Two marathons, the full ones…. in two weeks

Two marathons, the full ones…. in two weeks

Episode 1 - First half of first marathon

It was a bad idea from the beginning.  Two marathons, the full marathons, in two weeks.  This was in keeping with the tradition of the unlimitedness of the human spirit – an ‘Ineos159’ thing.  The main run was supposed to be the ‘ultimate’ international marathon – the one that closes the year – scheduled for Friday, Dec. 20.  There was nothing supposed to be held before this year closing event.  

But things do happen.  I had seen many other marathons still being advertised on our marathoners groups WhatsApp.

“Is this a scheme to sabotage the ‘ultimate’?,” I found myself asking as I saw marathon after another being promoted.  There was no talk of the ultimate.  If anything, my single announcement did not elicit any response.  I was already reminding myself of the November international, codename ‘route eleven’, where only my own two legs turned up.

It is the usual convention to scout the route before a run.  I had already scouted it for ‘route eleven’ hardly a month prior.  Surely, nothing could have changed in that time, could there be?  There was only one way to find out.  The finding out took place on Monday, Dec. 9.  I left for the evening run in a relaxed ‘scouting’ mood – no pressure.  This was just the usual 21k on the usual international route, with the usual 10km hill.  Nothing new.

That feeling would soon be short lived just as I crossed the main Nakuru highway at Kabete Police, bottle of water in hand, two cells at hand to time the run with two different apps.  I started feeling pain in my stomach.  That was strange.  That was new.  

I had been on a usual watchful diet.  My last heavy meal had been the late breakfast at ten – just a cup of black tea and a piece of sweet potato.  I had thereafter taken two more cups of tea and about a half litre of water in the timespan between ten and four.  I took the last sip of warm water just past four, ready for the run that started at 4.45pm.  The stomach pain hardly fifteen minutes from start of the run was a strange one.

I was in a run-stopping pain by the time I started the Vet loop part of the run on the second kilometer.  I encouraged myself to continue monitoring the situation.

“Push it to Ndumbo river on the 4k,” I told myself.

“Gauge it there and be ready to turn back,” I continued the self-talk.

The rains earlier in the day had made the path muddy, before I could get to the tarmac road at Ndumbo.  The weather was a bit cold.  It was drizzling as I ran down towards Ndumbo river – the point of decision on whether I would continue the run or not.

It would not be long before the decision would be clear – the run was on.  My stomach pain had subsided and I started up the hill with an energetic leap.  The drizzles also subsided and the weather would remain dull through the run.  The tummy pain would however resume just past Kanyariri school.  I still had that final two kilometers of hill towards Nakuru highway.

“Do I turn back?”

I kept going, albeit with slowed pace.

I somehow got to the highway with pain on my stomach.  It was now the turning point of the 21k and there was no going back on this run now.  I now just had to go round the big circle of Gitaru market and start my way back.

My mouth did not feel like taking a sip.  I could not even imagine taking in any water.  Just the thought of it almost got me throwing up.  I would be running ‘dry’ on this run.  I kept going with my full bottle of half-litre of water on this half-marathon.  The stomach pain would subside as I ran down towards Ndumbo river.  

I now had only three kilometres to the finish.  The effects of dehydration were evident.  I was finding it hard to pump in any more powerful kicks as I faced the final hill to Ndumbo market.  I was tired!  I longed for water, which I had at hand, but my mouth had refused to pertain any.  It took willpower to cross Waiyaki way and get to Kabete Poly for the last kilometer.  But having done twenty already, I had just to push through that last one – even if it was the last thing that I would do.

I stopped my timer at 1.46.01.  Runkeeper gave me 21.82km while Endomondo gave me 21.23km.  I had given myself 1.50.00.  I was glad to have been vindicated despite how I felt.  The run was a 5.00min/k pace.  

Episode 2 - Second half of first marathon

It was a Friday, four days after the painful Monday run.  I had already enjoyed a day of rest in the name of Jamhuri day holiday on Thursday.  I was ready to take myself back on the 21k route.  This run was more of a confirmation that my body was still working well.  Maybe the Monday experience was telling me something.  I was going to find out.  It had not rained since Thursday morning.  It was getting drier.  Some dark clouds around four threatened to culminate into a rainy evening.  It did not.  The evening was sunny – hot even.

I started my run at quarter to five, a bottle of water at hand.  The warm weather propelled my steps and I was soon crossing the Waiyaki way at Kabete hardly ten minutes after starting the run.  The run was just too smooth.  

There was nothing special on the route.  Just the usual no-other-runners, the usual vehicles hooting you out of the way despite the road being too big to accommodate the single vehicle and one runner.  The usual evening sun that can be hot when it means to – and it did mean to on this Friday.

I reached Gitaru market without much ado.  I had already taken a few sips of water.  I would go around the market partly on Wangige road and be back to Kanyariri road before long.  The spice of the route is the downhill run from Gitaru market back to Ndumbo river.  I found myself down acceleration lane as I covered this part without much effort.  I was just on top of the world on this run.  The sips of water helped keep me hydrated.

A vehicle flashes me with full headlights as we both converge on the same road bump going in opposite directions.

The driver waves.  I hardly notice him since our relative motions are increasing our separation with each passing second.  I wave back.  I am useless without my specs.  I am not sure which runner that is.  All I know is that he is a runner.

It is not long before it is the turn of a motorbike.  I am running without a care, when the motorbike approaches me and hoots.  I give it way before the passenger draws my attention.

“Dabliu Biiiii!,” an excited sound comes from the passenger of the motorbike, which has now slowed down towards a stop.  I am already five metres gone, heading towards ten metres gone.

I try to look back while maintaining a front motion.  I am not sure whether I should stop or not.

