Running for nothing – how I found myself out of action

Running for nothing – how I found myself out of action 

I could hardly sleep.  I tossed and turned and tossed and turned some more.  My joints, especially the leg joints on the thigh, knee and heel were aching.  Any folding of either of my legs brought about an intense pain in the of my body.  I was shivering, despite the usually cold night that I was already used to and should not have elicited such a reaction.  I was clothed in a trouser, a T-shirt, a pullover and a jacket, then covered in three layers of sheet, blanket and fleece, but I was still feeling cold.  I had a headache from afar, though it kept getting intense towards my forehead with every passing minute.

“What is happening to me?,” I found myself speaking out loud, in the dead of the night.

It was quiet.  Not even the night crickets made a noise on this night.  I could hear my own breathing and heartbeat, meaning that it was that still.  The bed creaked as I turned, only to be uncomfortable in that turn, hence being forced to turn again, as the bed creak again.  Every turn hurt my joints and intensified the headache.  Every turn put me in a more uncomfortable position than the previous.

“What is happening to me?,” I asked the still night for a second time in less than a minute, as I got up and sat on the bed, the cold of being outside the beddings hitting me with vengeance.  I retreated to the bed to toss and turn some more.  I kept listening to the quiet night even as I kept turning every minute due to the discomfort of my aching joints.

I could not take it anymore and found myself awake at some point in the night.  I had so far just heard of a cock crow, somewhere in the distance of the silent night.  That was the only sound on this night.  I stepped out of bed, the cold contrast from the warm bedding hitting me badly.  I went to the washrooms and stood by the mirror, to confirm that I was still me.  I was still me, alright.  I looked haggard and completely beat.

I went back towards the bed and switched on the computer and monitor.  It made the buzzing sound as the fan on the CPU rotated around.  Usually this noise would be indiscernible, today it sounded so loud in the still of the night.  I checked the time on the lower right corner of the now lit monitor.  The light illuminating the full extent of the room due to the once still darkness.  It was just about 4.00am.

I turned on an online news channel for a lack of a better thing to do.  Sleep was now out of the question.  I just wanted to spend my time standing around, but the chill of the environment was becoming unbearable.  I went back to bed and glanced at the monitor, my eyes aching, as the forehead headache resisted the rays from the screen.  I closed my eyes and listened on to the announcer, the war in Gaza dominating the headlines, then the US presidential campaigns and debate, and inevitably, the demonstrations in Kenya.  That last one got me opening my eyes, as they highlighted the Tuesday demonstrations of July 9, just yesterday, leading to this night that I hardly survived due to this shiver and headache.

I believe that I must have fallen asleep for some minutes as some point in the morning, since I would become cognizant of the ongoing news stories once more at around seven in the morning, when most of the news were once again being repeated.  It is also at this point that I gave up on staying in bed and started planning on what to do next.

I left the house at about nine on this Wednesday.  I did not have an appetite for anything, and so just left the house, not even having taken a sip of water.  Accompanied by the junior runner, we walked the 1.7km road that is under construction to the main Dagoretti road.  I registered one of personal worst times in this walk, where I would usually average 10min per km, and registered a pathetic 15min per km.  My steps ached and I was even glad that I had made it to the main road in one piece.  

This stretch of road under construction remained an eyesore.  It has been under construction since February, only to be abandoned from April to early June due to the unrelenting rains.  We had suffered the mud and impassibility of that road in all that period.  The road construction crew was now back and were layering it up with yet another level of soil, but we were not holding our breaths on this road being completed any time soon, dust and mud notwithstanding.

We got a matatu at Jambu stage, where Thigi Thigi junction butchery is located.  The very TT junction that would later entice us with intense incense of roast meat, but even then, I would not feel anything due to my lost appetite, but back to the present, I was eagerly waiting for a matatu.  We soon got in and started the drive.  Hardly two hundred metres on and the matatu came to a screech as the makanga hit the side panel loudly to beckon the driver to stop.  We stopped smack in the middle of the road as the makanga jumped out of the still moving matatu.  A lorry that was just approaching from behind hooted deafeningly as it overtook us, the force of its motion almost shaking the matatu.  The matatu then started reversing fast, but not for long….

“Wowi, Ngai!,” we heard a scream from outside as the matatu came to an abrupt stop and we heard a bang.

