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(T&FN correspondent Kirk Reynolds is visiting Kenya this winter and will be submitting observations from time to time. The first major distance running stop on Reynolds' trip will be the Kenyan Cross Country Nationals, the competitive kettle from which annually emerge world-beating Kenyan squads for the World Cross Country Champs).
RACE DAY
13 Feb 2004 - Friday
“I don’t think the horses are racing today,” says my taxi driver. “And certainly not at 8am.” We’re heading out onto Nairobi streets, and I’ve asked the driver to take me to the Ngong Racecourse, the capital city’s horse racing venue about 10k southwest of downtown.
 “No, not horses. Runners are competing there this morning,” I say. As we thread our way through cars and people, I tell him about the Kenyan National Cross Country Championships, and he tells me he knows that Kenya has good running athletes, but that he didn’t know they were running at home today. The papers again had no mention of the event. Nairobi has been in a transportation crisis the past couple of weeks. The government is cracking down on the licensing of public buses and matatus, the local mini-buses, vans and trucks that typically overload with passengers-sometimes 15-17 in a vehicle. The government wants fewer passengers, seatbelts, and speed governors on the engine, plus regular inspections to stem the continual rash of accidents-many lethal-in the country. As a result, people have had trouble getting into the city to work. The few trains are packed, and even have crowds of people hanging outside on the outside walls and sitting on the roof. Many more people than normal are simply walking miles and miles to their job. As we head out of town to Ngong, we’re fighting upstream against a mass of cars bumper-to-bumper heading in, and hundreds of people walking along the road edge. Car horns and thick clouds of black diesel exhaust from trucks and buses fill the crisp air. As we near halfway I begin to see a few others swimming against the current as well. Runners. And they’re running. On the dirt paths on the side of the road, they’re wearing sweat jackets to ward off the morning chill, and some are clutching racing flats. Occasionally, they’re even going faster than we are, and they’re getting a pre-race warmup through the often thick haze of exhaust. I wonder how far they’ve had to come. Ngong Racecourse is beautiful: well off the main road, and serene in the morning light. A once-a-week schedule of horse racing occurs on the wide, 2400m grass oval, but today it has been transformed into a terrific cross country venue. A small grandstand sits next to the track edge, and the cross country course is a 2000m loop that has two long, side-by-side straights going both directions in front of the grandstand, with two sweeping loops on each end. It’s slightly rolling the entire way. Large signs mark the start and finish areas, and the course is edged with plastic ribbon wrapped around what look like thin, 1-inch tree saplings that have been hatcheted into 4-foot lengths. The grass is thick, long and dewy at 7:30, and it’s probably 60 degrees, sunny. It will get hotter throughout the morning. Tall trees frame the track edge, and a 9-hole golf course tucks inside the horse loop. It’s perfect. Anticipation fills the air, which is an improvement on the diesel exhaust down on Ngong Road. Runners are warming up, coaches are huddling with athletes. Officials are setting up tables and banners, and running a long white electrical cord from the stadium to the results tent by the finish.
As a sport, cross country pits runners of various strengths into a smaller number of races. Instead of the multiple track options of 800m, 1500m, 3000m steeplechase, 5000m, and 10,000m races, all runners get to choose between only two cross country options: long or short. Shortly, here at Ngong, what some term ‘the toughest race in the world’ will commence, with scores of the world’s best runners competing against each other for a handful of berths to the 2004 World Cross Country Championships. I can’t believe I’m here.
Teams have arrived from many areas of the country: Armed Forces, Police, Prisons, North Rift, Western, South Rift, Central, Nyanza South, Southern, Nairobi, Coast. But what strikes me most of all-visually- is the profusion of national team wear. You know, the green, red and black singlets and warm-up jackets that turn your head at U.S. and international meets (“There’s a Kenyan! Who is it?”) As athletes pin on bib numbers among various groups sitting in different team camps, someone is usually wearing national gear. My neck hurts, and I have to remind myself that I’m in Kenya and, well, nearly everyone is a Kenyan, so get over it. But then I counter myself by realizing that I’m walking among world-record holders, Olympic Champions, World Champions, major marathon winners, all-time lists runners, etc.