I recognize the passenger.

“Haki woiye!  Good work!  Dabliu Biiii!!  Haki wewe!!,” Lavender shouts back at my retreating form.

“Thanks!,” I shout back loudly.  I am now past ten metres and going.

I run the last four kilometres without noticing much around me.  I am just doing a run that shall soon come to an end.  And coming to an end it does.  This second half marathon of the first marathon ends with a time of 1.39.55!  This was a 4.42min/km pace. 

“That can’t be true!,” I shake my head as I get into the compound.  Shaving off seven-minutes from the half is just unimaginable!  Both the apps record this run as a 21.27km event.

Episode 3 - First half of second marathon

“My medal number 22 at Tigoni,” Janet declared on the WhatsApp page with photographic evidence.  It was a Saturday. 

“The last run in 2019,” she adds.  

I now know why she is not running in next Friday’s ‘ultimate’ international.  Will anyone turn up for this final run?  I ponder.

How about medals?  The ultimate run would have none.  

I had imagined that I was a diligent runner in the year, with 1,110km ran since June 1, but I only had five medals to show for it.  Tanzania’s Kilimanjaro full, Kenya’s Muituni half, Kenya’s Alliance twenty k, Norway’s Stavanger full and Netherlands’s Amsterdam full – But twenty-two medals!  How is that even possible?  Where have I been?  I started having self-doubt as to whether I was running a lost cause.

This third run in the second week was proving to be the hardest to arrange and execute.  It should have been on a Monday, but the SMS from the doc was categorical, “You have a 3.00pm appointment on Monday.  Do not miss.”

I liked the ‘Do not miss’ part.  It was as though I was due for some important award.

If this third run was not to be done on a Monday, and yet I had the ultimate on Friday, then when would this third run be ‘squeezed in’?  Tuesday seemed too late!

I was seated, more like reclined on the dental chair at exactly three.  I was able to look through the large window on this first-floor room to see the newly constructed Ngong road section just a stone throw away.  I could see matatus and motorbikes competing for space on the vast road, hooting each other loudly.  

It is not the poking of my teeth with that sharp thing that looked like a screw driver that cause my dread, it was the tick-tock towards the evening run that got me thinking.

‘The doc’, sorry ‘the dent’, would finally say, after three cycles of examining the x-ray then the poking, “This image does not look like what I see now.  You must have healed in the last one month.”

That was music to my ears.  The nursing assistant also seemed relieved.  I was expecting one of those prolonged ‘sit-ins’, sorry, ‘recline-ins’.  This would not happen today.  This was to be the shortest stay on that chair.

It was now just past 3.30pm.  I had to ‘somehow’ make it to the run in an hour.  The distance was not the issue, the means of travel was.  Matatus are so untimely and unpredictable once you are on board.  

How many times have you been forced out of the matatu before your destination with a simple, “Mwisho! Mwisho! Shukeni! Tumefika mwisho!  Gari inarudi!”

Just like that, without a care in the world – rain or no rain.  No refund and no refund!

That would probably be three to five kilometers from the expected destination!

How about the route being changed without notice!  You are heading towards your destination, which you can see right ahead, then the matatu diverts to a bumpy side road that takes them longer in the name of ‘avoiding traffic’.  Please do not get me started on matatus.  I just use them though we have a hate-hate relationship.

I ‘somehow’ got to my destination at 4.15pm.  This was in good time for the run.  This run would happen.  Let ‘us’ get this run done with… and that is what ‘we’ did.  You need to read a previous blog to know the origin of this pluralization.  To refresh your memory, I got it from the same dents, who keep using plural for their individual selves.

I started the run at the international starting line at exactly 4.45pm.  The weather was good, if anything it was hot.  A second hot run in four days.  It did not take long before I was feeling the heat, even as I crossed Waiyaki way after five minutes of run.  The run was the same usual run.  Through the route that is now etched into memory.  I can close my eyes and replicate that route any day, or night if the Addis experience of nightruns can help in this route.

There was nothing much to write about on this first half of the second marathon.  It went on as planned – a relaxed run without any pressure of any sorts whatsoever.  I eventually finished the run, stopping the now well-behaved gadgets at 21.20km in 1hr 42min 05sec (Endomondo) and 21.17km in 1hr 42min 09sec (Runkeeper).  A 4.49min/km pace.  

I say ‘well-behaved’ since I have the secret of eliciting this behavior on these gadgets.  Switch on the Airplane mode when you are using them.  That forces all background apps to freeze, leaving the gadgets with only one thing to do – track your run – and that is what you want, right?.

Episode 4 - Second half of second marathon – the ultimate

There was now only one run standing, sorry running, between me and a four-run streak – this was the ‘ultimate’ marathon planned for Friday, Dec. 20, 2019.  This was the run to close the year – the very last one – the ‘ultimate’.  

However, it did not seem to stand much chance of success.  If the November ‘penultimate’ was largely shunned, yet the runners had not even tasted the festivities yet!  How about this one that was occurring two-weeks after the employer had hosted the staff to a lavish end year bash?  This ultimate run was technically off, but unfortunately it was part of the 4-run streak and I would have to partake, even if it was the last thing that I was doing this year.

“Coach!  Long time!,” Edu shouted in my direction as I approached his trio.  They were like ten metres away.  It was lunch hour.  A Thursday.  One day to the final run of 2019.

“Oh!  Hi there yourselves!”

“Kupotea nayo!?” 

We had now met and were exchanging greetings.

“Niko!  Hata kesho kuna mbio – the last one!  The ultimate!!”

“Ah, you mean?,” he started.  

I already knew his next sentence, but still waited for him to say it, “Sisi tulishafunga mbio mpaka next year!”

