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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 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.

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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. .

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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.

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People you meet in Eldoret

I figured out why I haven't seen any runners lately. The County Cross Country races are this weekend. All the distance runners, which is to say most of the runners here, are prepping and tapering for the big race.

So I went for a walk and took pictures of Kenyans in Eldoret (and two from another trip) instead.

We bought potatoes from this roadside set-up - 10 kilos or more for 200 KSH

Fisherman in the lake. Soy, Uasin Gishu County.

Running is easier. Without a university degree, options are very limited.

Running late. In work clothes, this man is still faster than me.

Motorcycles take the right-of-way, usually by bullying.

Vehicles don't slow for much of anything. The kids know to get out of the way.

This is Collins. First, he asked me to take his picture. Then he asked me to take him to America. The picture I could do.

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Goof off day in Eldoret

This is a post made in pieces . . .

Came back from a slow morning run and sat on the concrete wall digging the clay out my shoes with a stick. This, apparently, is the height of entertainment as two little children went and got chairs to watch me. Like all small children, they have the attention span of a gnat, so they lost interest in that and started to poke and prod the pale skin on the dude's thigh. I drew the line at pulling the little hairs on my leg. Vey curious children, and very open. Cute as heck.

Went for a little bird watching the other evening - which is a new experience for me. The large ibis(?) I captured with my telephoto at full extension. Centering on a moving target like that is tough. Easier when it's sitting in a tree.

This morning, after a run, we headed to a pretty little waterfall. Justin was a little more adventurous than I was. What I can't figure out is the round cut at the base of the waterfall. A well? A baptismal? A health spa? Aliens?

Starting to pick up on things that I'm not seeing.

Frogs. Why no frogs in all the little ponds and creeks I've been around. It's not that they lack for food - there's plenty of mosquitos to support a zillion frogs.

I've yet to see a Kenyan smoking. Makes sense for the runners. Most Kenyans are not runners (it just seems that way when you check out the top finishers in races 800m-marathon.) Pleased to note it, surprised it took almost two weeks.

Tried to take a picture of Kenyan traffic when Justin and I drove home. The Red Sea of sedans, trucks, bicycles, motorcycles, saccos, and pedestrians parted. No picture but we got home in record time.

Had lunch at the Rosewood Restaurant while the car got washed. I had fish and chips, the first really western food I've had in several weeks, and a Tusker beer. Wonderful food and the tartar sauce was very tasty with cucumber and sweet red onion. Stealing that for home.

Tomorrow's plan is a rest day for me running since I've run 9 of the last 10 days, then some housekeeping stuff downtown, followed by an evening photo session out in Kaptagat. Hoping for the brilliantly clear blue skies from my arrival to make the pictures pop.

Thursday, it's back to the track at the University of Eldoret.

Lots of pictures on the way.

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Pictures From the Run in Kaptagat Forest

All pictures for this one, folks.

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Telling Details

Despite all the running-related stuff I’ve been posting, the purpose of my trip to Kenya was to get the kind of details that would make telling the story of Grace (introduced at the very end of Trail of Second Chances) realistic and relatable.

Justin and his wife, Winnie, have been absolutely wonderful in helping me with this. On Saturday, we went to Winnie’s parent’s home in Soy (So-yay.) Soy sits on the border of Uasin Gishu (WA-sin Gi-shu) County and Western County, out toward the Ugandan border.

The land here is flatter than the rest of the county or of Nandi County, and drier despite several decent sized lakes. The dirt roads are in better shape, due to less erosion during the winter seasons. The tarmac roads are pretty bad everywhere except Nandi Hills, a response to the tea industry and their need to get product to market.

Winnie’s parents were welcoming – it’s a word that is very apt for the whole country so far, with one exception – but I ran into a language barrier for the first time.

Kenya has two official languages, English and Swahili. English is used in all the schools, according to Justin. However, that is something that pertains more to the younger generations. Winnie started to apologize for her parents, and I laughed, telling her that they speak more English than I do Swahili, which is limited to about four words, Please, Thank you, Sorry, and Uh-oh.

One thing I don’t know is how Kenyans stay slender. Each journey to family homesteads takes on the elements of a progressive dinner. The trip to Soy was no different. Two stops, two full meals. The first also included two cups of mursik. I pretty much skipped dinner when we got home.

