Educated Runner

RIADHA - AND WHY ELITE KENYAN RUNNERS ARE BAD AT OTHER ENDURANCE SPORTS

educatedrunner — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 20:04:00 GMT

Sport began as a religious cult – as a way of controlling and changing the world.

Living in the most-arid regions of Mexico, the Zunis played games which they thought would increase the probability of rain. To ensure a good whaling season, Makah Indians of the Pacific Northwest played the first known hockey contests, using whale bones as both “pucks” and “sticks.” Some of the original tribes of India arranged tug-of-war contests to expel demons and encourage the sun to shine (contestants at one end of the rope were “evil,” while those at the other end were “good,” and victory by one side was thought to indicate dire troubles ahead – or a year of prosperity).

The earliest Eskimos varied their competitions according to the season. In the early spring, Eskimo players used a kind of cup and ball to “catch the sun” and bring it northward; in the fall, they employed a “cat’s cradle” of seal intestine which was designed to ensnare the sun and prevent it from journeying too far toward the bottom of the earth. For the Eskimos, sport was a way of uniting earth and sky, a method of bringing people together for a common cause.

The ancient Greeks believed in the divine aspect of sport. The original Olympic Games were designed to honor gods; according to some historical accounts, the very earliest Olympics took place next to the temple of Zeus at Olympia – and were undertaken in the great-god’s honor.

Over time, however, sport began to symbolize the daily strivings of humanity. In his Epistle to the Corinthians (in the New Testament), Paul noted that athletic contests symbolized the “Christian fight.” He wrote about wrestling against the powers of darkness, fighting the important battles, and finishing the race. Describing his mission in life, Paul wrote “I do not run aimlessly, I do not box as one beating the air ……..”

Sport also developed utilitarian, political functions. The not-quite-so-ancient Greeks viewed sport as a way of curbing war, as a method of improving relationships between people who ordinarily would be in conflict. One story suggests that King Iphitus of Elis became so concerned about the slaughters taking place between the various city states of Hellas (in the ninth century B. C.) that he consulted with the oracle at Delphi to find a solution. The oracle allegedly told Iphitus that sport was the only way to stop war – and thus that the Olympics, which had fallen into disfavor, needed to be re-established. With the resulting revival came a “sacred truce” between previously warring states, along with guarantees of safe conduct to all contestants going to the Games. Eventually, the Olympics took place within a “holy month” during which war was prohibited and in fact the carrying of any weapon was proscribed.

Thus, the modern-English word “sport” does poor justice to the origins of competitive activity. “Sport” has evolved from the Latin word desporto, which means “to carry away” or “to make merry.” In human history, sport has rarely been simply a diversion, however. A better term would be the Swahili word for sport – riadha – which is very likely to be derived from another Swahili word, radhi, meaning “agreement” or “unification.”

Philip Boit is certainly aware that sport involves much more than merriment and entertainment. The Kenyan (who is the brother of Mike Boit, the 800-meter bronze medalist at the 1972 Olympics) participated in the 10-K, cross-country ski race at the 1998 Olympic Games in Nagano – and in doing so became the first African to ever compete in the Winter Olympics.

His entry in the 10-K ski competition at the Games sparked controversy. Boit had been an excellent runner in his home country (as a young athlete, he had dreamed of one day running in the Olympics), and some observers predicted that his lofty aerobic capacity and excellent endurance would automatically lead to outstanding long-distance skiing performances. Skeptics, however, noted that Boit’s skiing economy might be poor, and that in fact his skiing-specific strength would be modest, compared with the force outputs displayed by Scandinavian skiers who had been participating in the sport since childhood. One American newspaper went so far as to say (in reference to Philip and another Kenyan cross-country skier named Henry Bitok), “These are not athletes clearing hurdles to reach their Olympic dreams. These are marketing pawns financed by well-heeled publicity seekers.”