We were a bit confused as to what was happening.  We peered around in all directions, trying to discern what could be going on.  We could see some woman somewhere in front of the vehicle, besides the road, exclaiming while kind of closing her mouth, a gesture of fear and danger.  It took us time to figure out what was going on.

“Unakanyaga conductor?,” the woman approached the matatu, even as the once-upon-a-time makanga emerged from somewhere behind the matatu, trying to walk straight.

The woman got into the matatu and went straight to give the driver a piece of her mind, “Yani dereva, wewe unaweza tu gonga conductor?,” then she turned back to face the conductor, who was now back to the door, just about to close it, “Umeumia?”

The makanga just shrugged off the conversation and gestured an OK to the driver and soon we were zooming off towards Gichuru Secondary School.  The makanga would eventually disembark at Gikambura with a slight limp, even as the driver handed back the matatu to the driver, and the makanga handed back the reins to the makanga.  It seemed like we were operating with a bonoko driver and a bonoko makanga, but that is our life.  We did not have time to even digest the going-ons before we were forced to sit four people on every row of seats, instead of the usual three.  That is the norm on this route and the only surprise was that I was surprised that this was happening even off the rush hour of the morning and evening.

We made another slow walk from Kikuyu stage to Aga Khan clinic somewhere within Kikuyu town.  I got my token number and awaited my turn to be attended to.  My head was still aching and I was by now shivering like a leaf.  I was finally called for registration then to the triage about thirty minutes later.  The thermometer must have lit red, since the nurse ushered me immediately to the chemist to get a 500mg paracetamol tablet, the one that is dissolves in water.  I dissolved it and let it fizzle out to completion in about five minutes.  I took the saline solution.  It tasted bad, but I drained it all.  It seemed to work, since some ten minutes later, and I was now feeling the expected room temperatures and even managed to remove my two layers of jacket.

It would be another hour before I could face the doc, another thirty minutes before I would get the bloodworks for the initial tests, and yet another hour before I was to get another plebo encounter for a malaria test.

Remember that Thigi Thigi story?  I would once again be back to this junction alighting from a matatu from Kikuyu at around two in the afternoon.  The whiff of nyama choma was by this time blanketing the whole road junction, but unfortunately, I felt nothing of it.  By this time I had regained my step and was feeling generally good, though I still felt the headache, but the joint pains had subsided significantly.  I was also holding a 2-day sick off sheet at hand and was eagerly waiting to get home so that I could take a nap, having missed a whole night sleep the night before.  

The feeling last night was worse than the feeling I had as I did one of my worst runs a few days ago, on July 1.  On that day I almost did not finish the 24km run, due to how my body had almost given up on me.  I however, soldered on and did a 5min 44sec average, recording one of my worst times in the history of the distance, but just glad to have lived to tell the tale.  I have not had a run since.  Coincidentally, that run was supposed to be the monthly run, aka June international marathon, that I was forced to do in July, since June was full of demos and uncertainties.

“They did not give you any medicine?,” the junior runner would finally ask when we got home, when she realized that I had nothing to show for my trip to Aga Khan.

“Nothing was found, not even malaria.  The doc told me to take a rest and have a review on Friday.”

She was as just as perplexed as I was, having witnessed my suffering for the last eight hours.  I had to chip into the mystery as were of reassuring her that all was fine.

 “Remember that Monday rain?  The one that I told you about?”

“Yes, I remember.  You got home soaked wet”

“Yes, that one.  That was the source of all my problems!”

And, who can forget that Monday rain?  The one that rained just as I disembarked from the bus after duty.  I had been rained on like never before in my life!  The subsequent evening travel from Thogoto to Jambu on that day had been misery, as I survived a fully packed matatu, four people per row, all mostly shivering in soaked clothes as it continued to rain outside.  I did not know that it would come to this.  Come to nothing!  Not even a tablet!

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, July 19, 2024

The fourth international aka Mutuini Half marathon

The fourth international aka Mutuini Half marathon

Running is a must

My run group now have monthly marathons.  These monthly run must happen.  It is now predictable as surely as the sun rises from the East that there shall be a marathon every month – guaranteed.  The fourth half was conceived immediately after the still-being-talked-about Divas International marathon of March.  Mutuini just popped up as we were planning for the fourth international…. and here we are, doing our fourth monthly marathon in 2019.

