Sometimes you gotta get a little dirty

My shins look like midgets took razors to them, but I cian't blame anyone but myself for the twenty or thirty cuts.

The first batch I self-inflicted while gardening. Over the weekend, I built two new garden boxes. Into these I planted onions, five kinds of peppers, and tomatoes. These join the kohlrabi, broccoli, potatoes, garlic, leeks, lettuce, and shallots already growing in the other boxes. Also, bending to the inevitable, I put some flowers, primrose and pansies, into the small box by the sidewalk.

I had company while I worked at filling the new boxes with fresh soil. Miss Jane, a doe that first came to visit last year during the fires and drought, apparently has decided to make herself at home in downtown Asotin. She ate the new leaves off the Brady's apple tree a dozen feet away while I put the tomatoes in and I'm pretty sure the look on her face could be interpreted as "Are they ready yet?"

Short answer for Miss Jane, "No."

Longer answer - I need to build a fence.

None of that left me scarred. Dirty, yes, because I derive a great deal of pleasure in working with the soil. The slashes on the shins came from tackling overgrown roses. The roses need to go to make room for other plants.

Roses don't like to be messed with. They bit right through the pants I wore, stabbed through gloves, and were generally a pain to remove, but I'm stubborn and don't mind a little bleeding for a good cause. The roses and the baby walnut tree are kaput, ready to go to the recycling facility.

So to are the raspberry canes. I thinned those while I was in a blood-letting mood, removing most of the dead canes to give the new ones room to fill the void. Last year, we got quarts and quarts of raspberries, with the grandkids helping harvest. It will be more gentle on little hands with the bed opened up a bit. Meanwhile, I added innumerable tiny scratches to my forearms to the ones on my shins.

Then, yesterday, I decided - which might be the wrong word as it implies thought when what I felt was need - to go trail running instead of attending a track meet.

Every once in a while, with a force as strong as an addictive compulsion, I have to get onto trails, to feel earth and rock and leaves under foot, the slap of wet brush against my skin as I head into the woods to visit the wild. Yesterday that hit and hard. I had plenty of daylight and good running weather with cool temps, clouds, and a spritz of rain. I drove up to the North Asotin Creek trailhead, changed into run gear, and gave myself permission to play.

This early in the season the trails around here tend to be a bit overgrown. Well used ones will naturally define themselves with the increased people traffic clearing the path and edges. I tend to avoid the well-travelled paths, so I get the trail grabbing and stabbing as I pass. Sometimes I abandon the trail for a bushwhack if I see an interesting feature I can't get to otherwise. Invariably, my shins and thighs take a beating though I don't notice until I get back to the parking lot.

At least one scratch came after I elevated to avoid stepping on a garter snake. In his defense, he was hustling out of the way, too. A pretty slitherer, the snake fled but not before I dodged into a dead shrub. No harm, no foul. As the Black Knight would say, it's just a flesh wound.

The wild turkey pecked around for fodder at the end of the canyon where the basalt formations back off the creek. This is where I've encountered bears and bear cubs, elk, deer and, high on the bluffs, big horn sheep. The turkey ran at speed when I got close.

The sun made an unexpected appearance after I hit the turnaround. With no one to laugh except the animals, I ditched the shirt and let the heat baked into my back as I careened my way back. I ended up running much faster than I intended - or than I thought I could. The return trip was nine minutes faster than the outbound leg, nearly two minutes a mile faster. Most of that was in the final two miles.

The goal for the day was to stay steady, but the feel of rocky soil interspersed with pine needles and the warmth on my skin lent a sensation of pure pleasure. Since I don't train any more, I surrendered to the trail and let my stride open up.

By the time I got back to my car, I had burned that 'need' feeling out, replacing it with peace. I don't get to this point often enough. As Emerson wrote, Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air. I highly recommend it.

You don't need to run, either. Walking will do it to.

For those looking for a good book to get introduced to trail running, take a look at Lisa Jhung's book TRAILHEAD. Alternately informing and funny, she's written a wonderful book for newbies and gristled veterans alike. Hjung delves into mud and snow and how to make cleats for handling ice, the different types of trails, gear, food, first aid, animal encounters (those two chapters are next to each other), and trail etiquette. It's easily the most comprehensive yet accessible book I've read on trailrunning.

Better yet from my perspective, she counts anyone who shuffles faster than a walk along a piece of dirt as part of the club. Worth checking out.

If you're into gardening, my favorite book, written by an aerospace engineer is New Square Foot Gardening by Mel Bartholomew. It's designed for those of us that love fresh produce, enjoy playing in earthy soil, and are inherently lazy. I plant stuff. I don't weed. Then I harvest by the bushel. Unless Miss Jane beats me to it.

