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Thursday 20 November 2008

Diary

Rebecca Newman gives a rundown of her week

Rarely in my life have I enjoyed running. A tubby child and then a sickly teen, I spent games lessons hiding behind a piano with a book. Odd then, that this week I completed (half of) one of the toughest marathons in the world. Stranger still, I enjoyed it. The Lewa Marathon is a unique event, a challenge I was romantic and bloody-minded enough not to turn down. It snakes through the Lewa Wildlife Conservancy in north-east Kenya, presenting a testing combination of dry heat, steep inclines and shingle descents. To top it off, Lewa is at 6,000 ft above sea level. But I couldn’t resist the idea of running through the African savannah, with spotter planes circling to keep rhino and cheetah at bay.

Before the race Bruce Tulloh, the race director, is kind enough to take me on some training runs. It’s not every day you chase a 72-year-old former international athlete to a water hole, under a streaked pink African dawn. We pause to watch a giraffe drink, and I quiz him about what I need to carry on the day. Some teams have come equipped with elaborate supplies of dextrose, pedometers etc. Tulloh is phlegmatic. ‘Some people take a high-tech approach, but it’s really a question of lifting one foot, and putting it down in front of the other,’ he smiles. It is, perhaps, an unsurprising answer from a record-breaking runner who, in 1962, ran from Los Angeles to New York in 65 days — an average of 48 miles a day — keeping his energy up with straw- berry jam sandwiches.

We gather at the start at six, shivering in the cold morning. I can’t face the queue at the long-drop loos, so take my chances with the wildlife and pee in the bush. I’m reminded of the briefing Maasai runners receive before the London Marathon: ‘Urinating in public is not acceptable... The British may look miserable since they work in offices and have jobs they don’t enjoy...’ There is a 15-minute delay while the rangers verify all game has been cleared off the track. Then in a rush the gun goes, and 750 runners in branded Lycra, nylon tracksuits and frilly running skirts dash over the line. The course begins on a straight stretch, and we spread out in an ant-like column, multicoloured against the blond savannah grass. The early stages flash past. With views to Mount Kenya sweeping down to the right, and the changing terrain around us, there are plenty of distractions. By the halfway mark, however, I find it hard to breathe. My muscles burn. Spectators line the course, shouting encouragement and handing out cartons of Lucozade. Everyone eggs each other on. But the biggest spur is the knowledge that by running through this wilderness, we are helping to preserve it. I crash over the finish, a sweaty mixture of glee and exhaustion.

More articles from: Rebecca Newman | this section

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