Such verbal and written contestations came to an end when Boit’s first Olympic race did not proceed according to plan. He finished in last place, in 92^nd position, with a clocking of about 48 minutes, about twice the amount of time required by the winner, Bjorn Daehlie of Norway, to traverse 10 kilometers of snowy paths. Philip’s troubles in this race stemmed mainly from the fact that he was not yet supremely coordinated and forceful during the actual movements required for cross-country skiing. He was an outstanding endurance athlete with a huge heart and muscles bursting with mitochondria and oxidative capacity, but he was rather mediocre at optimizing propulsive force and coordinating the specific motions required to skim a body over snow on thin, rail-like structures. He could wax Bjorn Daehlie in a 10-K road race, but Bjorn would always return the favor in any event taking place on waxed skis. Nike, which had financed Philip’s build-up to Nagano, dropped its sponsorship. Clearly, Boit was not able to “just do it.”

Boit’s initial difficulties with cross-country skiing, occurring in spite of his great aerobic prowess, sparked EducatedRunner’s interest in developing a “neural system” of endurance training for runners which revolves around very high-quality, race-pace-type running, along with a form of resistance training which has the aim of maximally strengthening and stabilizing each and every part of the gait cycle of running (as opposed to more-general and less-specific strengthening exertions which don’t focus closely on running’s true biomechanics). Over time, this system of training, inspired by Philip, has worked very well for both elite and mortal runners. It’s clear, though, that EducatedRunner missed the “big picture” associated with Philip’s sporting pursuits.

The most-important story was that after Bjorn won the 10K at Nagano, it would have been very easy for him – in this age of the “we’re-number-one” Olympics – to take his urine test and then quickly move into the press tent to bask in the limelight provided by Scandinavian journalists, honoring him for yet another gold medal. He could have crowed that Norway was the best, waved a flag, maybe even held up a single finger as a sign of superiority.

But Bjorn didn’t do that. In fact, he returned to the finish line he had crossed many minutes earlier.

To wait for the marketing pawn.

Said Philip later, “It gave me a lot of morale to see the world’s-best skier waiting for me …… It made me feel that I was actually considered.”

When Daehlie finally reached the press tent, he told reporters that he was extremely impressed to see Boit coming across the finish line. Daehlie and Boit became close friends, and Philip later named his first-born son Bjorn Boit.

Bjorn and Philip were not skiing aimlessly, they were not competing to be number one. They were bringing people together, uniting earth and sky. They were engaged in the ancient practice of Riadha.

This essay is taken, with permission, from Owen Anderson’s inspirational e-book, Aurora. To purchase a copy of Aurora, simply go to http://www.educatedrunner.com/Store.aspx and scroll to the bottom of the page.

The Americans Were Not Strong: By Owen Anderson

educatedrunner — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 17:45:00 GMT

Coming off the plane in Detroit, Meshack did not look like an elite runner. His David-Niven mustache suggested suavity rather than sinew, and his gentle gaze seemed to hold very little competitive fire. Shockingly, too, the lines on his face and the small hints of alopecia suggested that he was a vintage athlete, perhaps the kind of fellow who was nearing the 40 mark.

But he was my runner, the first Kenyan I had brought to the states for my budding business as an agent, and Meshack’s wizened appearance had not left me totally without hope. After all, another Kenyan athlete - Jackson Simatei - had called Meshack his equal, and Jackson was a 2:08 marathon man. Plus, Meshack had good credentials, or so it seemed. There were several wins in European races, plus a 61-minute half-marathon in Nairobi, although it was true that the latter had not been run on a certified course.

Yes, the non-certified competition worried me a bit, not to mention the fact that the results of the race had never been published anywhere. Another concern was Meshack’s occupation as a truck mechanic with the Kenyan army. When I thought about truck-repair personnel, I pictured guys in white T-shirts with bloated biceps, expansive girths, grease on their pants, and a right leg that was shorter than the left. I couldn’t quite picture myself, at an elite-level road race, saying to someone, “That’s my truck mechanic out there leading the pack.”

But I also found myself thinking, unexpectedly, about the Portuguese runner, Carlos Lopes, who had set a world record at the age of 37. As I hoisted Meshack’s bag into the trunk of my blue convertible, it was reassuring to think that Meshack did not need to establish any new world marks; all he had to do was win some carefully selected 10Ks, against moderate competition. If Carlos could be the best in the world at 37, surely Meshack could dominate Chicago and St. Louis, even if he really was 40. If all went well, he would return to Kenya triumphant, the news about my generosity and skill as an agent would spread throughout all of East Africa, and business would boom.