Now, this ultimate thing is not going to happen.  If the likes of Edu, had called it ‘a year’ already?  The real veterans in my group!?  Then who else would dare make it to the ‘ultimate’?

I was packing up for the evening, ready to face the inevitable solo ‘ultimate’.  I was already resigned to that inevitable fate.

“Bad things happen,” I thought loudly.  

I was just about to walk home, when a friend requested for some two reds to sort out something.  I was doing the lending by mobile money, one hundred at a time.  The first hundred went through successfully.  I could even here the beep beep from the phone that was just placed on the seat.  I would momentarily hear another beep beep.  

I then transferred the second red and heard those double beeps.  It was not long before the owner of the phone came back to the office and possessed the phone.

“Have you sent me the money?”

“Yes, of course I did!”

“Mbona sioni?”

“I have just sent.  Check your phone!,” I responded with conviction.

“Sioni kitu, are you sure?”

“Yes, si numba yako ni seven eight seven?”

“Ai, wewe!  Sasa mbona ulituma kwa hiyo namba?”

I was taken aback.  I had to process.

“What do you mean, ‘mbona’?  Isn’t that your number?”

“Yes, lakini hiyo ina fuliza.  Imagine that money was ‘chewed’ immediately.”

I had to loan another two additional reds to the right number.  This is just crazy!

It took me the whole length of the 1.2km walking home to get to know what this fuliza thing that ‘chews‘ money was all about.  Even as I reached home and prepared my running shoes ready for the ultimate.  I believed that one more night rest was all that was needed to crack this run.  Only time (and weather) would tell, whether the ultimate succeeds or not.

And…. time and weather did tell when it was finally a Friday and it was 4.45pm – time for the run.  The weather was good.  The evening sun was bright, warm and quite inviting as I flagged myself off at the generator.  I was the only one at the starting line.  That was expected.  I was feeling quite on top of the world as I started the run.  However, the Friday run would soon become similar, in fact congruent to the Monday run!  

My stomach pain started hardly five minutes after I started the run, as I crossed Waiyaki way at Kabete Technical’s N-junction.

“This is not happening, again,” I told myself even as I crossed the highway.

My speed had started reducing by the time I was at Ndumbo having just done about fifteen minutes of run.  By then my stomach was so painful that every step that I took seemed to increase the pain.

“I shall not make it this time round,” I shook my head as I went down from Ndumbo towards the river.

I do not even remember how I got the energy to carry me from the river for the 1km run to the elevated tank.  It was the most painful uphill run.

“I give up!,” I said when I reached the tank, and if anything made up my mind to cancel the run by diverting to the right ready to just do the Mary Leakey route and get back.  I would have to make do with a 13k instead of 21k.

I was running slowly through the university farm when the pain in the stomach subsided and was soon gone.  I had hardly gone a kilometer through this dusty footpath.

“Now what?,” I said while turning back, deciding to abandon the Mary Leakey alternative and going back to the original run. 

Maybe the pain was just a temporary thing.  I may as well just do the intended full run.  After all, maji ukiyavulia nguo lazima uyaoge (when you strip you just have to take a bath).  I was already stripped for this bathing.  I just had to do it.  I turned back and was soon back to Kanyariri road at the elevated tank.  I turned to my right and continued with Kanyariri road, to do the initially intended run. 

The eye of the stomach however must have seen that I was back to Kanyariri road, since it was hardly five minutes after rejoining Kanyariri that the stomach pain resumed.

“I have no choice, I shall have to do this run…. Painfully.”

I had now just covered about 6km.  

I still had another 15km – Wowi!  Fifteen more?  

I had not even done half!!

So I did the run, one painful step at a time.  Fifteen thousand more such steps!

As I said, the run was similar, sorry congruent to the Monday run.  Same feeling, same pain and no appetite for water.  I finished the run when I was as dehydrated as a stone in summer, yet I still had my full bottle of water at hand.  

This stomach thing was now a serious thing.  It did not seem to be related to diet.  I must have been bit by some form of bug that now needed medical intervention.  

I stopped my gadgets in 1hr 54min 56min for a distance of 22.86km - A 5.05min/km pace.  The worst pace in the four run streak.  The final lessons from the coach after 2 full marathons in 2 weeks – forget legs.  You need a good stomach for your runs.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year 2020.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Dec. 20, 2019

TCS Amsterdam part 2 - The medal that brought trouble

TCS Amsterdam part 2 - The medal that brought trouble

Strike Three

“Three phenomenon at once!”

That was my sigh as I opened up the curtains and looked out the windows at ten on this Saturday.  It was shining.  I could see the brightness of the sun hit the white student hostels just across the road from my sitting position.  And secondly, it was raining.  The droplets were slowly staining my window pane and kind of blocking my view of the outside.  And finally the third occurrence… the large rainbow was prominently colouring the sky, in the background just behind the student hostel blocks.  

The view was spectacular from my sitting position.  It was only spectacular because my room heater was on, at about 32 degrees, the windows were tightly closed and the cold out there was only in my imagination.  The winter was on its way.  Eight weeks ago, the trees and shrubs were green.  Hardly two months later, the few remaining leaves of the trees and shrubs were now coloured yellowish-orange.  The once dense leaves had mostly fallen off to the ground, littering the undergrowth with layers of dead leaves.  These were becoming an eyesore on the tarmacked parking spaces.  It made them leafy-dirty.  

The branches of trees and shrubs were now becoming more visible – actually they were becoming skeletons of the plants that were there before.  At this rate, it would not be more than a month before there was no leaf left on anything.  Even my favourite forest area, where I do my runs, visible on the left background from my sitting position, was starting to turn yellowing from its usual dark green.  Whether the forest shall also shed off to a skeleton remains to be seen.  