Need to figure out how to fence the garden without making it look like Stalag Thirteen.

Posting at InlandXC

Track season has started and I finally got to a meet. The write-up is over at InlandXC. I had decided that the work involved in the write-ups was a little too time consuming, so I discontinued the site.

Then, at the State Cross Country meet, I had some Pullman parents tell me how much they missed the articles.

So, the write-ups are back. Each one takes about two hours to put together, not counting the time at the meets. Blogging may pick up, now that I have something I feel like writing about.

For those looking for a fun documentary on running, check out The Barkley Marathons. You can watch it on a range of streaming options, including Netflix and Amazon. Pretty amazing race. It's a bucket list item for the masochist at heart.

120,000 of elevation change over the race, mostly as a bushwhack.

Sounds fun.

A nagging feeling . . .

Trips to Kenya should come with a warning label. “Caution: individuals traveling to Kenya may experience unexplained disorientation and confusion on returning to their homes. Inattention may lead to hazardous driving, long silences, and immoderate consumption of alcoholic beverages. Individuals having experienced in small measure life in the Third World may also note a lack of patience with the trivial problems peculiar to the First World.”

I've been idling along since I got back from Kenya, going to work a lot, doing a (very) little bit of writing, and occasionally going for a run. Writing has suffered from a rather confused idea of what to do next, having finished one book and having a dozen waiting in the wings.

I started the novel about Grace, the main character in my future novel about Kenya. Started and ground to a halt over a bit of conversation. Meanwhile, the characters from the last book chattered away inside my head and the opening scene of the sequel popped. Eventually those voices overwhelmed Grace which means that her novel gets put on hold until I finish the series.

Or maybe not.

I'm toying with the idea of writing both at the same time. This morning, I happily spent an hour mapping the general outlines of the sequel. I have two possible endings for it, one pretty standard, the other a bit off the wall that I really need to understand before I try it. Tomorrow I'll try mapping Grace's story and see what happens.

To do both, I'm going to need to make a few choices. The biggest will be to deliberately forego income which is darn near Un-American. To make it happen, I'll need to focus on working with people that I like or on projects that I think are interesting. Those should generate enough to pay bills while I write, read, and run more. The second change is a deliberate effort to spend time in activities that are rewarding emotionally. That's more time with family, friends, and outdoors, less with bores, natterers, and nincompoops.

Life choice decisions like this aren't possible for the vast majority of Kenyans. For the small middle class, work is six days a week, a far cry from the American ideal 40 hour work week or the European 30 hours. For the rural areas, work is a seven day a week activity for everyone. When they aren't at their jobs, picking tea for example, they're working the family garden plot or tending to the cows. Cooking is still done over a fire for many women, laundry done by hand in a bucket.

We – you, me - live fundamentally comfortable First World lives which we are disinclined to disturb. That we can blame on evolution, which has hardwired us to be risk-adverse. As a survival strategy, it is highly effective. Surviving, though, doesn't translate to living fully, to rising up to meet our higher aspirations. For that, we need to take chances. More accurately, I need to take some chances.

It might work as well as the first, and last, man who thought domesticating a lion would work. If so, consider it an object lesson on what not to do.

Until I try, I won't know and that not-knowing will nag at me.

Snake River Half Marathon in Pictures

Again, my thanks to Taylor for taking so many great pictures!

Volunteering at the Snake River Half Marathon

The Palouse Road Runners held their annual Snake River Half Marathon yesterday. Weather for the race was an unseasonable comfortable 50 degrees with light winds, a welcome difference from the year that we cracked ice off the water jugs to fill cups. The Asotin High School runners crewed the turnaround aid station, also an annual event.

As every race director will attest, finding enough volunteers for a running event is like panning for gold, slow and tedious. Nominally speaking, the Asotin team gets paid for their efforts, the funds going into the cross country program, but Coach Tim Gundy is a fan of supporting runners, in all venues, so the bigger payoff for the team is the opportunity to volunteer.

This year, we only had three kids that have helped before, so we conducted an impromptu training session on how to hand out cups. Sounds simple, hand the runners cups, but the fact that said runners are in motion makes it like passing a liquid-filled baton on the track. They played, taking turns at both roles. Surprisingly little water hit the ground.

The race started at ten and, at 10:33, Jimmy Oribo went by, looking very strong. He was the men's winner in 1:09. Just behind him came the rest of the leaders and then, we got busy. The turnaround aid station sits at the six mile mark and gets hit twice as the runners grab a cup on each side. It's the most intense of the three aid stations.

It took a while for the kids to figure out that it's okay to shout encouragement to the athletes - they might have been the quietest group we've had there - but they got the hang of it pretty quickly, with their indefatigable coach leading the way. 