A good sign, too, was that Meshack exuded confidence, declaring himself ready for 5-K, 10-K, and even marathon racing, along with the toughest training I could design. As I edged the LeBaron onto the crowded freeway to Lansing, he said, “I want to work hard, man; the training in France was much too slow. My agent wanted me to run with her, and we were doing just five minutes per kilometer. That’s not training, man.” We took the first exit and pulled into a McDonald’s drive-through. Meshack began to open his door to get out, but I explained that Americans often ate in their cars. “We can’t go in, we’re late,” I said. “There’s a welcome party for you this afternoon at a running store owned by your sponsors. Then, we’re going to their house for dinner, and they’ll show you your room and help make you comfortable. I thought we would just stop for a soft drink and snack. Are you hungry?”

“Ah, a welcome party,” said Meshack. “Will they slaughter a goat?”

“No, they’re vegetarians. The party food will probably be lemonade and cake. It’s really a chance for local runners to meet you.” That was my first lie to Meshack: The reception was actually a way to promote the running store.

I also realized that I had just seriously offended my runner, the athlete on whom I had placed so many hopes. If I traveled all the way from Michigan to Kenya to visit an important running client, there would certainly be a goat waiting for me to eat at the end of the journey. Offering lemonade and cake to Meshack was akin to serving him spit and a lump of colored sugar.

The party, although well-attended, went badly. The runners in attendance shouted out “Jambo” to Meshack as they shook his hand, as though they were meeting him for the first time on the African veld. Smiling and friendly, Meshack replied with the stock phrase, “Ah, so you know Swahili,” but he left the impression to all that what he wanted most was to lie down and sleep. He took one sip of the lemonade in his cup, puckered, and poured the rest back into the punch bowl.

As we drove to the Johansson’s house, I briefed Meshack on the family with whom he would be spending the next five months. Knut was a friendly man who liked to laugh a lot, and his wife, Patti, was also gregarious, although in a guarded and somewhat nervous way. The two children, Sarah, 10, and Joseph, 7, were lively and pleasant, and the dog, Viking, growled at newcomers but did not appear to be overly vicious. “Ha-ha, no problem, man,” Meshack reassured me. “I am very comfortable around dogs.”

The Johanssons stood in a neat row in their living room, as though they had just been roused from sleep for a military operation. Their smiles were broad but anxious and forced, as though tight strings ran from the corners of their muzzles back to anchor points at the backs of their heads. There was handshaking all around, and then the second bad insult: There was no “Caribu chakula,” nor even a simple “Caribu” for Meshack from the assembled cohort.

In Kenya, entering another-person’s home is not something which is treated lightly. There is a formula for doing it properly, a recipe that involves the right words, tone, and body posture. You don’t knock, for one thing, but call out “Hodi, hodi” in a calm, submissive voice from just outside the house portal. When you enter, the host is supposed to say “Caribu” (welcome) or - if you are going to eat - “Caribu chakula” (welcome to have food). A Kenyan entertaining a visiting America would say, in English, “Welcome to my home,” or else “Welcome to my home for a meal” to make the visitor feel comfortable. The Johanssons’ “Hi Meshack - how was your trip?” - uttered with strained cheerfulness – was as welcoming to my Kenyan as a hard slap across his face.

But Meshack remained calm. He talked of his plane travel, about how he had placed a pillow against the window of the 747 and slept part of the way. When we ran out of things to say, Patti and the children gave him a tour of the house while Knut wrestled Meshack’s duffle bag up to his room.

We sat for dinner, and Meshack became expansive. Looking directly at Sarah and Joseph, he said, “In Kenya, we have a saying, ‘Kergei lagoi ak kayak.’ This means ‘Children are like cattle.’”

Noticing the embarrassment and confusion on the kids’ faces, Meshack continued, “No, it’s not a bad thing. We simply mean that cattle do very stupid things; they wander onto neighbors’ land and destroy property, for example. Likewise, children make many mistakes.”

Knut’s shoulders tightened a bit, and Patti stared down into her soup, as though if she looked up she might see a naked man. Meshack’s confidence was growing, though; he seemed glad to have our attention. Continuing with his bovine theme, he said, “Yes, we also like to say ‘Kerkei kiyaki ak kororibo met.’”

There was an awkward silence, as Meshack paused to see if we were still with him. After Patti’s spoon tolled three times on the edge of her bowl, I finally stuttered

“What does that one mean, Meshack?”