While the Mutuini registration process was seamless, just a few button presses on the cellphone and payment by mobile money, the actual nuts and bolts of participating was not easy.  Every runner needs a runner number and optionally a runner kit.  It was unclear upto 24-hours to the run as to how these shall be sorted out.  I decided to get my kit on the Saturday before the run.  

I was going to a place that I had never been to.  I just alighted from the matatu at Dagoretti market and started walking to what I thought should be the venue – Mutuini Primary School.  I was almost there, just near the Southern By-pass when I had a wait-a-minute moment.  I rechecked the ad for the marathon and noted that the venue was actually Kirigu Primary.

“How do you hold Mutuini marathon at Kirigu?,” I asked the air as I turned back after having walked almost 2km from Dagoretti.

Tech-fail

I walked back to Dagoretti and started a walk on what my online map indicated to be the general direction of Kirigu.  By Murphy’s law, my phone map then failed just as I left Dagoretti mart.  The blue dot that should normally indicate your geolocation in relation to the map just failed.  It was not there.  A restart of the phone… the phones did not resolve.  I still got a static map without any interaction.  

I was generally going to rely on instinct only.  Using the phone to map my location relative to where I was heading was not going to be possible on this day.  Instinct told me to turn right after the railway flyover and keep going until I get lost somewhere.  That is what I did.  Another 2km of walk would get me to Kirigu Primary.

“Finally – I made it,” I thought loudly.

Another w-a-m* moment hit.  This was not the registration venue.  The registration venue was Mutuini Hope Centre.  Would this maze ever end!!  There was no directional sign nor was my dead phone map of any help.  A motorbike would come in handy to take me to the very hidden location of the Centre, just 200m the school.

*wait-a-minute

Receiving runner no. 440 and a red T-shirt is what had caused me all this trouble.

“Bring him a bag,” the registrant finally said.  This seemed like a consolation.

It was not.  It turned out to be a shopping disposable.  But having visited the Centre convinced me that the organizers needed to maximize on the proceeds.  We did not get runner guides nor route maps.  We would have to rely on good old ‘scouting of the route’ to get our way.  Nonetheless, the organizers had promised to send me the route map by WhatsApp “in a few minutes”.

I walked back from Hope to Dagoretti, just to ensure that my mapping of the route was solid.  It was.  Even the phone that had gone ‘static’ on me earlier, was now working and I could see the blue dot on the map following me around the road as I moved along.

I would not be surprised when I would not get the route map on my phone by mid-night.  Soon a block diagram of the route would be shared on our runners group.  It was some unclear, unfamiliar block diagram that indicated a start point at Kirigu, then some rectangular kind of route that led back to the starting point.  Bottom line – it was of no use.  We would have to scout the route and take it as it comes.

Public transport

I left the house at 5.00am on the run Sunday and got public transport, first to Kawangware Equity, then another vehicle to Dagoretti.  I walked the now familiar road to Kirigu and would soon meet the rest of the team.  It was now just a few minutes to seven.  The run scheduled for 6.30am was going to start late.  The reason why I did not get to the starting line early was because their inaugural run of last year started at 8.30am.  I expected a similar start time.  That is what was on the runners guide – sorry, there was no runners guide.

At seven-thirty one of the organizers used the power of the vocals to call on runners to assemble at the main stadium.

“All runner, go to the field.  Warm up.  Ready to start,” he kept moving around shouting.

We obeyed and would soon be on warm up.  Next to me was a face that had graced our TV screens for many years in the late 90s and early 00s.  This was a face associated with national comedy.  His trio of comedy act was the icing of every weekend entertainment on the screen.  He was now the member of national assembly representing this constituency.

Jammed

We, runner no. 440 included, then moved out of the school compound to the external road ready for the start of run.  KJ, the local MP would give some inaudible speech at the starting line.  All runners were already excited, talking amongst themselves, taking selfies and just gearing up for the run.  Then…

KJ would say, “We start the run in three, two, one… ”

And… and there was no pop-sound.  All were confused.  The first runners sprinted off for ten meters already before being called back.

What the… was going on?

What had happened?  There were murmurs and total confusion.

Then keen eyes would see the discussion and gestures going on around the starting line.  Believe it or not, the gun had jammed!  It failed to fire!!