Since my self-imposed job is to keep the cups full and in plentiful supply, I couldn't take pictures. As it turns out, Miss. Taylor, one of Gundy's runners, is pretty darned good with a camera. In addition to handing our water, she took a bunch of terrific pictures.

The first female came through at 10:41 by my watch, and seemed very comfortable. As it usually the case, there were more women runners than men. A lot of writing has been expended in various running magazines trying explain why that should be the case. I'm not sure anyone has the answer. Me, I'll celebrate the folks that got off the couch to run.

The main pack kept us jumping but, having done this a time or two, we had our systems set up and handled it. We brought extra tables and water jugs and set up the station on both sides of the road. That saved a lot of effort crossing the road to serve the return group of runners.

The sports drink was Heed, a point that the runners made to the kids when the latter called it Gatorade. I suspect that the PRR will get a request to change to a more palatable drink next year as it didn't seem to be a big hit with the runners. Having used the stuff myself, I can sympathize. Good product, but the flavor . . . . well, let's just move along.

The long tail of the race arrived and the work tempo dropped off. The folks at the back of the pack are almost universally grateful. We told the kids up front that they might find a cranky runner or two - it happens - but that most of the people would thank them for being there. I'm not sure the first-time kids believed it. By the end of the race, they knew it. The quiet kids were laughing and cheering and enjoying themselves, feeding off the energy of the runners.

The Awesome Crew at the Turnaround Aid Station, Snake River Half Marathon 2016

Epiphanies at 63 Miles per Hour

The Great Courses are now on Audible. Actually, I think they've been there for a while, but it took me some time to recognize it as I am a sporadic audiobook listener. The problem isn't with the medium - the quality is great. It's me - my mind drifts when an interesting concept comes up. Also, driving time, especially with music leads to pretty vivid daydreaming, a major source of story ideas.

I gave my brain a vacation from creating last Friday and listened to Writing Great Fiction: Storytelling Tips and Techniques. The discussion turned to the differences between flat and round characters, as first proposed by E. M. Forster. You're right, it's nerdy inside-writing stuff. Except, I thought it was interesting, with a dozen different lessons embedded into the concept. I turned off the audio so I could think while I drove and spent the next fifteen miles, rolling over implications, though not other motorists, pedestrians, or squirrels. With my brain, I get plenty of practice at driving, quite successfully, while distracted.

So, there I was, bubbling over with ideas, alone on the road. When my daughter or her future husband worked with me, I had some one to lob ideas at, to get reactions, objections, a sounding board to riff off. (My daughter hated the fact I would constantly stop the book to talk it over. Her brain works . . . differently.)

Friday I had no one, just the inside of my own head. Most of the time, that's plenty good enough. At the top of the Lewiston grade, with home nearly in sight, I came to what, for me, is a startling conclusion.

I needed a group to work with, study with. A writer's group.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, you say, people are social creatures, everybody needs their own gang.

Not me, not exactly. My gang is family and a couple of close friends, but most of my activities are solitary. I work alone, run alone, write alone, read/learn alone, so when I decide I need to join a group, it is atypical behavior.

Having reached the conclusion that I needed like-minded people around, I went looking for writing groups. The internet possesses a metric buttload (I'm using European measurements today) of information on writing groups. Most of them are established, some online, many in person. I checked for the Lewiston area. Right town, wrong state though, as they met in New York. A bit far, plus one other big problem.

They critique each other.

As a matter of fact, every group I found critiqued. Some set up rules on doing it nicely, some seem to be a bit more Genghis Kahn in their attitudes. They also had rules on what to do with people who didn't get any writing done - boot them from the group, set them up on a 12-step writing programs, verbally flail them at the next meeting.

Oh, and they focus on craft, too. Many online groups focus the how-to bits of writing. The majority preach the same hoary aphorisms. Occasionally, you'll find a James Scott Bell or Orson Scott Card (must be something about that middle name) who explain in more depth, but that doesn't seem to trickle down to the local level. I see an awful lot to thou shalt not's offered as precepts rather than guidelines. 

What I didn't see was a group that looked at the why, that was devoted to studying writing by looking at the underpinnings of art, not from the viewpoint of pure craft but a more philosophical level before applying it to the actual work. Techniques are very nice, but understanding why the techniques work as they do strikes me as much more interesting. Going back to Forster, the concept of flat and round for characters is not fully developed as (per the professor) Forster never had a working definition of a round character. Likewise, the adages "show, don't tell" or "never use an adverb" which are used to beat new writers into compliance with their elder's or editor's diktats begs investigation at a deep level. Fiction writing is, after all, also called storyTELLING and, last I looked, adverbs were still parts of speech in the English language, suggesting some degree of utility.