“This means that cattle are like hair.” Knut glanced toward the ceiling, as though grasping for the connection between hair, children, and cattle, and Patti shifted uneasily in her seat. It was up to Sarah to say, “Why are cattle like hair? That sounds like a riddle.” “No, no, it’s no riddle. What we mean is that our cattle can be swept away instantly - by a bad disease, for example, just like a person’s hair can be completely shaved off his head in no time at all.”

Sarah and Joseph pictured themselves being ravaged by an unstoppable pathological condition as Knut asked “What distances will you be racing this year, Meshack?”

“It doesn’t matter, man. 15K, 20K, half-marathon, marathon – I am strong for all of them. My training has been good; I’m ready to go.”

We seemed to be back on course. The children were dipping their spoons into their soup bowls again, and Patti appeared to be glad to focus on the upcoming roadracing season.

Knut, however, seemed to be unaware of Patti’s desire for safe verbal ground. “Meshack, how have things been going for you in Kenya? Tell us a little about your life there.”

“Terrible, man. You know, when I grew up I was one of 12 children. We were like rats living in a hole, scrambling over each other to get food and water. I vowed to myself that I would some day get my own land, have enough food to feed my children. And now, I do have a small property, but the drought has been terrible, man. I lost mostof my corn, and last week my dog killed a neighbor who had wandered onto my shamba.”

Patti’s spoon dropped into her bowl, rocketing out big splotches of yellow broth. It dawned on Knut, Patti, and me that we were sitting at the table with a felon. Sarah and Joseph eyed Viking uneasily.

Knut tried to recover: “You don’t really mean killed the neighbor, do you, Meshack?”

“Yes, yes, yes, man, this is what I am trying to tell you. I had to go before the tribal court.”

The word “tribal” did not serve to ease the tension at the table. As Patti excused herself, Joseph said, “Cool – do you have Indians over there in Kenya?”

“Yes, yes, we have many. They have come down from Bombay; they are merchants, mainly, who live in Mombasa and Malindi, but there are also many in Nairobi and even some in Eldoret.”

“What happened in the tribal court, then?” Knut was now trying hard to keep things on an acceptable course. The random contortions of his facial muscles suggested that he was hoping for – and indeed needed - a palatable ending to the tale.

“You know, the chief understood my position completely. In my part of Kenya, we have many wawezi – thieves. You have to have a dog on your farm for protection – and to kill the many rats which come to take your corn. But the family of the man was angry, and so the chief said that I would have to give them a cow.”

Knut laughed at the sudden surprise, the unexpected exchange of a cow for a life, then checked himself quickly. “No, really, Meshack – that’s all that happened?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes – you know that cattle are extremely valuable to us. It was very hard for me to lose this animal. But, as I said before, cattle are just like hair.”

We made it the rest of the way, had our vegetable casserole, even said yes to dessert, despite the tight grimace from Patti which suggested that a prolongation of the meal would not be desirable. The children seemed lost, perhaps contemplating what they would have to give up if Viking attacked the mail man one day, perhaps wondering, too, about the unusual man sitting at their table.

The phone call I expected to get from Knut came three days later. The Johanssons were tolerant folk in principle; they worked very hard on their acceptance of cultural diversity. But Meshack liked to lounge around the house in only his running shorts after training sessions, and one afternoon Patti had discovered Meshack in his postworkout state, sitting with Sarah on the couch, watching pro wrestling.

“Patti’s parents are paying us a surprise visit this weekend, and it looks as though they are going to be staying for a couple of months. We love Meshack, but we really need his bedroom for Patti’s folks. Can you think of anyone who would be willing to take him?”

I found a new home for Meshack with a retired university professor, who seemed fascinated by Meshack’s life and his running pursuits. I never found out whether Patti’s parents actually arrived, but the business owned by Knut and Patti prospered – to such an extent that they decided to open a larger running store that summer. Meshack ran fairly well for a few races and then won a major competition in Chicago on Labor Day against some top Americans.

After Meshack’s Chicago victory, we drove the convertible north along the eastern edge of Lake Michigan, crossed the Mackinac bridge, passed through the Hiawatha forest, and arrived, late in the afternoon, at our camping destination on the shores of Muskallonge Lake, just a few strides from Lake Superior. It was a brilliant September afternoon, with the kind of azure sky which can be found only in that time of the year. The air held a dry warmth which was both comforting and disconcerting, relaxing our movements but reminding us that there were precious few such days left before winter. We pitched our tent quickly and decided to hike along the shore of Superior toward the Pictured Rocks.