A second attempt at the trigger, a minute later would signal the start of the run with the characteristic ‘pop’ sound.  What a start!

We left the starting line without much jostling since the crowd of runners was not that big.  I started it slowly, and increased to a comfortable pace by km 3.  The road has marshals at all the major junctions to guide the runners.  We also had chalk dust markings to guide on the general direction.  There was no getting lost.  Nothing to worry then…. Not really….

“Tokeni barabarani,” a matatu makanga would soon shout at my thinned out group of about three runners filing along the road.

“We wacha,” one of my colleagues ahead gestured to the overtaking vehicle, evidently annoyed.

The roads were not closed and we would have to co-run with vehicles.  Fortunately, at least when I was on the route, runners-and-machines generally shared the road well, for most part.

Lost

I was lost on the unfamiliar route so far for about forty minutes.  Then we reached the unmistakable Naivasha road at Kabiria junction.  I now had an idea as to how this run would go.  We would go to Kawangware Equity (the stage that I had alighted at in the morning to get my second matatu), then run on that route all the way to the starting line in Dagoretti.  Dagoretti was far when I used the matatu in the morning.  Now I had to find out how far by running it out.  Believe me – it was far!!

It was at this selfsame point, when I was considering whether to just head back home by running down Naivasha road for 3k or keep to the run for another 11k, that I was overtaken… almost...

This other runner just raced me along and soon his form was just next to me.  One centimeter behind, even parallel.  We ran along for about 100m.  I expected him to overtake and go.  He did not.  He just kept along.  I tried reducing the pace to let him pass, and he did the same, reduced.  I tried to increase the pace to get him out of chase, but he also increased and would be just alongside.  

I would not have minded company, but the following company rules apply…

Do not give company if none is needed

Overtake if you want and stop teasing runners

Overtake in a reasonable time, do not take forever to overtake

Drop back if you cannot overtake

Allow yourself to be overtaken

It was unfortunate that he was just gauging me out, which goes against rule 2.  After 2km of gauging me out, he just stopped and started walking.  I felt my empathy.  I knew exactly what had happened to him.  He was exhausted.  He had overrun his pace.  Something that a seasoned runner should never do – never run the pace of another runner.  Know your pace and just stick to it.  But I am not forgiving him for having continually disgusted my running path by spitting and mucus-ing on my path every ten seconds.  I respect all runners and their characteristics, but that behavior no!

Basin

We found a basin waiting for runners at the junction to Dagoretti market.

“Dip your hands in the basin,” a marshal shouted at the approaching runners.

At the same point, another route official had a signboard written, “15km”.

I had thought that after the turn toward the market I would just go through the road I had walked earlier in the morning to the starting point, but the route would swing one final surprise at us.  When I got to this junction, I saw two route officials shooing us on.  That would not be the turning point. 

I now started wondering how this run would end.  We were now going under the railway and then taking the road parallel to the Southern by-pass.  I know how a 6km final stretch should feel, but this final bit was starting to feel like 10k!  We just kept going and going and going, but not reaching the finish line.

“Will this run ever end?,” I asked my internal spirit which was now almost giving up.  

As if to answer the question, we would soon cross the railway and then immediately turn left.  I recall seeing some railway symbol on the block diagram of the run route.  From that map, the railway was not far from the finish.  But you never know with those not-to-scale maps.  I just kept going.  The run would end when the run ends.  Surely, it must end at some point!

And ending it would, in less than 5 minutes.  I would see the familiar road to Kirigu Primary and then get to the school for the finish – just like that!  I was handed a small piece of paper written “89” while I stopped my timer with the screen display as “1.45.29 date 28-Apr-2019”.  And just like KJ’s startup gun, my timer had also jammed and had recorded the time and not the distance.  

I would then hand over the small piece of paper to the registration desk in exchange for my name being recorded on their register.

“Show?”

I raised by purple-coloured left hand.  They took the number.

One hour later I would get my medal from the MP, just like the rest of the participants.  The blank certs would then be issued.

Two hours later I would be at home, sleeping.

Three hours later, Kenyans would be winning the men’s and women’s marathon in London in 2.02.37 and 2.18.19 in the names of Eliud Kipchoge and Bridgit Kosgei.

Fourteen hours later, my legs still on fire, I would be waking up to narrate the Mutuini story.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, 28-Apr-2019