Running Times, Online

October 24th, 2008

It is going to be very difficult to transition back into ‘just a guy out running’ when I get back to the States. I have touched on the fact that I get noticed everywhere I travel, but not the specific reactions on daily runs. I get chased on every single outing. I can’t honestly think of a single workout, where I have not turned to see a pack of giggling school children tearing after me. This usually occurs on my solo runs, when I am not flanked by a crew of elite runners.

I am talking Beatles and Rolling Stones chased. It’s hard to stay 100% focused, when you have roughly twenty five school girls trailing me, while laughing their heads off. Even more disconcerting, is the fact that often the lead pursuant lasts by my side for minutes. Rocking what amounts to a traditional catholic school uniform, with or without shoes, which are irrelevant because the school shoes probably hinder performance. I’ve had to swallow my pride on numerous occasions, when running what  deemed to be a brisk pace, but proves to be no bother for a gaggle of ten year-olds. Don’t worry Mom. I don’t pull a Mr. Macho, and drop the hammer on a bunch of kids, more likely because of the deep set fear that I might not be able to drop them! I usually just continue about my pace, until even the stubborn drop off. But not without a signature see ya gesture of both arms spread outward, in a praying motion, to say ‘Is that all you got?’

Do alarm clocks rule, I mean ruin, your peace every single morning? Waking up is actually quite easy for me. Forgive me, for I am just a city kid, and anything related to animal husbandry is completely foreign. Roosters actually can’t contain their excitement until dawn, opposite to common cartoon logic. No, they start roughly at 2 AM and repeat with gusto on the hour, until what ever time it is chickens go sleep. So I have woken up about three times every morning, before actually planning on waking up. The pessimist in me says, “Aww I hate roosters, ruining my sleep everyday.” I have gained exceptional perspective on this trip. Now I say, “Sweet! I get to stay in bed for a whole extra 3 hours!” So waking up is not too hard to do.

Training:

I know that I have kept harping on how I can feel the marked improvement at altitude, but I can feel the ease of each run still developing. That said, I am still getting housed on my fartlek workouts. I had not been able to get a straight answer concerning run distances earlier on, so I stopped asking the guys. On Thursday, I found out that our previous fartlek workout, which took a total of 56 minutes to complete, spanned about 18km (a little bit longer than 11mi). I rolled in about 3 minutes after the lead pack, and tried to do some mental math, but couldn’t fathom how fast the recovery portions were being run. No wonder I am getting dropped every single workout. The recovery pace is below 5:30/mi pace! At least I roughly know my way around, and can wander back towards the direction of home if stranded.

October 13th, 2008

I am not talking about another US offensive. Most of my more memorable moments have involved complete and utter baffling scenarios. Here are some of the more noteworthy instances.

Last week, I visited the home of my roommate, Reuben. His family lives way out in the sticks, makes Kapsabet look like NYC. We stepped off the matatu into a desolate looking area, in the Rift Valley region. He said that we would have to take a bike taxi to the house. We spotted one boda-boda, but had to track down the owner of the bike. This is not India, so I don’t plan on riding triples on this bike, for an unknown distance. I don’t think the rider really was eager for that option either.

After some haggling, we secured another bike, and began to walk them down a path. We walked for near 10min. I almost said, ” Hey I am not paying for you to escort me, while walking your bike next to me.” Finally I hopped on the back of the bike, and Reuben actually rode someone else’s acquired bike, behind us. I’m glad I kept my mouth shut, because the ride took about 25 min through arid farms, over rough rutted dirt roads. Once we finally arrived, Reuben arranged to keep the one bike, and the bike taxi guy left back to the highway. I kinda felt stranded, as the guy had clearly refused to come back, all the way out here in two hours.

The family shamba, farm, was a model of efficiency and obvious diligence. Reuben’s father, is an absolute character. If I were to describe him, it would be a more youthful Kenyan version of Mr. Furley (Don Knotts to everyone in my generation and younger), from Three’s Company. We ate a great meal of chicken and mashed potatoes. Then we took a tour of the farm, and he showed me all the various crops he was growing. Reuben showed me the mud-walled home, that he built himself.