Winnie’s dad, with Justin playing the role of interpreter, told me that the area used to be covered in wattle trees, used locally to produce ink (from the tannins in the bark) and charcoal from the pulp. That changed in the late 1990s when the East African Tanning Extract Company Ltd divested, finding that the sector was not profitable enough for the stockholders tastes. Since then, homes have sprung up, including a new home under construction for Kenyan soccer star, McDonald Mariga. He is one of two international stars from Kenya.

A special treat for me was an invitation to see the kitchen at Winnie’s parent’s house. The kitchen is purely the woman’s domain and men are expected to stay out. Because Winnie understands the kind of book I’m hoping to write (and because I had volunteered to do a little cooking one night), she asked if I would like to see a traditional kitchen. Absolutely, I said and meant it.

This marked me as very different from most Kenyan men. They have no desire to visit the kitchen, preferring to savor the foods that come out of it.

The kitchen is set up in a separate building and the cooking areas are literally built into the walls of the structure. Not something that I would have imagined. Likewise, the lack of a chimney. Kenyan kitchens use cross-ventilation from windows and the small gaps at the top of the walls to handle smoke. These are the kind of telling details that, when I write the book, will make the story honest

The fires burn corn cobs, a plentiful material here while other places use charcoal. The flames are set below and pots set into the cavities molded to hold them. Storage is done at the other end of the room. All the ingredients are fresh since there is no refrigerator, and the water is drawn from wells and boiled before use.

Each of the women, including many of the younger girls, will play a role in the preparation and serving of the food. Preparation is by hand, with everything cut into bite-sized pieces except meats attached to bone. Boiled rice, potatoes, millet, and chapati (a fried flour dish somewhere between a pancake and a crepe, but without the sugar) are all very common, as are cooked vegetables. At most of the meals I’ve been present for, meat was served, but I suspected that’s in honor of me, not a part of normal Kenyan diets.

After we ate, the family gathered in chairs outside, enjoying the cooling breezes from under a few remaining wattle trees. Listening to the family speak, sometimes emphatically using hand gestures—Kenyans talk a lot with their hands— and sometimes jokingly, scenes for the book finally started to drop in. I’m not ready to write it yet, but I am getting close.

I came here in search of the story, worried I might not find it, but it is here, right in plain sight, as though it has been waiting for me.

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Sunday Long Run in Eldoret

First Long Run

Sunday marked my first long run since I got to Kenya. I typically like long runs that meander rather than the measured and business-like runs recommended in most training plans, i.e., 16 miles @ xx:xx pace.

I did that this morning, sliding out to run west along the river. It’s semi-familiar, with the low grasses and the basalt rock. The little things remind me that I’m not anywhere near to home. Pretty flowers that I’ve not seen before, or the call of a bird with a ‘whep, whep, whep’ sound or another that sounded like a gate squeaking back and forth. I saw a pair of Hadada Ibis who, from the way they complained, didn’t like strangers. Little things, as I said, except for the Ibis – they were way cool.

The run started with cloudy skies, something that Justin said is a bit unusual. I think I brought them with me. It cleared later though, with the characteristic blue of the African skies.

In addition to the railroad trestle bridge, which is a bit on the sketchy side, there’s a wooden bridge across the river to the east, and a downed eucalyptus tree to the west. I didn’t use any of them, content to stay on my side of the river. At points I was on cattle paths, dirt road, single track, railroad track, and bushwhacking. My kind of run, in other words, where the play factor is high.

An observation that I made to Justin when I got back – he did his own long run, headed in a different direction – was that Americans are obsessed with their watches at the expense of learning to listen to their bodies. Looking at a watch today would have depressed me. Since I left it at home (deliberately,) that wasn’t an option. For the trip, I’ve been using a Fitbit to keep track of exercise time and heartrate.

As expected, my heartrate spiked when I landed at Nairobi, bumping up about twelve beats per minute. (I don’t trust the Fitbit resting heartrate calculation, by the way – it usually higher than what the device actually shows first thing in the morning.) About a week ago, the rate stabilized and began to drop, the earliest indication that the adaptive response to altitude is kicking in.