The PA announcer begins to talk, and it’s a verbal stream of Swahili and English: instructions to athletes and coaches, pleas for officials to report, and a continual welcome to everyone to this “wonderful event.” He won’t stop all day.
The first race at 8am is the women’s junior 6k, and about 50 toe the line-with half the field doing so literally, without shoes. I even see a handful wearing dresses or skirts. After three laps of the course, Chemutai Rionotukei wins by two seconds in 20:02.
It’s still cool for the senior men’s 4k at 8:30, but I’m swearing because my camera has stopped working. Last year’s track sensation Abraham Chebii and two-time World Champion John Kibowen lead the group as they come back in front of the grandstand at 1k and head toward the other end. Suddenly, they’re back again at 2k. Now, I know running, or at least think I do. I’m constantly around high school and college runners, I’ve seen U.S. Champs and Olympics in person from stadium seats, and I’ve run most of my life, but this is insane. They scream around their two loops. I scream at my camera just enough to unfreeze it and snap a shot of Chebii winning just near the line. His time is 11:00, and eighth place is just five seconds back. It’s awesome, awesome.
The PA announcer is terrific. In addition to calling the races, he is giving some background on individuals-both in the races and in the crowd. “Here in the stands is the winner of the Boston Marathon.” Or, “Olympic medalist…” Or “This runner is the two-time cross country world champion.” Or, “Commonwealth Games winner…” I begin to scrawl a list of names on a scrap of paper, but it fills so fast I eventually abandon it and decide simply to soak it all in. Crowds line the fence along the course and roar and cheer at runners, and encourage individuals in Swahili as they pass: “Catch her!” “Keep going!” “Now! Right here!”
In the senior women’s 8k, Alice Timbilil breaks away mid-race from Sally Barsosio, the former 10k World Champ, who is returning from maternity leave. Timbilil clocks 26:46. Finishing sixth and earning a spot on the worlds team is ageless Jane Ngotho, who first competed in the world champs 17 years ago.
Standing near the finish line, I also notice that a man is holding up a lap counter along with a bell, and is giving every single racer their bell lap. It’s not like the track, however, where you have only a short kick to the finish. Only 2k more to go! It’s easy for the 4k runners. I imagine it’ll be much more helpful for the six-lap men’s race at the end of the morning.
I also become aware of something quite interesting. Among all the runners heading to the start-whether junior, senior, man or woman-no one seems to be filled with the near-paralyzing, going-to-the-gallows dread that I see in many U.S. high school, college and even national races. Kenyans, if nervous at all, at least express it differently. Instead of panicked, near-to-vomiting faces that many U.S. starting lines feature, Kenyan runners act as if embarking on a challenging adventure that they know will be exceedingly tough, but survivable-an opportunity that just might even be enjoyable, all things considered. Faces project confident but not cocky coolness. Sure, there’s some bouncing and fidgeting while anticipating the gun, but it’s done along with lots of smiling and hand-shaking and interaction among competitors. Then the gun goes off and the racing is forceful and hearty.
The sun is getting higher and it’s probably 70 degrees now. In the junior men’s 8k race, Barnabas Kosgei separates himself from a pack of seven halfway, then raises his arms at the line to win by five seconds in 23:28. Kosgei leads a 1-2-3 sweep by the North Rift team.
A nattily-uniformed school band has arrived and has set up shop in the shade of the grandstand. The director regularly stands up and strikes up the band-sometimes during a race, sometimes after. Never, however, during the starting gun. With trumpets, trombones, woodwinds, bass drum, etc., it makes for a raucous, boisterous atmosphere, especially since the PA announcer tries to continue over the top of the music.
I am probably one of 15 white people among a crowd that the following day’s The Nation newspaper will estimate at 5000. We wazungu (the non-derisive plural Swahili term for people of European or North American descent) stand out. As I move around the course, I’m repeatedly asked, “Jambo, are you here with your runners?” Or, “Are you a manager?” I chat, and tell them I’m just here watching as a fan. Other wazungu aren’t. Some seem to be managers, coaches, and somehow runner-affiliated. One races in the 4k.
