‘It’s like a bad dream where your legs won’t move’

I take off my tracksuit and hand it to my wife, who’s sitting in a small, rickety stand by the finish line. My children look concerned.

“Wish me luck,” I say, and trot off to warm up.

We’re at a local cross country race in Eldoret in Kenya’s Rift Valley. All morning barefoot children have been racing past us, collapsing over the line in a flurry of exhausted bodies. Now it’s my turn.

Behind the start area, hundreds of athletes are jogging around in a large circle, like a parade ring. I slip in and join them. The hot sun is already making me sweat. I feel like a cart horse that has somehow slipped through into the wrong enclosure. “I’m an impostor,” I want to shout. “Take me away.”

But nobody does. Someone, though, is talking about me. I can tell because I hear the word “mzungu” (white man). I look over.

“Where are you from?” the runner asks me. He’s friendly really. He asks how I’m hoping to run today. I tell him it’s my first race in Kenya and that my aim is not to come last. To beat at least one person. He looks at me and smiles as he pins his number to his vest.

“I’m sure you can beat two,” he says.

Soon we’re called over to the start. A huge mass of lithe muscle and tension stretches out sideways in a long line. I try to hide at the back, out of the way of the impending stampede, but one of the announcers walking along the line spots me. It’s not hard.

“Yes, my friend,” he says, as a hundred faces turn to look at me. “Where are you from?”

“England,” I say. He’s writing it down.

“And what is your name?”

“Finn,” I say – it’s just easier.

A few minutes later I hear the PA announcing that Finn from England is here today.

I don’t hear the starting pistol, but suddenly we’re off. My plan is to stick at the very back of the field, but it’s like I’ve been shot and I’m falling backwards through the air as they all charge off. I’m sprinting, trying to stay upright, but it’s no good. It’s like a bad dream where your legs won’t move.

At the first corner there’s a lot of congestion in front of me, so I manage to catch back up with the tail-end of the field. As we head past the rickety stand for the first time I’m nicely tucked in. There are almost 400 runners ahead of me, but I’m sure some people have gone off too fast and that I’ll soon start picking them off.

But it’s me who has gone off too fast, and soon I’m struggling to stay with anyone. I battle to keep up with an elderly man in front of me, but he’s too strong and I’m soon drifting on my own. I think there’s a runner behind me, but everyone else is disappearing into the sunset.

The course is six laps of a route that doubles back on itself constantly so that people watching can see nearly the whole race. Once we get to the only part of the course where there are no spectators, I find myself running past about 15 sheepish athletes. They’ve all dropped out already, after less than a kilometre. If I can just keep going, I’ll have beaten them at least.

The crowd that lines most of the route watches me pass in virtual silence. Have I shocked them into dumbness with my ineptitude? I get the odd patter of applause, for trying, I presume, and hear the odd muttering of “mzungu”, but otherwise it’s just faces watching. I try to focus on my running, but I’m not feeling great. My legs are heavy, sinking into the dirt that seems to get softer with each step. Near the end of the first lap I try to swallow and nearly get sick. This is going to be a long race.

I trundle on in a blur. The soft dirt, the watching faces, the fluttering of the tape marking the course. I keep hearing the word “mzungu”. People seem to be laughing. Someone somewhere says “Finn”. I raise my hand to thank whoever it was.

Halfway around the third lap the leaders hurtle by to lap me. One after another, after another, after another they fly by. It makes me feel even slower. I’m sure people are laughing now. There’s a fine line between humbling and humiliating, and I think I may have just crossed it.

As we pass the stand for the third time I see my wife and children watching. They look worried. I’m still only halfway around, but I’m finding it hard to will myself on. It’s too easy to stop. I’ve seen enough. I wave both hands as though something is wrong. It’s not me, it’s the engine. I jog to the side and sit down. I’m dropping out.

It feels blissful to just sit on the grass. I pull off my shoes and socks, releasing my feet. I watch as a slow runner struggles past among all the charging athletes. Then another, a man who must be in his 70s. So there were two runners behind me. But they’re still going. Suddenly I feel bad. My body feels fine now. I could have kept going. I briefly contemplate joining in again. But it’s too late. The two runners are gone, off on their weary way.

Bruised and battered, I hoist myself up and walk back to the stand.

Postscript

My feeling of failure is tempered slightly when I later find out that the three-time London marathon winner, Martin Lel, finished the race in 33rd position, and the reigning 1500m Olympic champion, Asbel Kiprop, like me, dropped out. That’s some serious competition. The race winner was 19-year-old Geoffrey Kipsang who ran the 12km course in 36m14s.

• The book Running with the Kenyans by Adharanand Finn will be published in 2012

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