I am already taken aback….

I had intended to sleep early after the marathon.  I did not.  My host was having an African party in NL.  Apart from Dori whom I already knew from that trip to the marathon and James from Kenya who co-shared the apartment, I had to opportunity to meet another three guests.  Two gents from Kenya, whom I learnt were both graduate students, and one lady, Loraine.  We just sat at the dinner table, dinner going on, and talked about dis-and-dat for over two hours.  The house cleared around eleven.  I slept past midnight.  

The house was empty when I woke up Monday morning, past ten.  Fay and James had already left for school.  I was scheduled to visit a friend at Amersfoot, two trains away.  However, my day become uncertain when the person that I was to visit cancelled at the last minute, due to unavailability.  I just stayed indoors until evening, when I was taken around a tour of the University of Wageningen, a life science university.  To be politically correct, sorry, academically correct, the place is called Wageningen University and Research (WUR).  However, there is political correctness to this name, since I learn that the place is a merger of a university and research institute.  

At 100-year of existence as at 2018, the institution was surely well established.  At the walk of fame, a paved walkway of about fifty-metres, I saw at least three Nobel laureates associated with that university.  Not far this, there is a work of art, the giant ‘water beetle’, that is flying without moving, on top of the water, just next to a pedestrian walkway bridge.  In the water, under the beetle, one can clearly read the illuminated sign – “Must leave”

“It is getting dark, We must leave,” I tell Fay.

It is already dark, though it is hardly seven in the evening.

“It is cold, can you feel it?”

“This is nothing,” I respond, “I can shed my jacket and survive this place.  Norway is twice this cold.”

I take some time thinking of that beautiful beetle that is flying but not moving, even as we walk back. The symbolism of having to fly away from the usual habitat really gets me.

Night in the morning

I was to sleep early in readiness for my early morning travel back to Amsterdam, then back home.  However, I found myself just typing on the keyboard for my stories until I realized that it was way past midnight.  I surely had to sleep, or otherwise risk oversleeping on one of my many changeovers planned for the next day as I travel.

It was Tuesday morning before I knew it.  I left the apartment when it was still dark.  I was not very sure of the route to take, especially from the apartment to the stage.  I was just getting familiar with the geography.  Fay showed me to the walkway outside the house.  James had said his goodnight and goodbye the previous evening.  

I was now on my own.  The timing from now henceforth had to work like clockwork.  Any missed travel or missed connection would spell my doom.  I was only wary of missing my first bus stage.  If I got to this bus stage, then I was surely making it to Schiphol.  I walked from the apartment with apprehension.  It was still dark, but the streets were well lit.  It was cold, but comparatively, not as cold as the North.

Led by pure instinct and self-belief, I made my way through the residential estate and found myself at the bus stage.  It was now 6.25am.  I was waiting for the 6.30am bus no. 88.  I found one other person waiting at the stage.  Another person, suitcase in tow, would soon join us.  

The three waited for the bus at Bushalte Bornsesteeg and were swiping in at 6.30am.  

“I am making it home,” I sighed as I took a seat in the well-lit bus.

Getting this bus at this time was the only hurdle, which had now been overcome.  The rest was going to be smooth.

I was settling down to the quiet boring ride, when I remembered that there was ‘internet in de bus’.  I quickly searched the wifi on my phone, got the one ‘in de bus’ and was soon catching up on my route planner and other quick info.  

I alighted at Ede at 6.48am and swiped out of the bus, then crossed over to the train station in the next block.  I recall seeing a fare charge of about Euro 2.44 on the small screen of the swiping machine just as I alighted from that bus.

“Two-hundred and eight shillings?  For a 8k distance!,” I Kenyan-thought about it even as I headed to the train platform.

I swiped into the train platform and was ready for the train at Platform 3.  The display monitors overhang at the platform updated us that the train was expected at 6.56am.  The train actually arrived at 7.00am.

I remembered that final warning from Fay, “Do not get to first class... Unless you want to pay double”

Two is better than one

I looked around for a coach labelled ‘2’ and got in, then perched myself on the upper deck.  It was still dark outside despite being seven already.  The upper deck was virtually empty.  I found only one other person on the deck that could sit twenty of so.  I sat next to a window and started peering out in the dark.  I could occasionally see street lights and vehicle headlights somewhere in the background as the silent train went along.

It did not take long to remember that I was entitled to ‘internet in de train’.  I once again searched my phone for the train wifi, clicked on a button that I assumed meant ‘OK’ or ‘Continue’, and there I was online.  Journey planning, WhatsApping, checking mail and catching up with the going-ons in the world.  But that online presence would not last long, since I would soon hear the first English announcement in the whole of the hour trip.  

Before that particular announcement, I had heard some station names being mentioned in the midst of Dutch announcements, whenever the train approached the four intermediate stations – Driebergen-Zeist, Utrecht Centraal, Amsterdam Bijlmer ArenA and Amsterdam Zuid.  I especially remember ArenA as the place with that big Ajax Amsterdam stadium.  Now finally, the English announcement was loud and clear, “We are now getting to the last stop at Schiphol airport.  All are asked to alight”

I double checked my two phones as I got off the train.  I recalled that after the Sunday marathon, while on the train back from Amsterdam to Ede-Wageningen, I did lose my phone.  At some point, I had tapped my pockets while perched up on that decker, seated on one side, with Fay and Dori opposite.  We were chatting while the train pulled at my back.  I had decided to check on my ‘smaller’ phone to see if it was capable of the free wifi.  That is when I had noted that I did not have it.

“I cannot find my phone!,” I told the gals, “I believe that I must have lost it somewhere in Amsterdam.”

There was puzzlement.

“Are you sure? Check your pockets!”

“I have!  There is nothing!”