For running, I’ve pretty much ignored mileage in favor of time. Kenya, as you might imagine, is somewhat deficient in mile markers. Or kilometer markers. Or markers in general. Today’s run was set for an hour and ten minutes. It’s shorter than it would be at home for a very good reason—as soon as I start to exercise, the heartrate climbs like a rocket. My average on today’s run was about 143, or about 87 percent of max heart rate, depending on what formula is used. For a long run, that’s pretty high. Runner’s World recommend 65-75 percent of max, for example. I can get to that just walking if some hills are involved.

So, the obvious-to-me way to handle this situation is to run by ‘feel’, varying speeds with terrain and my perceived effort. As the chart shows, I managed to do this really well for the first forty-five minutes. Things got a little irregular after that (though one of the gullies is the result of a pit stop – the Kenyan countryside does not have porta-potties.) The last third of the run still showed good consistency when the hills are accounted for.

I didn’t bother to check the Fitbit to see what the rates actually were, but just ran at a pace that seemed pretty comfortable. As long as I’m at altitude, I can expect elevated numbers. Obsessing would drive me nuts, the opposite of the goal here, so I run, enjoy it, and check on my progress afterwards.

Hope your long run this week goes as well – run gently, friends!

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The Tea Estates in Nandi Hills

Paul Duffau and Justin Lagat in Nandi Hills

Yesterday, Justin and I headed to Nandi Hills to tour the tea estates there. We also took a side trip to a historical museum for one of Kenya’s heroes from the colonial period, and visited an almost-uncle of Justin’s.

Since the drive was more lengthy than the others we’ve tackled so far, we bombed out before dawn. This proved to be interesting—Kenyans are not much for getting up that early, I supposed as a function of the tremendous consistency of the sun-up and sun-down this close to the equator. Runners, bundled in warm-ups and hats, out-numbered the rest of the pedestrians, and traffic was thankfully light.

Kenyan traffic is hard to imagine for a westerner. Start with the lack of lane markings, add in a high degree of competitive fire since most of the drivers are young men, and then picture intersections without a hint of traffic control signage—no stoplight, no stop signs, nada. The traffic jams are impressive. Still, they make it work, but I’m glad Justin is driving.

A brief look at Kaspabet

Sorry for the blur - picture was taken from a moving vehicle.

The drive out took us past Kaspabet, one of the three main training centers in the region, joining Eldoret and Iten. The quality of runner here is high, based on what I observed from the road going by. Also, for the first time, I saw women training. Unlike the men who will pack a small bag and leave home for a training camp, the options for the women are more limited. This is partially due to cultural influences and a desire to protect their daughters, a task easier done from close to home than many kilometers away. I’d guess the ratio of male to female runners to about four to one. For contrast, in the US, there are more women runners than men, though the ratios approach one-to-one at the highest levels.

Kaspabet is undergoing a major resurgence with building construction proceeding at breakneck pace. For what I could see, most of the construction is related to new residential buildings. If you’re thinking of coming to Kaspabet for training, give it a year. There should be plenty of new housing. (Be aware that Kenyan standards for room size and rest rooms may not meet a picky westerners expectations.)

The Tea Estates

First, the tea estates, rolling up and down Nandi Hills, may be one of the prettiest sights I’ve enjoyed in a while. The vividness of the colors, from the green of the plants, to the oranges atop the Nandi Flame trees, to the brick red of the roads, was stunning.

Tea is a relatively new agricultural product in Kenya, introduced in 1903. Since then, it’s grown to be the fourth largest producer of tea in the world. Nandi Hills, where we were, is one of the smaller regions.

While efforts have been made to mechanize the picking of tea, this remains a back-breaking manual labor position. It is, however, a step up from the starting job, which entrails trimming the plants with a machete and weeding. The workers are paid by the kilo, so the more good quality tea they pick, the more money they make.

Most of the estates have living quarters for their workers. The type and sufficiency vary depending on the individual company. Usually, there is a small store of everyday items in the worker village to reduce the necessary travel of the workers to the nearby villages. In all, it harkens back to the days of the old company towns run by mines and mills. I don’t know the situation well enough to know if the same problems that beset the company towns apply here.

The fields are picked on a rotational basis, a fact I learned at Justin’s almost uncle’s house. Josaphat Tuwei retired from police work to run a small private tea estate. Kenya, unlike India and Sri Lanka, encourages small tea producers to plant and harvest. Approximately 60 percent of the tea grown in the country comes from these private estates.