The memorable part came when it was time to leave. I had recovered from my morning run sufficiently and felt adventurous. I told Reuben that he could ride on the back of the borrowed bike, while I pedaled us back to the road. This bike was not fully equipped for riders, but it did have a metal cage on the back for goods. Reuben agreed, and I mounted the bike. Bikes in Kenya do not come in sizes, and the only size would equate to a maybe 61cm frame size (I ride a 58cm bike which is big). The bike also weighed at least 50lbs, due to the various steel mountings all over the bike.

I straddled the bike and took a few pedal strokes and Reuben took a running start and hopped on the back of the bike. Immediately I began to swerve under his weight, he is about my size. We took a few big correction swings, where I swore we were going to bite it, but I got it under control. Now back home I ride a single speed bike around town and to work. Once I got the bike under my control, I wanted to test my boda-boda skills. Within 400yds., I was tearing down the road at a breakneck pace(pun intended). The wind muffled most of Reuben’s screams, not sure if it was terror or laughter. Often I barely had time to make last minute corrections, for turns. The bike handled like a runaway Buick, without power steering. So many times, I came extremely close to dumping the entire bike and included riders. As we raced through the country side, I yelled at sheep, cows, children to clear a path for the out of control transport. The only reaction we received from farmers, working their fields, was dropped jaws and unbelieving stares. I am pretty sure a white guy, carrying a Kenyan guy, while riding a bike at ludicrous speeds, is not an everyday occurrence in those parts. We made it back to the starting point in roughly 7 minutes! Yeah we had a bit of downhill to our advantage, but Reuben assured me that was the fastest he had ever seen one those bike move. We actually didn’t have a planned dismount, just an emergency bail next to a barbed wire fence, just before crashing down some rocks.

The second encounter, was filled with shock on my side. About six weeks ago, before my family sent me a whole collection of books, I checked out the local library. It is situated on the road, between my house and town. I decided to stop by one day, to check out what they had to offer. This is not an ordinary American style library.

The compound has a menacing fence surrounding it, and A GUARD CARRYING AN AUTOMATIC RIFLE! I meekly approached the guy, and said I just wanted to check the place out. He told me that I had to check my backpack with him. I squinted and tried to figure if this was legit. I told him, “I’m just going in for a few minutes and will be back out.” He replied, still holding the rifle, “These are the regulations and you must leave your bag with me.” Rifle trumps all persistence.

The library is separated into two buildings, children and adult books (yes I understand how that sounds). I find the head librarian at the main counter. He asks me why I am here. I tell him that I am just staying around here for a few months and might want to come here and read or even check out a book. He gave me a grave look, and started to look me over. Do I look like an international paperback book thief? Because this guy sure gave the impression that I would fit the bill of such a criminal.

He walked behind the desk and pulled out a form, that I would have to fill out. He told me that I would have to get a local to vouch for me, in case I skipped town on some fees. On top of that I had to get that person’s national security ID number and even then this person would be checked out and had to be in good standing within the community. I said to him, “Do I really need to do all this, even if I just want to read here?” He didn’t flinch and said, “Yes. Yes you do no exceptions.” I took the form and tried to give the impression that ‘yeah of course everyone has to pass the Homeland Security background check in US before they can read the next Stephen King book.’

Thankfully, I received a shipment of about ten books, from the family in California, which have held me over this entire time. This trip has been a great eye-opener, in so many ways. I return home in ten days and will post many pictures, once I get to a stable internet connection. Thanks to everyone who has posted comments, I really appreciate it and it helps with homesickness.

Training:

I am just hitting my last big week of training this week, before I come back down into a taper. I will be running a half marathon about a week after I arrive home. The rain has slowly backed off, which has allowed the roads to become more conducive to training.

I have been counting down the amount of hard workouts, that I have left in Kenya. I only have one of each variety left, but a little sad because I have finally began to hold my own. I can’t wait to see what the effects of the altitude and dedicated training, will have once I return to sea level in Charleston.

October 9th, 2008

It is nice to know that some American staples have crossed international borders. For instance, I have received a few packages, from the wife and family during my time here. The average travel time of each package is roughly two weeks. Which is not too bad, considering how far out in the country I am staying.

Let me tell you about the Kapsabet Post Office. I was fortunate enough, when I first arrived to meet the Postmaster, in Kapsabet. I had inquired with him, how I should I direct mail from the States, to eventually end up in my possession. He said, ” Just put, Attn: Postmaster, your name and ph# below, and I will call you when it arrives.” I was blown away, to get such first class service without having to sign up for anything special.