The second problem with a critique group is that I don't play nicely with others. If you have a critique, it better be based on something more than "I would have done it like . . ." In my experience, that's the way most critiques play out, even if they choose their words differently. Worse are the fools who believe that there are infallible rules to writing, the precepts I mentioned above. With one exception, there are no absolute rules though you better be darned sure of your skill if you violate normal tenets of writing craft, and know exactly what effect you seek in doing so.

So, not seeing the types of groups I wanted to hang out with, I'm going to have to start my own. Since it will be different from the others, I'll have to spend some brain power on figuring out exactly how it should run, how often it should meet, how many people should belong, etc.

That parts easy. Finding the like-minded people? That might be a little tougher. 

Best get started, hey.

PS. The one rule that really is inviolate? Don't bore the reader. Ever.

How Can You Tell The Governing Bodies of Track Are STILL Corrupt?

Justin Lagat linked over to an article at the Guardian yesterday that had a line in it that simply astonished me. We'll get to that in just a second. First, here's the whole article. Wada warns Kenya to comply with its anti-doping rules or risk Olympics ban

It's pretty clear that the WADA has decided to target Kenya. Justin is pretty adamant that the Kenyan athletes are clean - and superior. Me, I agree with the latter. I do think they are superior runners, for a host of physiological and economic reasons. I also think that Kenyans are still people, and people come in all flavors. Some wouldn't cheat ever. They're the 'Goody Two-Shoes' of the world. I, quite fortunately, married one of these people.

Some people, though, will cheat despite the risk and even knowing that they absolutely will get caught. Their lives are usually a rolling disaster and everyone near them recognizes it.

Most of us are in the middle. Given incentive enough, we might 'bend' a rule if we think no one is looking. I see no reason why the Kenyan population would be different in this regard to any other on the planet so on the matter of Kenyans doping, I come down on the side of - Some are. Most probably aren't, the same as elsewhere not named Russia.

To the Kenyan athlete's credit, they have been at the forefront of the battle to get the country's programs in compliance with WADA and trying to drive out the corruption they see. In November, they briefly took over the offices of Athletics Kenya to deliver a message. Thus far, it hasn't been heeded, but there are good people in the fight. They'll keep pushing.

And that's where the governing bodies proved that they have not reformed yet. WADA is deadly serious about cleaning up Keyna, enough so that some European and American athletes have high-tailed it to Ethiopia. Yes, I'm casting aspersions. No, I don't trust the management of the runners or of the governing bodies.

The article states unequivocally that Kenya must have a testing program in place no later than early April or face having athletes banned from Olympic competition. Now part of this is posturing on the part of WADA. Per the article, no national body has ever been banned from the Olympics for not having an anti-doping program. IOC (International Olympic Committee) is the organization that has control of the participants.

Buried deep in the article is this admission: "It is up to the IOC to rule on any Olympic suspension. In November the IAAF banned Russia from international competition following the scandal of state-sponsored doping, but they are expected to be made eligible for a return before the Games in Brazil."

I'm tempted to curse, but this is a PG-rated site. The Russian ban amounts to losing the indoor season. Meanwhile, their athletes are continuing to gear up for the quadrennial event that dominates the sports world and won't be subject to in-competition testing. Out of competition testing isn't even happening - per the WADA press release of January 20th, 2016, "During this period of non-compliance, RUSADA is unable to conduct anti-doping activities." Even if they were, though, out-of-comp tests are a joke, as exposed by Tyler Hamilton in his book, The Secret Race.

Russia shouldn't be allowed to enter a team in international competition for at least four years. That is the penalty assigned to an individual knowingly using banned substances. The Russian Federation engaged in systemic cheating, allegedly bribed IAAF officials, and have done the absolute minimum to avoid further sanctions. To permit them to enter the competition makes a mockery of the efforts of every clean athlete on the planet, so naturally that's what the IOC will do, with the silent acceptance of the IAAF.

In the meantime, Kenyans may forced to stay home? Really? We're cutting some slack to known cheats and criminals but penalizing a great number of innocent Kenyans?

And what about all the European and North American athletes that are training in Kenya right now? Are they subject to the same proposed ban? If not, why not, since they are training right along side the Kenyan athletes in Iten. If we're to be suspicious of one, we should be of all. That won't happen, of course. There's too much money involved.

When I read articles like this one, I'm reminded of a piece written over on VeloNews, Seven Things Track and Field Can Learn From Cycling.