Since the weather in the higher elevations is suitable year-round for tea production, the plants are under constant attention, picking when ready, fertilizing and weeding when not, and trimming back every couple of year to remove the old think leaves that make for poor quality tea.

Time out for a late breakfast and the Barsirian Arap Manyei Museum

Breakfast was at the Tea Planters Inn, in Nandi Hills. Two Spanish omelets, coffee for me and tea for Justin. Like most of the Kenyan restaurant I’ve been in (so far), the have large areas set aside for groups with smaller tables scattered in. My take is that eating is very much a social activity of sharing for the Kenyans. The idea of a small private and intimate table probably runs counter to the culture except in the westernized urban areas.

The Spanish omelets come with a peppery zing and the coffee everywhere is Nescafe in little packets. As good as they are with tea, the Kenyans need a lesson or two on coffee drinking.

We went to the museum next. For those not aware, the British in the 1950’s were disinclined to give up any of their territories. This did not represent a recent change of heart but a continuation of long-standing policy. They would never have relinquished their hold on the US if the independence driven thirty percent of colonists had been such a terrible pain – and an expensive one when Britain could not afford either.

The mausoleum with a symbolic olive tree in front.

Koitalel Arap Samoei was a Nandi Orkoiyot who fought the British over the Uganda Railway. For eleven years, he and the Nandis were a major thorn in the side of the British. They responded by inviting him to a peace conference and then, in the spirit of fair play, British-style, murdering him and his entire party in cold blood. That was in 1905.

In 1922, his son Barsirian Arap Manyei was imprisoned in a home in 1922. He was not released until 1962, making him the longest serving political prisoner of the age. That house has since been converted to a museum, filled with artifacts from Nandi tribal days. Justin and I were guided through the building by a museum representative.

Next door is a mausoleum, honoring Koitalel Samoei. There is tremendous symbology built into the mausoleum, from the direction of the sarcophagus to the four pillars representing manhood. They are not done yet, planning installing a lion, the tribal animal for that family of Nandis.

Learning to pick tea with Josephat Tuwei

Our final stop was in Kipraragon Villege to visit Josephat Tuwei. He has a small private estate that covers several acres of hillside and he was kind enough to educate me on tea. The tea, once planted, takes three years to reach a maturity suitable for picking. Once they are ready, though, the work becomes non-stop as each section of the estate needs to be harvested every 10 to 14 days.

Josaphat Tuwei teaching me about tea growing.

Harvesting is not just a matter of picking whichever leaves come closest to hand. For Grade 1 tea, you need to select new shoots with two full leaves and the start of the third. Grade 2 tea has a third full leaf.

The pickers pick by hand, using a pinching motion between the fingernail of the thumb and hard calluses that get built up on the sides of the fingers to snip the stems. Good pickers use both hands, seemingly without even having to look at the leaves.

Mr. Tuwei, an energetic man who does not look near his sixty years, had me try my hand at it. Interesting work for the five minutes that I picked but not a job I want for life. He was very encouraging as I figured it out. Together, we enjoyed more than a few laughs, including when Justin, who was acting as the photographer, suggested I smile while picking. “I can’t,” I told him, to laughs from everyone, “I’m picking and working.”

After walking through his sections, we retired to lunch. As I said, the Kenyans treat meals as social occasions, so we spent a considerable amount of time chatting, mostly about America. What was different? Could they visit?

The subject of Henry Rono came up, from me, since we were this close to Nandi Hills. Indeed, we were in his home village and Mr. Tuwei knew where Henry’s old home was. The younger people looked a little perplexed, so the two of us shared a bit of history, of four World Records in 81 days, of the greatness of Rono. It’s good to see the memories still there, but sad to see them fading. In thirty years, Rono will join Zatopek in running lore, a legend that fades a bit over time.

When it was time to leave, we thought of seeing Rono’s home – but I like my heroes bigger than life and my imagination is better sometimes than reality, so I declined Mr. Tuwei’s offer to guide us and we got into the car.

Mr. Tuwei asked me, as we were getting ready to leave, to tell you one thing, though.

“Drink more Kenyan Tea!”

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Interval Training at Eldoret

Justin took me down to the track at the University of Eldoret to watch some of the runners training. Sammy Matei of Pace Sports Management was there coaching his athletes. So was World Champion Nicholas Bett, the 400m Hurdler. I didn't get many names, so I likely missed some luminaries. Incredibly to watch these men training.

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