Two weeks later, I get a phone call from the Postmaster, alerting me that a parcel has arrived for me. Here is where it becomes a slice of home. That was the last phone notice I received. Since then I have had maybe four other packages sent my way. I do not deal with the Postmaster, and hadn’t seen him since my first week in town. My point of contact is now a United States Postal Service clone, or drone you might say.

Here is our routine. “Hi, I would like to see if you have any packages for Neil McDonagh.” The reply, “Do have identification?” “No, I guess I will come back tomorrow.” The next day, I bring proper ID and they say there is no package for me. I happen to be at the track the following morning, and since it is on the way, I stop into the Post Office. I ask the same clerk, if there are any packages for me. “Do you have ID?” I say, “But I just showed it yesterday to you, don’t you remember me?” Honestly at that point, I hadn’t seen another white person in two weeks. I found it highly unlikely, that I may have a body double roaming the streets without my knowledge. She of course holds her ground, and deadpans me, ” You need identification.”

This lady really does not like me. Do I know why? No. Although I am pretty sure that whatever list I have landed on, is not short. The only thing I can compare our interactions for the past eight weeks, is a direct mirror of, Jerry and Newman, from Seinfeld.

I enter the post office.
“Helllllooooo Bernice.”
“Hello Neeeeil.”

ID through the metal, bars. Bernice disappears with great regret, and without haste. She always disappears for between a 10-30 sec. count, which I presume is enough time to lean against a wall and possibly pick a piece of lunch lodged between a tooth. Re-enters stage right, and my ID is promptly thrown back on the counter, as she walks back to her desk. No explanation, or maybe try again tomorrow salutation. This lady really does not like, which is why I always pay my customs fee in the fashion of the movie, Big. A hodgepodge of bills and coins in no order or reason. I just feign ignorance that I do not understand the intricacies of the Kenyan shilling.

She has been really stonewalling me with my last package. She has resorted to telling me to go to some outside window, around the back of the building. This window is manned by what seems to be a janitor, who seems baffled by my request, notably the English part of it. Next time I refuse to go to the back window, and she takes less than a half-hearted look. I am steamed, because I am really looking forward to this last package.

Jackpot! Two days ago, I am back at the teller window, but this time I have the ace up my sleeve. I am chatting with my buddy, the Postmaster. I tell him I have been waiting a while on my last package. He makes a face, and glares at Bernice. I hand her my SC Driver’s license, with a big smile. She returns after a minute or two, with my package and maybe four other US Mail priority boxes, which look to have been punted from USA to Kenya. As I am filling out the required forms, in front of the Postmaster, I can’t help but revel in the situation. As I get up to leave, the Postmaster tells me to drop by and say goodbye. I assure him that of course I would. I also assure Bernice that I would come by to say goodbye to her for the last time, with a huge smile, volleyed back with an equally forced grin. Some things really aren’t that different.

Training:

The most notable thing over the past few weeks have been the fartlek workouts, that I have been joining. The group is usually in the range of thirty guys. They argue about the scheduled plan for the workout, which I always excuse myself from, because I know I am of no concern. When members of your group were pace-makers for Haile G’s WR marathon a few weeks ago in Berlin, you realize that “easy” is a whole different ballgame.

I usually get dropped somewhere on the 2nd or 3rd rep. Of course, yesterday’s workout was no different. The workouts span almost an hour by themselves. Yesterday’s workout consisted of 3min hard with 1 min jog recovery (not a jog by the way, just not all out) repeated eighteen times! The workout covered roughly 18km. These workouts kill me. I also realize that fartlek workouts have been the weakest link in my training routine, and it really shows. I just hold my ground and finish the workouts and try and keep the pack in sight, up on the yonder hills.

*Postal Employee names have been changed, but if you go there, it will not be hard to find the characters mentioned.

October 5th, 2008

After church, I usually head into town, to get my fill of emails and blog postings. Church here runs from anywhere around 90min to maybe 3hrs, depending on how much the guest preacher has on his chest. By the time I make my way out of church, my breakfast of buttered wheat bread, has began to fade leading to a hungry tummy. Thankfully a few hotels (restaurants) are open on Sundays.