It’s somewhat unsettling to acknowledge the fact that most Kenyan runners are represented internationally by wazungu. Here at 2004 National Cross Country Championships at Ngong Racecourse, surrounded by Kenyan fans, runners, coaches, and officials, my mental alarm goes off, telling me that something’s not quite right with this fact. I also can’t come up with any easy answers to placate my unease.
Kenya, a former British colony, gained independence in 1963 and has a population today of about 31 million people. The country depends highly on income from tourism, mainly from vacationing wazungu on safari to the fabulous game parks. Put crassly, this results in a two-tiered system, with many Kenyan citizens (on one level) employed in difficult, often low-paying jobs to enable money-laden visitors (on another level) a posh international adventure. Even though many Kenyan runners have earned untold riches on the world’s track or road running circuit, the numerous relationships between Kenyan runners and wazungu agents seems disquietingly similar.
Meanwhile, on the golf course inside the expansive horse loop, a lone golfer mzungu (the singular term) arrives at the hole nearest the grandstand. He’s with a Kenyan caddie. He looks over at the hubbub curiously. “Some of the greatest athletes in the world, pal,” I want to yell at him. “And carry your own bag.” But I don’t. He hits a middling iron shot and heads off, caddie trailing.
The biggest upset of the day comes in the senior women’s 4k. The race features Edith Masai, who has won the last two straight short-course world titles, plus Jane Gakunyi, third at last year’s world meet. But barefooted Beatrice Jepchumba surprises both late in the second loop to win, with Gakunyi second and Masai third. How can a two-time defending world champion, seemingly at full strength, finish third in her national champs? Yes, this is Kenya.
The last race of the day, the senior men’s 12k race, is scheduled to start at 10:30, but it’s closer to 11:15 when the gun fires. It’s probably 80 degrees and humid, not perfect for racing, but I don’t hear anyone complaining. This field is the day’s biggest, and the front pack after 2k is huge, with a front wall of eight runners.
After the lead group rips by, the rest of the field begins to thin out, and then individual trailers follow. I think the entire pack has passed, but then I see one more runner making his way toward me. He’s an older gentleman, with a well-worn shirt and shorts. Slightly hunched, but still possessing good turnover, he looks to me to be 45 or so, which in this country would probably make him 55. Although he gets lapped during the fourth circuit, he finishes the race.
 Up front, notable names include 5k world track champ Eliud Kipchoge (in that thrilling, last-lap WC win over Hicham El Guerrouj), last year’s national xc winner John Korir, former 5k world champ Richard Limo, former 10k world champ Charles Kamathi, former Boston marathon champ Robert Cheruiyot, and numerous others all within striking distance of the lead. Also up front are brothers Abraham Cherono and Saif Saaeed Shaheen, the former Stephen Cherono, who changed his nationality last year to Qatar in a controversial decision that has privately embittered many in Kenya, although his decision has rarely been chastised in public. After running a world-leading time early last track season representing Kenya, Shaheen later won the world championship 3k steeplechase representing Qatar. He still lives most of the year in Kenya. Shaheen moves into the lead and forces a torrid pace, with Cheruiyot in pursuit. But a chase pack of four captures them again, and by 8k it’s Kipchoge who’s pushing the tempo. Shaheen drops out. Kipchoge breaks everyone by 10k and runs the final loop solo to win by 7 seconds in 35:19.
 Out of the chute, Kipchoge is mobbed by friends, fans and reporters, and he gives a breathless yet animated interview in Swahili for both TV and radio. My Swahili is rough, but in response to a question, I’m pretty sure I hear him say, “I don’t know. I’ve never raced 12,000 meters before.” I’m pushed out of the mob and can’t hear anymore. In The Nation the next day, Kipchoge is quoted as saying, “The race was like a glimpse of hell. At one time I did not know whether or not I would pull this one off.” -------
Next: post race awards, plans for the national team camp, and a quick interview with Athletics Kenya General Secretary David Okeyo.
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