“Are you sure you had it today?”

“Positive.  I even remember viewing the stats from Runkeeper after the run.  I for sure had it upto the point when you went to have your medal engraved outside the stadium.”

I was already resigned to losing it already.  There was no chance of finding it, in case it had fallen somewhere on the route since end of marathon.  I had walked so many paths since the finish.  

In consolation, I stated that, “I only worry about my bank app.  I cannot transact without it.  And I cannot replace it until I can call my bank... whom I cannot call until I get back to Kenya... which I cannot do for some time!”

Out of desperation, I decided to send a text message to the phone, using my other phone with the Endomondo.  The sms just indicated that the phone was lost and if someone found it then the person should communicate to my email address.  Desperation, I told you.  Then….

Beep beep!

Beep beep!

All the three looked around, as we heard the vibration alert, as the sms-received-notification sounded from somewhere on the floor under my seat!

Reality check

Back to the moment.  It was exactly 8.00am when I got out at Platform 4 and took the escalator to the upper floor.  I did a final swipe out of the system and saw a charge of Euro 16.20 for that one-hour train ride.  I ‘Kenyan-thought’ about this eighteen-hundred shillings charge, and just shook my head as I headed to the ‘Departures’ gate of Schiphol.  It was a second time in one hour that I was doing such a ‘thinking.  My thoughts are momentarily distracted by that big twenty-five meter long “I amsterdam” sign, laid down on the tarmac just outside Schiphol on my right, just outside the building.  Each letter is like two-meters in height.  I remember pondering whether it was “I am amsterdam” or I misread it?

I subconsciously keep moving forward and get myself at the terminal.  Getting through the airport was smoother than I thought.  I walked the long distance to my gate and queued for security check.  While I passed through the metal detector scanner without incidence, my bag failed me for yet another time – the second time in 4-days!  My shoes and laptop successfully passed through the scanner and I would soon be receiving them on the conveyor belt out of the scanner.  I put on my shoes and picked up the laptop to now await the bag.  However, my bag was redirected to a conveyor belt that led to another security person.  

I saw some lady receive the bag at the end of that conveyor belt.  I followed in that direction to await my fate.

“%@(*S#@#!,” she said.

“I do not understand,” I responded.

“Is this your bag sir?”

“Yes”

“I want to check inside, can you open?”

I moved next to the table where the bag had been placed in a tray.  We were standing on either sides of the table.  I started opening the big zip of the main bag.  Clothes were clearly visible.  She motioned a ‘close that one’ message.

“How about here,” she pointed to the top zipped compartment.  The small one where I would usually keep small handy items such as keys, money, cards and other small emergency items.  It was a strange place to be checked.  I unzipped the small purse and removed the small items.  USB cables, keys, some money, ATM cards, then… 

Then I finally removed the TCS Amsterdam marathon medal with its blue lanyard and gold.

“Yes, this is it!” she said, causing a pause to my movement.  She took possession and looked at the medal.

I was surprised, waiting.  Unsure.  About to bolt!  Did these TCS people deliberately set me up!  Could it be real gold?

I then observed both relief and disappointment on her face.  Relief probably due to the apparent lack of a dangerous situation, but disappointment due to the unlikelihood of a big bust!  We just regarded each other.

Finally, she broke the stalemate, “This medal showed on the scanner.”

“I am just from the marathon,” I said for lack of a better statement.

“OK, you can close the bag and take it,” she said while handing back the medal with her gloved hands.

“It is OK.”

“OK, but I know you can outrun me!”

I just smiled at that.  My legs were too painful at the moment.  I could not outrun anybody for the next three days.  I kept this secret to myself.

Stuck on tarmac

Apart from a change of boarding gate for the KLM Citihopper flight, nothing eventful happened thereafter.  However, this change of gate at Schiphol was happening for the third time at this facility with the same airline.  Maybe that was the norm.  I had already learnt not to trust the gate number indicated on the boarding pass.  This would likely mislead you to the extent of missing out on your flight.  Just trust the display screens.  

Events would start unfolding when we boarded at 9.45am ready for the 10.00am departure.  It is then that we found ourselves stuck.  We just sat in the Embraer 190, a 100-seater that was full to capacity, and waited as 10.00am came and went.  We were just stationary, waiting for the start of our about 750km flight North, on top of the Atlantic ocean – actually the North Sea.  We had boarded this plane ‘deep’ in the tarmac, having taken a bus from the boarding gate to the plane’s parking position somewhere isolated in the parking tarmac.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, expect delay in departure by about twenty-minutes.  We are advised that the skies are busy today.”

“Now what do to?,” I asked myself, “Even a simple bus has internet, for crying out loud!,” I cried out loud as I sat there, next to the window, top of the wings, with no internet and no story book.  Just staring at the long fifteen-metre right wing, with a single engine beneath it.  Wondering of the marvels of aviation.  Wondering if we shall ever leave NL.

I did not wonder for long.  We taxied off at 10.15am and joined the long queue waiting to access the main runway.  Our time to join the runway came and we left at 10.25am and cruised mostly at 550km/h in the cloudy skies.  We touched down at Stavanger Lufthavn Sola at 11.38am, for a 3-minute taxing.  We disembarked and walked to the terminal building and got out of the terminal in less than 3 minutes.  

Of course, I did not have check-in luggage and hence did not have to wait for anything at the luggage claim.  However, I vote Sola as the most efficient airport in the world!  But read that again.  The size of the airport in terms of passenger traffic could determine efficiency – the smaller the better.  While at it, we have bigger ones that are efficient and we also have bigger ones that are not.  I am not naming names.  

