laden.  By now, the partakers of the traditional brew, cham or chang’aa, would have been unruly, noisy and occasionally fighting about over some nonsensical things like someone did not greet someone.  This time was different.  The den was already closed by ten.  Was the economy that bad, that even cheap drinks were now not affordable?

So the night had generally been quiet.  The morning was equally quiet.  Was this the end of New Year as we know it?  Could it be the deaths in sports, religion and media in the last three days that had caused all this?  The legendary footballer, Pele from Brazil, had just died, followed closely by the former Pope Benedict at the Vatican.  Then the darling of the first major TV channel in Kenya (KTN), Catherine, has also passed on just a day to New Year.  Were these the causes of the major dampening of the New Year mood?  Of course, the first time that I heard that Edson Arantes do Nascimento had died it did not click, until they confirmed that it was the person that I have only known as Pele.  So what a way of ending the year, and starting another?

Then come Sunday morning and it was New Year 2023 day 1.  I found myself on the run route, deserted I may add, and finished the 25.7k run after some 2:14:18 run time.  I did not see any much difference between this New Year and any other run.  I did not seem to get the big deal about the New Year.  Maybe I am just being old fashioned?

For those who have a special something for New Year, go for it.  Celebrate it, enjoy it, shout over it, make it count.  For those who need to make some declarations on this day, so that that resolution becomes true, please do that.  It may work.  It should make you feel good.  As for me, I know the better.  There is nothing special on January 1.  It could even be fifteen of April on this day that we believe is January 1, who knows.  This January 1 thing is just in the mind.  What happens to those who did not make their resolutions today?  Does it mean that they are stuck with nothingness until next year?

This is from me to you on this New Year Day – do what you want on a day that you want to do it.  If you make a resolution today, then that is good.  If you decide to make it tomorrow, that is equally OK.  Make your decisions in life when you want… not only on New Year Day.  That way you have 365 days to live and do what you want… without having to wait for one year to do anything.

Happy New Year 2023!

WWB, the Coach, Eldoret, Kenya, January 1, 2023