Daily Run in Kenya

By Craig Widness

This is the second report from Africa by local runner Craig Widness. (You can read his first article here.) Craig is a fourth year medical student at the University of Rochester Medical School, currently doing an 8-week elective in Pediatrics and Infectious Diseases at a hospital in Kenya.

I've been thinking about my run all day. Initially, it was going to be great; I'd start on the beach road and run the length of it going north. I know it ends at a beach that seems pretty nice. Then, I'd do some exploring, and run back along the beach to Jay's house, where a bunch of my mates meet to do calisthenics. I have no idea what to expect along the beach; it could be pristine white sand, or could be rocks that I have to climb. It could even be a shore full of stinging jellyfish! That's what makes it exploration, right?

It's 5:15 now, and I've got to start my run. The motivation is lacking, that's for sure! I feel bloated from lunch, and I sweat from the heat and humidity just when I'm thinking. But I've got to get started, or the day will end. It gets dark so quickly in Kenya. There is virtually no twilight, just sunset, and darkness.

I lace up my shoes. Man, they're worn out. Another great excuse not to get started, but I walk out of the house anyways. I'm propelled more by force of habit, maybe even instinct, then any conscious will. I walk along the gravel path, to the women's amenity ward at the hospital, then I start running along the dirt path.

The first couple of minutes wind through guest housing for the hospital patients' families. A bunch of them are always sitting out. When I first ran here, two weeks ago, they looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and humor. Now, I'm just a fixture that passes by every day, a routine part of their day. I'm not even noticed. By the time I'm three minutes into the run, I'm on the ocean frontage road. I stick to the grassy shoulder, partially to avoid traffic, as well as save the little, precious tread on my shoes.

I feel heavy today. To be honest, I feel like ass. It hurts to breathe deeply; I try to belch, maybe relieve some pressure, but nothing happens. Man, this is going to be a long run. The road ascends gently as it follows the mouth of Kilifi creek, but there is nothing gentle about the way I run. I am breathing heavily, and I've already broken a sweat through my T-shirt. I don't feel like I'm anywhere near my usual 7 minute mile pace. I pass a couple of locals, and say Hujambo, which is "hi" in Swahili. They are always happy to reply. I know they are thinking, "What a fat muzungu (white person), how can he keep that pink, sweaty body in motion?" I keep going, hoping that my effort will ease as I crest the hill.

It doesn't happen. As I turn and begin to follow the ocean, I develop a slight stitch on the descent. Instinctively, I deepen and slow my breathing; within a few minutes it is gone. I still feel fatigued and slow. I pass Jay's house on the way, maybe I'll stop then. I've run pretty well this week, and maybe I need an easy day. I continue to pass the locals; I ignore them in my discomfort. A truck passes, spewing diesel fumes in my face. I'm getting the distinct feeling this isn't my day. But I keep going. Years of running, thousands of miles have taught me to be patient. Often, I can run through the bad patches, sort of warm up, and eventually relax, smooth out my stride, and end up with a comfortable run.

I'm not there, yet. I pass Jay's house. 17 minutes, which is my usual pace. That's encouraging. My stride subtly changes, and I stop feeling sorry for myself. I continue to think about cutting my run short, maybe run five miles today. I'll just run the hour tomorrow.

I start greeting people on the road again. Everyone is walking or riding bikes home from work. I pass a steady stream of people walking in both directions. They're used to me now, and don't usually stare. They did when I first started running in Kilifi.

I pass the turnaround for five miles. I'm committed now. I still don't feel great, but I will explore tonight, whether I like it or not. The stream of people thins, and I decide to take off my shirt. I think twice about going shirtless because, apparently, a lack of modesty is offensive to Kenyans. I chuckle as I contemplate removing my shirt because mothers in Kenya just whip out their breasts to feed their babies. That image confirms my decision to take it off. It's already soaked, and my bare skin is met by a cool ocean breeze. I feel better already.

The road ends at 40 minutes, and I run through sand to get to the ocean, passing a pick-up game of soccer. It is low tide, and I run through sea grass saturated with water. My shoes are soaked, but I am inspired now that I am on the beach. After a few minutes, the grass disappears to reveal a silent, pristine, white sandy beach. There are no people, no homes; just me, a pair of running shoes, and the waves lapping on the sand. As I look towards the land, I see the sun setting orange and red. Over the sea, a near full moon grows brighter. It is an incredible sight, and it lifts me out of my lethargy. I relax, my stride lengthens; I let out my best impression of a barbaric yawp. My feet barely touch the sand; I float across the stretch of beach, awash in the beauty of an Indian Ocean sunset.

Eventually, I have to climb over an outcropping of stone. On the other side is the beach I am familiar with. It's nice enough, and I stride through the last fifteen minutes without a care in the world. I meet a few people, ex-pats and tourists, to whom I say "Hi." I recognize the steps up to Jay's house, slow my pace, and stop the watch: 1:00:01. I got my hour with a moving, spectacular moment to complete my day.

And people wonder why I run.

Have fun.

Craig