Regretably, T&F is proving to be a slow learner. With the scandals associated with doping, state-sponsored doping, bribery, the no-bid contract for the Worlds in Eugene in 2021, the reports of Nike bribing people, it is amazing that the hammer is poised be dropped on Kenya while the Russians might skate.

The easy answer - that WADA wants to clean up the sport - gets negated by the fact that WADA ignored Russian whistleblowers until the 2014 documentary forced its hand. The IAAF and IOC have demonstrated their fecklessness, but all three need to prove that they possess the integrity to continue to lead.

How better to demonstrate that integrity by clobbering a relatively small and poor nation who's athletes dominate the long distance field, while letting in the known drug cheats, the Russians, and the white folks that trained right beside the Kenyans.

Color me skeptical. Probably cynical, too. I hope the Kenyans get their program built, test clean as a whistle, and embarrass the powers-that-be with a terrific performance on the world stage. 

Audiobook Giveaway!

Giveaway time! I have one copy of the audiobook version of Finishing Kick  If you’re not familiar with this Running Times recognized novel, go check out the reviews at Amazon (I don't beg for reviews so these are from real people/verified purchases). 

To enter the giveaway for the audiobook, simply send an email with subject line “Finishing Kick” to thatguy AT paulduffau DOT com with your full name and email address.

One entry per person per option please: multiple entries for the same prize will result in immediate disqualification. However, please feel free to tell your friends, and following/liking me on the Twitter and/on Facebook is always appreciated, should you feel so inclined! 

I don't know if Audible is available for my Kenyan friends. If you enter, we'll find out. If not, I'll try to find a way to make it up to you. (Maybe mailing a signed paper copy of the book?)

The drawing will be on 2/13/2016 at noon. The winner will be notified by email.

Home Again

I'm finally getting over trivial things like jet lag and a touch of a stomach bug that waylaid me the last week I was in Iten, so life is returning to Paul-normal, which is not necessarily what most people count as normal. As my sweetie puts it, the closest we get to normal around here is the setting on the dryer.

One advantage of getting caught up on sleep is being able to start putting my whole Kenya experience into perspective. At least for me, that wasn't something that I could do while I was there. I was so busy trying to learn so much that the mental energy required to sort the ideas and experiences and sensations exceeded my capacity then. 

Now, though, I have that chance.

The biggest surprise to me was that I didn't particularly like Iten. That likely counts as heresy to the running community which considers the town to be the 'runner's Mecca.' Typing 'Iten', 'running', and 'Mecca' into google or bing with bring you a slew of results like this, or this, or this. Yet, the truth is that while runners come here to train, especially North American and European runners, the great Kenyan come overwhelmingly from Nandi County and many of them train in places like Kaspabet, Eldoret, and (for marathoners) Kapng'etuny. Iten has a different flavor than the other Kenyan towns I visited and I have to assume it's because there are so many (relatively speaking) white people there.

It was not evident at the cottage that I stayed - Felix and his wife Lucy were wonderful. When I had a day where I didn't venture out, focusing on writing, Felix made it a point to check in with me and make sure I was okay. The difference was out on the roads. I got used to the children's cries of "Mzungu!" (white man!) early in my adventure. In Iten, though, the next two phrases, almost as regular as the sunset, were "How are you?" and "Give me money?" In the three weeks prior to getting to Iten, the demand for money happened exactly twice, both times from drunk men. It disconcerting, made more so when an eleven or twelve year old girl followed up with "Give me sweets?" Coming from an American background, offering little girls sweets is the sort of behaviour that triggers a response from the parents and police.

Still, the running was good when it wasn't raining - I seemed to have brought the wet stuff with me even though it was technically the dry season. The people in town had a little trouble grasping the fact that I wasn't there to train or to paraglide, the other big tourist draw for a town sitting on a 5,000 foot escarpment, but were generally really nice as befits a former sleepy farming town.

Eldoret, in contrast, bustles. It's a manufacturing center with grain processing plants, major textile mills, and a pipeline manufacturer. It also has the second oldest university in Kenya, Moi University. It's a blue-collar city and the fastest growing in Kenya. I ran nearly every day there, and walked every evening. For the most part, the people of Eldoret gave me a nod, said "hello" or some variant, and we went our separate ways. 

Of the two, I preferred Eldoret, though I would take either over Nairobi.

The other realization, now that I'm home, is how much I appreciated the company of Justin Lagat and Winny, his wife. Their kindness and trust exemplified the best of the Kenyans. Few people would allow nearly a total stranger to stay in their home for two weeks, much less take him to the homes that they grew up in and take him to visit the people important in their lives. Justin and Winny did that.

Justin understood my goal is to eventually write a book, an honest one, about a Kenyan girl who wants desperately to go to school, and helped me find the experiences and details that would make the book authentic. More though, I got to see how the Kenyan families interact. Even when I asked awkward questions, Justin and Winny answered with grace.