Reality check

The carefree feelgood moment of speedy clearing would not last long.  Things would change as I got to the Kolumbus bus no. 42 at the door of the arrivals gate, ready for my trip to UiS.  I would have a change of bus at Sandnes, where I would either get an X60 or a no. 6.  Since I was paying cash, I had to pay up NOK 57 for the hour ticket, instead of the normal NOK 37 (KShs.370) if I had got a ticket from a ticket machine.  I am pained when paying 370/=.  You can imagine how 570/= feels like!  I am even lucky that I remembered to carry some Kroner.  I normally would have just had a credit card on such a travel.  This time luck was on my side because….

I got into the bus just as the person in front of me was in negotiations with the driver.  He was also an arriver.  

“You take credit card?,” he asked.

“No.  Cash only!”

“How about Euros?”

“No.  Kroner only!”

“So, what to do?  I only have credit card and Euros!,” he showed the driver his wallet.

“I don’t know.  I am just a driver!”

That was quite a welcome for this fellow traveler, as he was forced to disembark, uncertainty in each of his retreating footsteps.  He looked like a first-time student of sort – just my observation.  I could not think about him for long since I had trouble of my own.  Being slapped with almost double the fare was also quite a re-welcome, simply because I paid cash.  Surely, you cannot penalize passengers, where there is no chance of getting a ticket from a machine!  There is no ticket machine at the airport!  Was this ‘forced’ fare escalation a way of getting back at travelers?  What wrong have we done?

Double double

All these memories were flooding me, late into Saturday, as I was seated, looking out at the trees and shrubs that were shedding off their leaves in a hurry.  There would be no leaf left on any plant by next week!  This progression was more serious than I thought.  The weather was not relenting either.  It rains or drizzles every day.  The sun gives us the ‘luxury of its rays’ in short bursts of five minutes or so, for very few times in a day.  The outside is cold – truly cold if you were there and visibly cold by just looking out.  

I only observe how things can change.  Back home they have coined a phrase for this – ebindu bichenjanga!  Things change!  It is true.  It was just last month, September, when the sun would set down at 10pm.  I would do my runs until almost eight.  By then it would still be as bright as mid-day.  Hardly one month later and it is dark by six-thirty, pitch dark by seven!  It was just last month that it was bright by four in the morning.  Now it is dark by seven!  Surely!!  

This environment is just messing up my physiological clock.  I want home!  And the worse was yet to come, when we had to reset our clocks backward by one hour – a once-a-year event on the last Sunday of October.  I could not miss it.  I had to stay awake.  This was surely the knockout.  In Stavanger, this ‘extra’ hour was handed down at 3.00am early Sunday morning.  Imagine having an occasion when your clock reads 3.00am, then one hour later, it reads 3.00am again!.  What a night it was!  I could not sleep a wink.  I had to see this double 3.00 with my own double eyes, as I missed the Nairobi International Marathon on this same Sunday, for the first time in ten years.  How I shall miss the other once-a-year event, on the last Sunday in March when NO shall ‘lose’ 1hour as clocks are forced one hour ahead, as 2.00am is forced to be 3.00am!

It is a Sunday when Team KE was running the Nairobi city marathon, while I was appreciating a personalized e-magazine from TCS, with my pictures and videos and all.  Back home it was a street run in the city, with sweat and sweet joy of running – over here it was a relaxed seat in a heated room, with online results and online certificate.  Just another Sunday with everyone doing their runs – onstreet or online.

WWB - the Coach - Stavanger, Norway, Sunday, Oct. 27, 2019

TCS Amsterdam 2019 marathon - beat the crowd... if you can

TCS Amsterdam 2019 marathon - beat the crowd... if you can

Just in time

I took an early sleep for the first time in almost a year, since the next day was a big run day.

I woke up on Sunday, October 20, very aware that it was a national holiday back home.  I would usually be celebrating the holiday with a long holiday rest.  Not today.  I was having an early morning breakfast at six-forty-five, ready to leave at seven.  Our duo would soon be joined at Bornsesteeg stage near Wageningen Uni by our third team member, Dori.  Bus number 88 soon arrived.  It was still dark despite being just past seven.  

One swipe of our travel cards on that bus took us to Ede Wageningen, a 15-minute travel on bus.  We walked the short distance to the next block, passed through the underground route and emerged on the other side of the train platform.  We swiped a second time, ready to get a train to ‘somewhere near Amsterdam’.  The train soon arrived and the three got in and travelled for over forty-five minutes.  We got out at some point, swiped out, and walked downstairs to the next train platform to wait for a ‘Metro’, read ‘city train’.  It was just past eight.  

At our underground platform of Amstelstation we did take the first train that came by – of course after card swipe.  This electric took off, with most people in it just standing.  But it did not take long.  I had hardly started to enjoy the ride when…

“Wait a minute?  This does not seem like the right direction!”

“What da-ya mean?,” I asked.

“This Metro is going in the opposite direction.  We have to get out!”

We were out at the next station.  Dori was like, “Fay, you mean you don’t know the right train?”

“Of course, I do.  It is number 51, I just got it wrong.  Was in a hurry,” she responded, and turning to me, “Make sure you do not write this on your blog.”

“I won’t,” I told her, “A long distance runner has so much in their mind to even remember such small details.  I am now just thinking of the starting line.  Just get us there in good time.”

“I will,” she said.

Zipping up

The 51 was soon snaking onto the platform, and it took us speedily towards Amstelveenseweg, the stage near the Amsterdam Olympic Stadium.  It was full and continued being full.  It was a standing train and was now mostly a marathoners train.  We had a light moment when at some train stop one passenger got in while his colleague was locked out of the door, with the train ready to go.  The person in had to force the door open for the colleague to get in.  It was a smileful moment.  But the ride was short and we would soon be disembarking.