Despite the rigors of the morning’s 10-mile race, Meshack bounded nimbly over the rocks at the water’s edge. He was amazed by the colors of the shoreline stones; their various shades of gray and blue were streaked with copper-green and gold accents. The surf pounded the sand next to our feet relentlessly, sending up cold white showers of foam and water which dampened our faces.

After an hour or so of walking, we decided to turn back. “I’m getting hungry,” I said. “When we get to the tent, let’s build a fire and cook up some grub.” Meshack grinned and nodded his head in agreement. I had brought along some corn meal for ugali, as well as various ingredients for a hearty stew. We were looking forward to a Kenyan feast after our long day.

But on the return we quickly became engrossed in our conversation. Turning away from the water, which gleamed with sparkling sapphires in the slanting rays of the descending sun, I asked Meshack what lay ahead, what he wanted to accomplish as an athlete.

“Only God knows this; it is entirely in God’s hands now.”

This didn’t sound like the strategy of an Olympic medal-winner, but – against the backdrop of an immense indigo lake and a sun which was turning the western sky into a canvas of aureate magnificence, it was not the time to discuss optimal psychological strategies for athletic performance.

“You sound like this Russian fellow named Turgenev, who said that we are always guided and controlled by fate, and that there is nothing that we can do about it. When we are young, we don’t think about it, don’t believe in it, but as we grow older and more mature we see that fate is pulling us along without remorse.”

“Yes, yes, the Russian runners – they are very strong,” Meshack replied. “There is a rumor that they are taking drugs – is it true?”

“I’m not sure about the drugs,” I said. “Turgenev was a sportsman, but he wasn’t actually a runner.”

“This man that you mention, Turgenev, knew what he was talking about. When I was in Paris this summer for a race, I became very depressed one afternoon, worrying about my family back in Kenya. I couldn’t stay in my hotel room any longer – I had to get outside and walk along the famous river, the one that goes by the very old church. And there, sitting on a bench, right before my eyes, was Jackson Simatei, my old running partner from Kenya. I had no idea that he was in France, and if it had not been for my< despair I never would have encountered him. And he, Jackson, told me about you, about what a good manager and agent you would be. So I called you, and now I am here in this beautiful place and have won a race for my family today.”

“But the training you have been doing, all of the hard workouts, surely that is what is responsible for your victory this morning? It is not fate that has brought you success but rather your own actions.”

“No, no, this was all in God’s hands. It was my day, but only because the American runners were not very strong. I had nothing at all to do with their lack of strength.”

“You know,” Meshack continued, “these American runners are very funny people. They greet you before the race and act very friendly, saying they would like to come to Kenya to train. But then, in the race today, after five miles or so, this fellow John who finished second came up behind me and clipped me, stepping on my heel in hopes my shoe would come off. I knew at that moment that he could not win, and I thanked him for trying to hurt me. If he had been feeling very powerful, he would not have bothered to try something so stupid. If he comes to Kenya now, I can not welcome him into my home.”

We became absorbed in our conversation, so much so that I was only vaguely aware of the dimming light, the deep purple of the lake and sky that were encircling us. We came to a small brook, bubbling with pureness, darting here and there, coursing its way over the smooth stones and reddish sands into Superior itself. I realized that we had missed our turn-off, that we had somehow walked so far east that we were now standing at the mouth of the Two-Hearted River.

As we turned back, the night wrapped its inky curtain around us. The sun was completely gone, the western sky held only a small hint of light blue, and the majestic lake itself was now the color of slate. Meshack slipped and fell on an uneven rock, and I suddenly realized that we could not make it to our campground safely.

“Meshack, we are going to have to stay here for the night. We’ll be OK, the weather is not so bad, and I have some matches. We can build a fire.”

“Sawa-sawa.”