When I decided to truncate the trip due to things breaking at home (literally, in the case of the main sewer line), Justin was the second person I told, my wife being forever first. He was upset, and worried that he had somehow disappointed me. He couldn't have been more incorrect. He and his family were easily the best part of my trip.

Now I'll start figuring out when I can go back. It won't be for research this time, or to see baboons and elephants, or the stark rise of the Rift escarpment, or even a random dozen world recordholders.

Friends are all the reason you need for some things.

Clear the Course!

On Saturday, Justin and I headed to Eldama Ravine town where one of the regional cross country meets was being held for juniors (under 18) and seniors (over 18). The town is 100 kilometers- about a two hour drive - from Eldoret and we watched the dawning of the sun on the trip. The GPS had a ridiculous notion that maintaining a steady speed of 80 kilometers an hour is possible. Not if you want to have your car survive the journey. We averaged considerable less, but still made it to the meet early enough to grab a quick breakfast of tea, samosas, and chapatti.

The races, four total, were held at the fairgrounds. Pulling up, it reminded me of nearly all the small meets that the Asotin kids run, with the limited flagging and small but vocal crowd. As you'd expect for a regional, the officials did a nice job of keeping things organized, and there were race marshals out on the course. The crowd helped shoo cows and little children from the raceway.

The course was a two kilometer loop with open ground through the fairgrounds, some single track out on the far end, and enough turns to allow for some tactical maneuvers. It didn't have much in the way of hills. The juniors girls were running 6k, the junior boys were running 8K, and everyone else was in for five laps, or 10K.

The biggest difference between the local races I attend in Washington State and here was the speed (though this was a regional championship, so more like our state meet than a local district meet.) The races started with a simple whistle and the runners left the line like quicksilver on a downhill slope.

Nandi County ended up very well represented in the finishes, sending three girls to the next meet. Similar results for the boys race. Both races were relatively competitive for the first couple of laps until the winners made moves and gapped the fields. 

The senior races, on the other hand, weren't nearly so competitive. The woman's race was won at the beginning of the second lap when the leader made a move past the pair next to her and never looked back. She ended up winning in dominating fashion by over a minute and a half. There's always a concern when someone breaks early that they may have made the move too soon. This young lady dispelled that notion by crushing the last lap and showing a hell of a kick to the finish.

The men's race saw an early lead by a runner who expected to win. Rather than play a conservative game, he left the line hard and maintained that. Unfortunately for him, another young man had a bigger engine. He chased the leader and, on the third lap, made a move to go past him. Like the lady in the race before, he didn't look back, building a commanding lead. The first man continued to run hard and will be moving on to the next race, having taken second.

The finish line was old-fashioned, with runners given placement cards to present as they exited the chute. I didn't get results or names to go with the faces. It's a different feeling watching races where you don't know half the athletes personally. In most of the races I attend in Washington, I've been watching the same kids, whether it's Tiegens and Egglestons/Dykstras at Asotin, or Ward and Vanos from St. George. Anyway, an odd juxtaposition of familiarity and disconnection.

Justin was hustling after every race, getting interviews so that he could write stories for freelance sale.

Stepping Outside the Gate

I took about thirty minutes and went out of the gate for the cottage at Simbolei Academy and just waited. In Iten, you don't have to wait long to see the world class go by, making six minute pace look like a saunter.

Rimoi Game Reserve

Sorry to running behind with updates – I’ve been a touch under the weather. Today is better, much better, and I managed to walk into town, though the way I huffed and puffed, you’d have thought I was running a hard race. Oh well . . .

So, Rimoi Game Reserve. That was where Justin and I ventured on Tuesday. It’s about a 3500 foot drop down the escarpment from Iten. The paved section of road is pretty nice, much better than the majority of roads here. Kenya is gradually improving its transportation system but, as with all countries making a big technology jump from pedestrian to vehicular modes of movement, the infrastructure can’t get built fast enough. They’ll get there but, for right now, their roads are an obstacle to free-flowing commerce.

The vegetation along the escarpment as you leave the highlands behind turns incredibly lush with native plants. Banana trees, papaya, ficus, and jacaranda replace the ubiquitous eucalyptus until you venture off the tarmac.

That, by the way, is where the journey gained a little excitement. It is seventeen kilometers from the turnoff to the reserve. It took an hour to drive it. Justin shook his head. “Less than half marathon pace,” he said.

“Speak for yourself,” was my reply. I crewed Justin on a long run before I went to Iten. He turned 37 kilometers in 2:12. A marathon is around 40 kilometers. Do the math.

