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Though
his toes were surely cringing in disdain over their impending suffocation,
Robert Mutai — foot size nine — was euphoric as he relished
in the glory of his new-found possession: a pair of used Asics,
women's size six-and-a-half. Standing just outside my stone house
on the campus of Sigor High School, amid a throng of other students
all wishing that said shoe — or glass slipper, if you will
— would be theirs instead, the gratified freshman let out a
whoop of joy as he managed to squeeze a foot in. A perfect fit.
Never mind the fact that his feet would soon resemble Ugali —
an East African maize porridge and staple of the Kenyan diet —
were he to run in the sneakers at all. Robert Mutai had his sport
shoes. And, now, anything was possible.
Nearly
three months after our first practice, where my freshly minted Mizunos
had toed the line next to a fusion of dress shoes, flip-flops, and
Philemon's fabled All-Stars, Robert had just become the final beneficiary
of what had amounted to a highly successful shoe donation program.
Facilitated by the generous efforts of family and friends back home,
I managed, while in Kenya, to dispense about 50 pairs of sneakers,
both new and used, to Sigor students. On a bi-weekly basis, more
or less, I'd be called down to the local post office to receive
a new box of footwear, yielding each time to the crookedness of
the Kenyan establishment by paying a highly dubious "tax"
on all items. For the kids, however, it was surely worth it; yes,
even Robert, recipient of my mother's trainers, which she'd hoped
would fall in the hands of one of Sigor's 15 girls. Unfortunately,
none of Sigor's female students — all in their final year,
as the school was in the last stages of filtering them out to become
an all boys' institution — seemed to take an interest in sport.
This paved the way for Robert, infused with a newfound sense of
mettle, to strut around in his skin-tight kicks like he'd just found
his Cinderella.
While
the shipments of shoes ushered in countless smiles and boosts of
confidence, their primary upshot, of course, was that they enabled
many students to do what they were very hard pressed to before:
actually run. While I made the most of my chance, during my three
months in Sigor, to oversee the progression of a seasoned competitor
like Philemon, perhaps the most rewarding aspect of my Kenyan coaching
stint was in helping instill, among the school's remaining interested
students, a passion for the sport of running.
A
passion, with runs gradually picking up in distance after our 12-minute
sprint on day one, that quickly caught on. As the bundles of footwear
began rolling in from the 'States, Sigor XC accumulated a loyal
following. Meeting up each day at the school's front gate, we traversed
whatever terrain the afternoons threw at us, braving blinding dust
in times of drought and nearly impenetrable mud in the wake of heavy
rain. Depending on the day, and the lineup of students in attendance,
we'd cover anywhere from five to 10 miles, sometimes running pole
pole (literally, slowly by slowly) as a tight pack, and other times
letting in all hang out. Despite the brevity of my stay in Sigor,
I witnessed remarkable improvement, with many students I could handily
defeat in the beginning soon leaving me in their wake. While the
school had no competitions scheduled until the following term —
save an intramural race I organized myself, and won, of course,
by Philemon — by the time of my departure on the 19th of November,
I had left behind a core of highly dedicated harriers.
There
was John Korir (not to be confused with John Korir, regular of the
American road race circuit, or John Cheruiyot Korir, a Bomet district
local who suited up for 25 laps in Athens). Still in high school
at age 24, the reticent and soft-spoken Korir, a running neophyte,
was two years my senior and older than most of his countrymen that
competed in Athens. His age not fazing him one bit, he would quickly
become one of the most dedicated — and fit — members of
the team, even joining Philemon for regular interval sessions at
the downtrodden local primary school track.
There was Patrick Letina, a diffident and gangly freshman in dire
need of a trip to the orthodontist, who more than earned a pair
of trainers after he joined me — with no prior formal endurance
training — for an eight-mile run at sub-7:00 pace in nothing
short of combat boots. One of three students at Sigor belonging
to the Maasai tribe — the cattle-rearing, blanket wearing people
situated largely along the arid wastelands of the Kenya/Tanzania
border — Patrick appeared, physiologically just as well suited
to distance running as any of his Kalenjin counterparts. He, along
with other promising Maasai talents I'd come across, seemed to suggest
that were it not for the traditional Maasai rejection of modern
institutions, schooling and athletics included, the Kalenjin tribe
might actually have some in-country competition.
Moving
on, there was Elijah Yegon, a boy no more than five feet tall, who
improved more than anyone over my three month stint; and an unassuming
but immensely talented freshman named Kipkoech who quietly put himself
in position to be Sigor's number one runner, effective as of Philemon's
departure.
Finally,
in a twist of irony, there was Peter Kirui, the younger brother
of the 11th place finisher in the recent Olympic marathon, Alice
Chelangat. Though never having trained himself, I assumed that Peter
would possess at least a hint of natural running ability. During
a four-day visit to his home near the city of Nakuru, however, Peter,
approachable, articulate, and affluent compared to most of Sigor's
students, made it barely a mile in a pair of knee-length basketball
shorts before hitting a wall. By all accounts the most popular kid
in school, Kirui, who donned "shades" in class and, unlike
most of his peers, knew that 50 Cent was cool and Celene Dion wasn't,
seemed more content to support his beer fund than to finish the
run, by helping himself, as I continued on, to a small stack of
1,000 shilling notes (roughly $14 each) from my wallet.
Still,
despite this one prevarication, and despite the somewhat leisurely
and incipient nature of our program, my brief tenure as coach —
or, perhaps, more appropriately team liaison, at Sigor High was
a huge success. My harriers — with the possible exception of
Mr. Mutai — were comfortably shod as I prepared to depart,
with some even donning old Amherst Regional High School singlets
that my coach from my Massachusetts schoolboy days had donated to
the cause. Most importantly, the core members of the team, little
more than Kenyan cross country dilettantes on the first day of practice,
had become bona fide cross country runners.
With
my teaching and coaching duties complete near the end of November,
I said goodbye to Sigor; but by no means goodbye to running in Kenya.
Wishing to provide Philemon with as much exposure to the Kenyan
racing scene as possible, I scheduled a trip to the town of Nyahururu,
where a national meeting, I hoped, would give him a chance to show
off to the powers that be — Athletics Kenya style.
(Posted
November 17, 2005)
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