The exit swipe-out points were congested, as the big multitude of runners jostled to get out of the train station.  It was just past nine.  The stadium gates were to be closed at 9.15am.  By that time all marathoners who intended to do the 42 should have crossed the gates into the stadium – or stay out.  We did not come from KE to stay out of the stadium.  Getting in was a must!

We did that last titration, at the portable washrooms just outside the stadium, before start of marathon.  It was a strange observation that the men had ‘an open’ urinal just there, next to the portables, just next to our queue.  I could just see men assemble at this circular station that can stand four people, and just unzip!  Just there – in full view, before adults, children, men, women and sundry.

“Surely!  This ain’t right!,” I commented to Fay and Dori.

Dori just laughed it off, feeling shame-on-herself.  Fay was not even hearing anything.  She wanted to get over with all this and be at the stadium before closure.  It was now 9.13am, and the people in the four cubicles did not seem to be in any hurry to do their thing.  We just waited.

We dashed to the full stadium – full at the stands – full on the pitch – making it just around 9.17am.  The gate was not yet closed.  

“I have to go, see you later.”

“You dash to your Pink area.  I shall join my Green,” Fay responded.

The runner numbers had been printed with some colour-coded strips, just below the run number – white for invited athletes and those intending to run in upto 2h 40min, Yellow for those who can run under 3hrs, Pink for those intending to run between 3hr and 3hr 30min, Orange for those intending to run 3hr 30min to 4.00 and Green for those intending run in the 4.00 to 4.30 range.  There was even a Blue for those over 4.30 but upto the maximum time limit of 6-hours.

The marathon medal (picture courtesy of Fay)

Colourcoded

The ‘White’ and ‘Yellow’ were let to leave at 9.30am.  And I later learnt that the official timing started at that time.  After their exit, the Yellow and Pink assembled at the starting line, rather, assembled at half of the stadium track, waiting to be allowed out.  At 9.35am, this combined group was let out of the stadium.  

I assume that the next Orange group was let out at 9.40am, but I shall not know because I was out when the 9.35am run started inside the Olympic Stadium.  The stadium track heading out of the stadium was full of athletes.  Running was almost impossible – overtaking was completely impossible!  We just started off walking and slowly jogged out of the stadium.  By the first kilometer the road width had even thinned out and runners had to stop and wait for the crowd of runners ahead to fit themselves onto the narrow road, before we resumed our walk.  There was no much run possible for the first 15km – and that to me was the undoing of this run!

I had to lookout for an open space, usually at the edge of the road, and sprint ahead on such a gap for some 100-meters or so, before being blocked once more for over five minutes.  I would do another sprint whenever the opportunity presented itself, only to be completely blocked once again by the crowd ahead.  This style of running was really usurping my energy.  The run was supposed to be evenly-paced and evenly-ran.  This was not happening – and these short bursts of high energy was starting to waste me.  

Things would improve on the 15km mark when we started going around the long river.  Fay had corrected me that similar reclamations were canals, not river, though this long stretch was surely the Amstel river.  I was not sure whether this was a river or a canal myself.  It was too modest to be a river.  I kept referring to it as a canal – what’s the difference anyway?  It is a body of water, flowing, possibly.  What happened to ‘if it behaves like this, it is this’?  Ah, who cares? 

The marathon route (source: https://www.tcsamsterdammarathon.nl/en/)

The giants

We did the 14k to 20k on one side of this river, then we crossed the river on a footbridge to face the 20k to 26k stretch on the opposite side.  It is on this stretch of 20-26k that I saw the first traditional Dutch windmill just affixed onto a house besides the running track – static.  Majestic!  Gigantic!!.  That thing was massive.  From my estimation, each of the four fins had a radius of about 20m!  Affixed to a middle hub.  That would make a total tip to tip diameter of about 50m – a half the length of a stadium field!  Wow!  Amazing!!  If only I could take a picture?  But not when on motion aiming for a good run, in good time.

On this river we also saw a guy, and later a lady flying high over the water – they call it, eh… water jet or flyboard aruba or something – I am not sure, but it ain’t a marathon, or maybe it was an upwards marathon?.  I also saw marathoners starting to lose their senses, so I guessed, since I just noted them stopping to pee next to the road, without a care in the world of the multitude of runners moving along next to them.  Some runner seemed even ‘too tired’ and just stopped and let go at the edge of the tarmac.  I shook my head with amazement.  

This would not be the last time that I would see of such an episode.  Coincidentally, I only saw men do this.  Again, who cares?  Do what you want to do on a long run.  Just do not infringe on the rights of other runners.  This behavior was however about to cross the line, bearing in mind that each water station in 5km intervals had ‘proper’ washrooms.  But before you judge, just remember that the real marathon starts after half-marathon distance – and when it does, insanity slowly starts sneaking into each runner.  These sporadic episodes were observable after we had crossed the river.

We know you

I was still amused by what I was seeing when I was interrupted by the cheering crowd, 

“Barack!, Go! Go! Go!”

I was taken aback.  I was not expecting this.  I just waved back as I wondered how someone would know me over here.  I was 10k km from folks who knew me!  This name calling would be repeated about five or six times over the course of the run.

“But how did they know me?”

At least the person who shouted, “Kipchoge” at me knew me ‘somehow’, but the others?  Knowing me ‘exactly’?

That part of the run, the river circuit, was as smooth as expected, especially after the runners having thinned out.  We had already been given our dose of energy drink, water and chocolate cubes at 5k, 10k, 15k, 20k, 25k.  As advertised.  Without failure.  At 26k I took a washroom break!  I could not survive the rest of the journey.  From there it was more chocolates and bananas and gel at 30k and 35k, in fact from 15k we did have all these niceties.