Eating at most establishments is an enjoyable experience. If all tables are spoken for, just sit down at any one that has an open seat. No one cares, and a waiter will be with you shortly. When I say shortly, I mean that there will be a guy standing over you in 30 seconds. He will ask you what you want, because most people have made up their minds before they enter I guess. If you ask for some time, that translates to exactly one minute. So honestly you should think about what you want before you enter. On Sundays, I usually like to order, Yai fry chapati, which is 2 fried eggs rolled up pigs in a blanket style, by two big chapatis. Chapatis are a cousin of the pita and tortilla, being sweeter than the tortilla and lacking the pouch ability of a pita. Basically, they are tasty, that’s it.

The waiter will most likely not look at you or write down your order. He will repeat the same process to about three more tables, before he returns to the kitchen. Then yelling, Waffle House style, commences, and you are convinced that your meal is being made. Sometimes it takes a few tries before you hit on something the kitchen has made, or is willing to make that day. Beaten, a few times I have asked, “Ok,…..What is ready now?” I have been amazed that my orders always come out correct. The only translation issue has been, what I viewed as the international ‘Gimme the bill’ motion, of air handwriting. Over here that means, “Bring me some more tea please.”

Training

I have been training pretty hard, this past week. I can feel my fitness gaining, despite the daily heavy rains trying to hamper every run. I joined into a big fartlek run on Thursday. Determined to not make any bonehead watch mistakes, like last time, I just used my stopwatch plain and simple.

The workout consisted of : 1min/1minRest/2/1R/3/1R/4/2R/5/2R/6/2R/5/2R/4/2R/3/1R/2/1R/1/done probably collapse

As usual I was dropped by the 3 min portion, but surprised that some other guys were behind me! At the 6min mark I had finally caught another straggler, thankfully because I was thoroughly lost. We ran together hard, until at the final 2min repeat, he dashed off into a maize field. No doubt to answer an urgent call from nature. I finished the workout very strong, and was very pleased with the outcome. I finally hooked up with the main group, for a 35 min cool down back home.

Sadly , I have been doing some of my training alone, because I just can’t pull myself to join some of the kamikaze sessions. I wish I could, but I just see only burnout and a flaming wreckage of legs. I have a ticket back to the USA, these guys are fighting for one.

Hope everyone is doing back home.

Neil

October 1st, 2008

Lately I have been taking advantage of the bike taxis in town. They wait around the market area, near our house, which is about 2 km outside of Kapsabet. The ride is all downhill, and avoids the rider from spending about 20 minutes of their time walking on the side of the road. The ride costs 10 shillings (about 12 cents USD), so in my eyes, not a bad deal.

What is a bike taxi? Well, it’s a single speed dutch looking black bike, with a pad behind the “driver” and a little set of min-handlebars attached to the back of his seatpost. I had avoided taking rides with these guys, for about 7 weeks. Mainly, because I didn’t think they were particularly safe, and I enjoyed the walk into town, most days. I have begun to head into town around 7AM, a few days per week, to benefit from the only time when the internet connection is bearable. On those days, I usually postpone my run until maybe 10 AM or so.

Just like everyone else, I have rationalized why I am not being 100% lazy, by riding the bike taxi, or boda-boda as they are called here. I see it as a way to avoid breaking a sweat on my way into town, and usually walk back. The ride itself is not bad, but every bike I get on, the mini-handlebars are cocked a little bit off center. What does that matter? Well it matters a lot, because I can’t see ahead of me and it makes for a sensation that I am about to careen off the shoulder of the road into some thorny brush. The riders are decked out in anything, as long as it would never be considered for a rigorous athletic job. My past two drivers, have been wearing sportcoats, and each seems to make light that I am far heavier than their average passenger. If I feel that is true, or the guy just plain weak, then I tip him an extra 10 shillings.

Training:

Training has been going smoothly, and I can see the improvement almost daily. On the hill routes, I climb without excising a portion of my lungs. During my recent track workouts, I have been able to finish strong and possibly hold a brief conversation, if absolutely necessary. I am doing double runs on my hard days, and usually only single runs when I run longer than 1hr 15 min.

With that said, I am looking forward to dropping out of the altitude, and getting my fair share of oxygen again.

Hope all is well in the States.

Neil