The best piece of this particular road.

The person who signed the guest book before us wrote that it was the worst road ever. It wasn’t but it was not a whole lot of fun. It did improve once we got to the reserve though. That road, built of crushed basalt, was in very good condition.

The scenery, in the meantime, had faded from lush to stark, barren soil, cut through with gullies carved by erosion, pillared with ant hills five to fifteen feet in height, and spiky acacia trees providing an intermittent canopy. In full sunshine, it would be hot as heck there.

We did not have full sunshine. We had depressing drizzling rain.

The rangers at Rimio were inside the metal huts, structures that resembles short grain silos. A little surprised to see us, they hustled out into the rain and took us to the office silo to pay the fees and wait for a guide. Got caught by surprise with the fee—in the good way. It was much less expensive than I had read online, 850 shillings for me (non-resident fee), 200 shillings for Justin (as a resident), and 500 shillings for the guide. The conversion rate is about 100 shillings to the dollar, for reference.

The guide sat in the rear seat of Justin’s car, an older Toyota Corolla, the kind that you can fix if something goes wrong, unlike today’s cars. For Kenya, it is a very sensible choice for a vehicle. The roads inside the reserve were in decent shape, but slippery. The deeper into the reserve we went, the more brush we encountered. Based on the positioning of the Kerio River, I think the reserve sits on a delta.

It didn’t take long to spot wildlife. A small herd of impalas stood around eyeing us. I went to take pictures and discovered that the lenses for my camera were fogged—and I had a hell of a time getting them to clear. The humidity was at ridiculous levels. I finally did get a couple of nice shots, and we went on our way.

Signs of elephants were strewn on either side of the road. If someone ever asks you to clean up after pachyderms, I suggest declining, citing worries about lower back strain.

A troop of baboons stepped out to the road, saw us, and faded right back into the bush. We drove by thirty seconds later and there was no sign that they had been there.

Justin and the guide could see things that I couldn’t. An interesting fact-if you take kid raised in the city to the woods, they can’t make out the various shapes of the animals. Their brains configured things to be relevant to their world and rewiring only can go so far. It would be fair to say I was partially blind.

Still hunting elephant sightings, we turned left on a road leading to Crocodile Campground. Lots of churned earth to show where they had been earlier in the morning, but not a whisper of where they were at the moment.

It was on this stretch that a mini-problem appeared, in the guise of the right front tire sliding into a rut, followed by the sound of metal on metal grating. Not good.

We got the Corolla out of the rut and took stock. It turned out that the rock plate underneath, a necessity on Kenyan roads to protect the vitals of the engine, had broken free and was pressing on the pulley assemblies. I counted this as great news, as I had feared that the fan was eating the radiator.  I reached into the tire well and managed to get both hands on the edge of the rock plate. Thankfully, it was fairly thin metal and I could bend it away from the pulleys.

That still left the problem of the leading edge of the plate. It should have been tight to the front, acting as a deflector. Instead, it swayed like a scythe, catching everything.

I asked Justin if he had any wire. He shook his head and suggested shoelaces, then had a revelatory look cross his face as he procured aluminum wire, fairly thick, from the trunk. I got a little muddy tying things up as best I could. If we were careful, we’d make it.

We finished the reserve tour that way, wincing every time the rock plate dragged. Mind you, this was on the relatively good road in the park. We still had to deal with the seventeen kilometers of crap to get back to the main road.

About klicks in, a load bang announced that we might have a problem with the wiring job. Justin pulled over and we both got out to check. Coming the other way was a lorry, and they stopped to see if we were okay. A rapid fire exchange of Swahili followed, and one of the men climbed down to see the situation for himself. Another fast burst of words, and another guy got out, carrying baling wire.

You have to love baling wire. Thin enough to be able to be pulled taut, strong enough to survive a beating. Ten minutes later, the men had pulled the rock plate all the way up into position, which I couldn’t manage with the aluminum we’d had, and we were on our way again, feeling much more confident.

It took us just over an hour to pick up the main road again. The climb back up the escarpment put a strain on the engine. Not wanting to push our luck, we pulled over to let the engine cool.

The baboons here were considerably less bashful. I got some pictures and tried to find them in the brush – without getting too close, as baboons are very territorial. No dice, so we called it good and went home.

Found a track in Iten

I went out meandering yesterday evening and managed to find another track in Iten about a kilometer from the cottage where I’m staying. It was in use when I got there, with several people doing interval work in the rain showers, with the coach providing directions and encouragement from the side. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the right lens on to get great pictures.

