Running with Professionals

Oh my god. I should have said no when I saw the sparkling clean Ethiopian national running kit. And I should have twigged they were something special when I realised they had a professional cameraman and coach with them.

After messing around at home this morning, I decided to put on my new running shoes and go running in the mountain and forest behind the compound. The journey there was a story in itself. I had to drive through a huge sheep market, with people constantly shouting at me (in fairness, I properly shouldn’t have been on the “road” in the the first place). Kids regularly surrounded the car, laughing, pointing, shouting “hello”, “franji” and “give me money”. And I went so far off road that even putting the car into Toyota's 4-wheel drive plus, the wheels couldn’t find any grip. It was only after an agonizing minute of begging God that finally the car moved forward.

I finally found a place which looked like good running country. Ahead of me was a group of about 8 people. They all had beaming smiles, and even more beaming Ethiopian tracksuits. I got chatting to them, and explained that I wanted to go running (pointing at my smart running shoes to help highlight my point). After a bit of negotiation between them, two runners (Katama and Wako) decided to run with me while the coach (Shumey) watched my car.

I generally do not believe that I am unfit. But I didn’t make myself proud this morning. I’m not sure if it was the cold I’ve had since I’ve arrived, the numerous Friday night beers, or the fact that we were running above 3,000 meters. Or, quite simply, being professional runners, they were just a bloody lot better than me. But it was hard, hard work. The first 25 minutes was all up hill. I remember after two minutes saying that there was no way we could keep up this pace. But we did: Fu*king hell! I had to stop twice (Katama and Wako, smiling, sprinted - knees up - up and down the hill while they waited for me), I had a stitch stabbing my right ribs, and my lungs felt like a vice was squeezing them shut with every step. By the time I reached the top of the hill I sounded like a fatter, slower version of the Flying Scotsman steam train (puff, puff, pant, pant, pant). At the top, a quick look at the view (awesome) and then we sprinted down. Much easier.

When we got back to the car, I was told that my endurance needed work and that I am carrying too many kilos. Nothing quite like honest feedback. But then I was told that I should join them regularly - they run every morning (at 6am) and every evening (at 6pm) - when I asked Wako what his job was, he said he was an athlete. How awesome is that? It might mean tight lungs every Sunday morning, but at least I can improve and train with people who really know what they are doing - apparently in their club there are many Olympic runners. And plus, despite being torturers in tracksuits, they were decent lads. Good way to make some friends.