We stumbled about in the sand and rocks, gathering a variety of twigs, branches, and large hunks of driftwood. I layered our collection together with the biggest wood at the top, inserted my Great-Harvest bread card at the bottom, and lighted it. Before long, we had a roaring blaze which coated our faces with orange light, and we sat down on the sand under a spectacular canopy of stars.<br />
“It is just like Kenya here,” Meshack said. “I have spent many nights like this out in the bush, with the heavens opening up above me. It is good that we are spending the night here, better than covering ourself with a tent – where we could not see the glory of God’s hand in the night sky.”

I found myself admiring Meshack very much. He had come to this country by himself, had trained very intensely, won a major race, and was now perfectly happy to be sitting, unsheltered, by a fire at the edge of a lake, far from his home and family. He was a courageous man with an intense appreciation of his surroundings.

“Tell me, Meshack. It is not easy being an elite runner. The training is very hard, the races are extremely painful, the rewards are usually small. How are you able to do it?”

“I have told you before that when I was growing up in Kenya I had nothing. There was little to eat, my family did not have enough money to send me to school, and people told me that I would not amount to anything. When I was 14, I left my family’s little plot of land and went to Nairobi to seek work.”

“At first, I lived in a little cardboard shack in a shanty-town by Nairobi International Airport. Behind my shack was another shack, and behind that was another and then another – there were shacks as far as the eye could see. The police said that there were 200,000 of us living in this wretched slum, but there were many, many more, I am sure. At night, I would sleep by the fire, just like this one, in my little paper shed, fearful of the smallest noise outside. I was robbed several times, and the police would come through every couple of months and knock everything down. But I worked hard at small tasks and eventually got a job as a messenger in downtown Nairobi.”

“That’s when I met Simon. He wasn’t even the same tribe as me, but he said that I was a good worker, and he saw that I could move very quickly on my errands. One day, I had to carry a message 10 kilometers by running through the city, and it only took me 30 minutes.”

“Simon was the first person who ever took an interest in me. He said that I should join the Kenyan army, where the pay was secure and I could try out for a military running team, and that’s how I really started my career. Once again, you see how God’s hand has guided me. All of the problems you mention, the hard training, the pain of racing, the small payments - they are nothing to me, compared with what I have been through. I am ready for anything to happen now.”

“Meshack, will you still train after you retire from competitive running?” Meshack laughed aloud for the first time that day. “You know, we say in Kenya that the nungu, the porcupine, does not have to run fast because it has spines. Those sharp points protect it from nearly all predators, even the lion, so there is no need for it tomove quickly. I now have my own small spines, my money to buy more land, my wife and children to help me with the crops and animals. I will not have to run anymore.”

Suddenly, we heard a strange barking sound from the woods behind us, followed by the repeated “Who cooks … for you? Who cooks … for you?” call of a Barred Owl. We shivered involuntarily at the haunting sound, and Meshack said, “In Kenya it is considered a very bad omen to hear an owl calling in the middle of the night.”

“Don’t worry, Meshack, it is just the Barred Owl, a great bird, one of the few owls which can catch fish from lakes and streams. It is calling out to mark its territory – or perhaps simply to charm us with its strange lyric.”

We talked for several more hours at the edge of the sable sea, until drowsiness finally overcame us and we placed our heads on the fire-warmed sand for sleep.

When I opened my eyes again, the orange rim of the sun had appeared on the eastern edge of the lake, and the morning birds were calling from the dark-green woods. Meshack was still asleep, and I decided to let him continue with his slumbers. Walking along the beach, I shook the stiffness from my cold bones and felt the sun warming my neck and shoulders. Suddenly, I heard a rushing sound and noticed a slight pressure, as though an unseen spirit was disturbing the air at the water’s edge. I turned to see Meshack bounding along, moving from foot to foot with explosive strides. He stormed past me with an amazing surge of power – and was far down the beach within seconds. He had awoken shortly after I began walking and was now out for his usual early morning run.

After our camping trip, I sensed a sadness and lethargy in Meshack, perhaps driven by homesickness, which had not been there before, and his workouts and races began to go poorly. One day in early October he announced that he would have to return to Kenya. “I have exhausted myself with my training,” he said. “I’m sorry - I need to relax and recover for awhile.”

With sorrow, I must add that the poor fellow was killed, along with four other passengers, in a matatu accident on his way home, on the treacherous drive from Nairobi to Eldoret. A pity – Meshack was a very good man. I must report, too, that Meshack was carrying all of his winnings with him, but the Kenyan police report indicates that no money was found at the scene of the crash.