The taller young lady, I think British from her accent, kicked up small clouds of dust as she toed off on her hard repeats of 700 meters. A lot of power in her stride and a lot of grace, though the latter was limited by the bandaging she had on her right thigh, upper and lower. I’m assuming a nagging type of hamstring problem. It only showed in her arm carriage as she fought the leg a bit. She had a pacer for parts of the workout.

Meanwhile, on the outside edge of the track (though the picture I took was after she dropped to the infield) was a lady that I’d guess is a marathoner. Steady as a metronome, she turned her laps looking comfortable and strong.

While I sat under a tree looking for some protection from the showers, another runner joined me. Martin and I swapped notes on the runners, and talked a bit of America. Martin has been there and raced in the Boilermaker 10K and Peachtree. He’s looking for an opportunity to go back.

Others dropped in on the track to cool down from a longer run out on the roads, just as the rain began in earnest. Also around were a couple of young men, one American, the other from parts unknown, goofing and taking their pictures on the track. Based on body build and running form, I’m guessing they were strength coaches.

About the time the ladies left the track, I decided I should brave the rain and get back to the cottage. Tucking my camera under me shirt, I slogged up the dirt/mud roads to the cottage, watching the two ladies run past at a pace I couldn’t have kept if I wanted to, plus another (American?) lady on a bicycle. Another runner past me on the way down to the track, giving me a friendly ‘Hi’ though she looked a bit unsure as to why I was around.

Seems to be a common issue. The young Kenyan at the store that I shopped at earlier in the day asked if I was here to train. The presumption is that all the white people are training, with the occasional paragliding pilot tossed into the mix. I don’t fit the parameters.

To Town I Went

On that early walk into town to shop, I past Wilson Kipsang’s Keellu Resort Centre and the Eldoret Stage point. Few people in Kenya own personal vehicles and the majority get to and from places on private transport called matatus or on motorcycles. The matatus run on regular routes and for a very reasonable fee, they’ll drop you at a stop close to your destination. Because they run smaller vehicles, the service is faster than an American bus route, with more frequent pickups. It’s highly effective.

The motorcycles run point-to-point, ferrying one to three people (plus driver, of course) to their destinations. Rather than the mammoth 650cc or 750cc Honda Goldwings or Harleys populating the US streets, they favor 175-275cc enduro bikes that are highly maneuverable. In Eldoret, they weave between the cars and trucks and matatus in a fashion that would seem to be reckless. Not surprisingly, they are on the losing end of many an accident. In Iten, they seem a bit more sedate, though that may simply be the result of less congestion.

On the way back, I dropped a card off at Keellu with a request to chat with Mr. Kipsang. I would guess that the odds are long that a World Record marathoner who also has businesses to run while have time for me, but I thought there was no harm in asking.

Evening Time at the Cottage

So, after getting drenched in the deluge during my walk back from the track, I changed into dry gear and set dinner to cooking – beans and potatoes, a small piece of beef cut in small cubes, seasoned with tomatoes, onions, garlic, salt and pepper. It took a while to simmer down and thicken to a nice soup broth, so I went out onto the patio of the cottage and read,

Movement from the corner of my eye distracted me, though. High atop one of the nearby trees, a pair of cranes stood. The newcomer, a male I suppose, was diligently trying to impress the female, first ducking and weaving its head in an intricate series of twists. That provoked no response, so he moved onto a full ‘look-at-me’ dance complete with thrumming the air to show off his wings.

Alas, she still wasn’t interested.

For a finale, the storm, after delivering buckets of rain and some impressive thunder, blew past, just in time for the sunset. I watched it light the edge of the clouds and spread glowingly out, until it peaked and faded. At the last light, it was time to go inside for my stew while the night time sounds rustled in through the windows. .

First Day - Iten

Okay, if I walk into town, I can get internet service again. Cool. So, first morning run in Iten, and more high quality runners than you would see at a major t&f meet, Kenyan, American, European. Really friendly to the tragically slow runner in their midst, though. I'll get articles up on the blog, but I'm going to have to write them separately and upload once a day. Not sure how pictures are going to work.

The place that I rented, the cottage at Simbolei Academy is very well located for runners. Within a mile, you have the High Altitude Training Camp. the track, Wilson Kipsang's Keellu Resort Centre, and the Kiero View Restaurant (they have cottages and paragliding, too). Stepping our the main gate puts you on the same road that the professionals are using. I was out by 6:30 - a fair number were already winding down their morning run. Others will wait for later in the day, especially the Europeans/Americans.

Interestingly, all the Kenyans train in full jackets and pants, despite temperatures in the high fifties, low sixties. My guess is that they regulate heat better than most groups which is a decided advantage for racing long distances.  Zero body fat plays a role as well, something that I don't need to concern myself with.

Run gently, everyone.