Every guy has a private moment. A time when they plunge into themselves and everything fades to grey. Some people have that moment in the car, sitting in traffic with that faraway look. Some have it in a bar, silent at a corner, staring down at their reflection in their drink. Some take trips. My pal, a biker, often gets on his dirt bike and with a knapsack on his back rides out to nowhere in particular, pitching tent in barren lands or booking himself into seedy motels for the night. He usually has dinner alone, then maybe catch a drink later and chat up some hungry looking and very tacky hookers. Some guys get on a bus for a weekend in Sotik where they book themselves in a hotel and spend a weekend in solitude, staring out the window to a distant nothingness. “Thinking things over” they call it. I don’t thrive alone; I wither and die when I’m alone. I seek the comfort of human company, the sound of a cough, the peals of laughter, anything to signify that I’m not alone and that the rapture didn’t come and I didn’t make the cut. I can’t stay in the house alone for two days; I will probably slit my wrist. Psychologists reading this have perhaps tagged me as “disturbed and dysfunctional man with issues regarding to self.” Which is another way of saying suicidal.
My private moment is when I run. There is a scene in Forrest Gump where Tom Hanks just runs; he runs through towns and over bridges, past farms, he runs past kids and runs past buses. He just runs. I love that scene because it speaks to me. To tell you my story about running I have to tell you the story about Santa. Not Claus, just Santa.
Five years ago, I was on my first job fresh from campus. I was living in a bedsit. I had a bed, a small coffee table, a television, a DVD player, a side unit which contained a few utensils – which I hardly ever used – and a gas stove. Bliss can’t start describing this bare existence. My landlady who lived in the main house was Sudanese, the most kindly lady you ever met. She worked in Juba. A single mother of three kids, all teenage, when she was around she would send food to my house at night. They owned two German shepherds and a little white poodle which one of her daughters carried everywhere. Her kids would constantly throw parties in the bar in their backyard garden. Those were loud nights.
Enter Santa. He was the guy who took care of the home when she was away. He is the guy who made sure there was order when she was a way. He made sure that the kids weren’t running wild or smoking pot in the house. I paid Santa my rent. When I had a problem with plumbing, Santa took care of it. Santa lived inside the main house and his room faced my little manor. He wasn’t the landlady’s gigolo or anything because his woman would come to visit constantly. Those were loud nights.
Now every morning Santa would wake up at the crack of dawn and lock up the German hounds. Then he would go jogging. When I would step out of my little hut to head to make hay, I would run into Santa at the parking lot; sweaty, jumping rope, stretching and doing push-ups. He jogged four times a week. He was fit, fast, stronger and obviously happy. I on the other hand was stuffing my face with fries, drinking cheap brandy, and adding weight. Santa’s woman loved to stare at my paunch, but only because Santa made fun of it. She found him funny, I didn’t, but I admired his discipline. One day I went and bought some cheap running shoes, truck suit and decided to join Santa at 5am for his jog. I’ve never looked back.
For five years I’ve set my alarm at 4.50am three or four times a week. The five minutes is always to lie in bed and ask myself, “why, oh God, why?” The ten minutes is to dress up, brush my teeth and step out of the house. Question is why brush your teeth… it’s not like you are going on a date. Well, I realized that brushing my teeth woke me up completely, it made me alive and I love the taste of mint. Over the few years I have worked around the frequency of the morning runs depending on many factors; my weight, health, the weather, moods, my schedule et al.
The hardest part of waking up at that ungodly hour is not even in waking up; it’s putting your feet on the floor. Normally once my feet embed on the floor; there is normally no looking back. Over time I’ve learnt how important running gear is, and the axiom in running is similar to life’s; cheap is gonna break your back. I realized that at the beginning I used to frequently suffer ankle and back injuries, then some fitness writer pal of mind identified the culprit; my running shoes, some Nike knock-offs. Shoes are key, bad shoes will break your back- literally- and they will kill your knees and ankles. A decent pair of running shoes goes for not less than Ksh. 7,000 a pop. But they last for a long time! At that time of the morning, you need warm clothes; hoodies, perforated t-shirts inside, a head gear and warm trucks. Oh, and bikers. I remember one time I couldn’t find my bikers and I said, the hell with it I’m an African, well, my African ass got so badly bruised for a week I was walking around like I had a VD.
I step into the cold at 5am. In July it’s particularly nippy at 5am. At 5am a sadistic breeze hits your face in a million little needles. Your breath crawls up your face in a haze of mist at 5am. At 5am the streets in my estate are bare, not a soul, and its deathly quiet. The street lights burn stoically and when I run past them they throw a long shadow against the fences. I run with music – and I play my music loud. I jog to the croaky sounds of David Cook, to the worldly and soothing voice of Chris Martin, I pant to Michell Branch and I lose breath to Gavin DeGraw. Fast music gives me a nudge, it excites me, it’s encourages me to move ahead even if it’s painful.
But when I’m in top flight nothing else really matters but the tarmac shifting under my feet, the galloping of my heart and the biting wind licking my nose. Apart from an idle dog that will bark furiously as I pass a gate, I’m always pretty much alone, just the way I want it. I meet cabs at that time, mostly headed to pick guys who are perhaps catching an early morning flight. On Sunday mornings I meet cabs dropping off drunken and dazed souls back from a night on the tiles. They stare through the cab window at me as if I’m an animal in a zoo. They look ghoulishly lost through those cab windows.
Everybody who is out running out there knows each other by face or by running apparel. It’s a relationship founded on silence. Nobody converses; we pass each other like ships in the dark. You try not to stare as you pass each other, you soldier on in pursuit of whatever it is that lives in that morning hour. There is a guy who wears blue shorts; short stocky and runs like he’s possessed. There is the lady with
a big rack and snow white sneakers. There is the couple that walks fast and converse in hushed tones. There are two big women who do more gossiping than walking.
Then there are the rich old men. Those are a study. After running for all these years I can tell the rich folk easily; they wear matching, and very expensive, apparel. Their faces are always lighter, not brown, just lighter, and they don’t sweat, they perspire…like aristocrats. And they always carry handkerchiefs to wipe their brows with, which I find odd because part of the experience is to feel sweat trickle down your cheeks. Anyway these are the guys who have worked their asses off for decades, acquired mad wealth only to be sat by their doctors and told that they have to manage their weight or the diabetes will kill them, if the blood pressure doesn’t get them first. So they jog with more purpose than the rest because to them is a matter of life and death. But they never last, you will see one and he will disappear for months only to surface again, with different apparel no doubt.
And so I meet these people, and we all nurture a silent relationship. But running brings with it a freedom, a privacy and a joy that is indescribable, and it’s addictive. When you run you feel removed from everything for that hour. And you think. You think of things you wouldn’t think about while you chowing, or when you are in bed. And the thought pattern at that time is clearer and colder. I have made some of the biggest decisions of my life while running; I have come up with some of my own memorable intro to stories when I’m running. When I have a writer’s block, I wear my running shoes and it clears my head off clutter.
Running builds confidence. Running builds a strong back. Running makes your heart stronger which makes you love better. Running strengthens your back. It makes your skin glow. It helps you breath deeper. Running keeps silly ailments like common flu at bay because it boosts your immunity. Running makes you happy. And everybody wants to be happy and it all starts with tying your shoelaces.