I have already known since time immemorial that the 42k starts at 21k, but let me add that the same 42k is also lost at 36k.  That means that your 42 is determined in that 15k range.  Beat that and you have beat the marathon.  I was very careful with this range.  I was especially cognizant of the 36k.  I preserved the chocolate that I had picked at the 35k water station and bit a small piece thereafter, keeping it in the mouth to melt away, seeping up the sugars as I went along.  

In less than 5-minutes, the 36k came and went.  It was a bit smooth.  But not for few others.  I started seeing people just drop off the run, sit on the side of the road or just stop and stand or stop and start walking.  That was a very bad distance to lose your steam.  I could feel for them.  Walking the last six was not an experience you would wish even for the enemy of your enemy.  The body is by then just hit with many things at once – tiredness, muscle aches, lightheadedness, loss of focus and the shoes start pinching with every step.  

I now had to survive the last six.  Just six more and this would be over.  The trick now was just to keep going until you see the finish line.  Do not check on time.  Do not check on distance.  Do not be distracted by other runners or the cheering crowds – just keep going, focusing on the finishing line.

'The shoe' at Olympic stadium

Allez

The 40k would emerge at some point.  By then I was just thinking about the finish line.  I was not even seeing the many cheering crowds.  There was even a sign along the road with “Go Go Go Allez Allez”.  There were at least two live bands on the route.  There were live DJs in at least ten places along the route.  The various music points, DJs or otherwise were over thirty.  

I liked the DJs and their kits – their machines would usually be full decks affixed on top of some vehicle, with the DJ protruding through the roof of the same vehicle.  I remember seeing a VW beetle, VW combi, Martin Mini, some sedan that looked like a Datsun – just funny vintage cars parked along the road used to DJ.  There was even a DJ in a boat on that river circuit, or was that a pianist?  He was just there – standing next to something that was either a mixer or a keyboard – loud classical music coming from his traveling boat.  

There were also some small portable ‘music boxes’ for lack of a better word, hauled on 2-wheels, parked besides the road.  These ‘things’ were playing some form of traditional accordion-like music.  They called it ‘draaiorgel’ (barrel organ) playing ‘levenslied’ – life music.

I also learnt that as a runner you can waste so much energy checking on your timer for those splits when doing these long runs.  There is little chance of changing your achievement by simply relying on your gadgets.  Just learn to run your run, and let the gadgets confirm what you eventually did, when the run ends – my view though – as I headed for the finish, a phone on either side of the pockets of my shorts and the wrist watch on my left wrist – all the three unchecked, unattended, since I started the run.

The TCS marathon number

Interview

I was glad to (finally) see the finish line inside the Olympic stadium.  Two hundred metres was the only obstacle ahead.  This run was done!  I was happy!!  It was a good marathon.  A marathon like any other.  Just a marathon with a difference – some difficulty that I do now know from where, since the course was fairly flat.  

So, while the Kenyan took the men’s crown in 2.05.09 and our Ethiopian neighbours took the women’s gold in 2.19.26, I did bring my runner number 3518 to an end in 3.22.59 as per the analog wrist gadget that had refused, yet again to sync with the foot gadget.  Runkeeper gave me a 42.78km - 3.23.26, while Endomondo gave me a 43.25km - 3.23.13.  

We finished off as a photographer pulled me aside to get a few pics for the TCS album.  

“Barack, right?”

“Right!,”  I was facing another how-did-he-know moment when I saw him staring at my runner number.  The name was conspicuously written just above the number 3518.

“Kumbe!,” I sighed!

The Tata Consultancy Services, TCS Amsterdam marathon gave me a final official chip time of 3.22.23, and position 2289 (combined men and women) based on a ‘gun time’ of 3.27.29!  Surely!  The gun went off 5-minutes before we started!!.  You cannot allocate positions by the gun!  

Thereafter it was a queue for medals followed by polythene sheets to keep us warm – this was a first one.  Out of the stadium we did get that final Isostar 500ml energy drink and a banana, before we limped off back to the stadium to watch runners finish their races and celebrate each one of these athletes for their achievement.  Fay would soon be doing her own lap of honour as she shattered her new 42k record.  We were a happy duo celebrating our representation of team KE, team NMNM2, team IK, team KE-in-NL, team KE-in-NO, team ‘Wageni’, team 'Wageniwengi', team 'Wangige'!

It was while traveling back to Wageningen on the NS Intercity for the 1-hour travel that I saw a ticket inspector for the first time come by our sitting place on the upper deck to check on tickets.  She demanded to see the cards, upon which she would scan each on a small portable machine.  I learnt that this would show whether the ticket was initially swiped, and whether it had money to sustain the journey.  

I had already used this train twice before and there was no such check on these previous two trips.  The first one on Saturday evening was the noisy one, when we sat on the upper deck and chatted our way for one hour.  The second one in the morning of the run was strangely quiet as we travelled to the stadium.  We hardly said a word before some lady came to our sitting position of four to give us the “Shhh!,” quiet sign.  I gestured to Fay and Dori in a manner of, “What is going on here?”.  Fay would tell me in hardly audible whispers that this was a ‘silent’ coach.  

However, we were all chatty in the evening after the marathon as we travelled in the intercity towards Ede.  We were glad to be back to a normal ‘you can talk’ coach, perched on top of the decker.

“What would happen if I did not have a ticket during this inspection?,” I asked the two.

“I don’t know.  Maybe they fine you!?,” Dori stated.  

“They would fine you something like sixty-five Euro!?,” Fay responded, forgetting to add that this would be over and above the usual fare that you would otherwise pay.  The normal fare was about 15 Euro per train ride for a 1-hour ride similar to ours.

WWB, The Coach, Amsterdam, Netherlands, October 20, 2019