Iten: land of a thousand runners

I've started writing a blog on my trip to Kenya for the Guardian. The first piece, written before I left, was put up on the website last week: guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2011/jan/04 and the second piece went up today: guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2011/jan/10

Things have been pretty tough over the last few days. We made it to Iten, but finding a house to rent has not been easy. The houses that are available are very basic, but still not cheap when it's a mizungo [white person] wanting to rent them. We think we've agreed to rent a half-built bungalow from a politician. It has all been negotiated through two other people, so it's hard to know exactly what is going on. But one thing is for sure, the politician is not interested in negotiating. He has my main contact running scared at the moment because we dared to say we only wanted the house for two months, instead of the four months we initially mooted.

All the uncertainty has been tough on the children, on top of the constant attention they get and the fairly basic campsite we've been staying in. They keep telling me that they like England better. To give ourselves a little break, until our house is ready - on Friday, we think - we've moved to a more expensive "resort" for a few nights. It has a swimming pool with a waterfall. The loo has a seat. And the beds have lovely, soft, fluffy pillows. It's complete luxury.

As for the running, I've been out for three runs since I left Lewa, two with Kenyans. The pace has been very slow each time, which is allowing me to get used to the altitude, and to test out my sore calf - which feels better. The "barefoot" running style now feels completely natural to me, though I have to admit I've seen plenty of Kenyans running heel first in big Nike running shoes.

The key question, though, before I bin my theory of barefoot running being part of the Kenyan secret, is how do the best Kenyan runners run? There was an incredible cross-country race in Iten at the weekend and I was watching the feet closely. It was only a district race, but the standard of competition was probably higher than the world cross-country championships - there were world championship medalists finishing way down the field. Interestingly, though, nearly all of the top 50 or so athletes in each race were definitely running "barefoot style", or, to put it another way, were not landing heel first when they ran.

I briefly contemplated entering the race, but felt it was too soon. In hindsight, I would have definitely come last, probably by quite a long way. There was one English guy in the race, and I've just discovered he's also writing a blog about training in Kenya. He didn't come last, but he was a long, long way from the front.

Starting and stopping: my first run in Kenya

In my imagination, my first run in Kenya was going to be across wide, open plains, the gazelle and wildebeest absently chewing on the tough, dry grass as I loped by. In the event, it was on a treadmill overlooking a poolside cocktail bar full of lounging diplomats.

After our epic journey out here, we were happy to be booked in as guests at the luxurious Muthaiga Country Club. The famous Nairobi members club, replete with manicured lawns, neatly pressed shirts and colonial swagger, was where Karen Blixen stayed when she first arrived in Nairobi in 1914.

I did attempt to locate some other runners in Nairobi, but there were none to be found. I was told some people ran somewhere on the other side of the city. It would take three hours to get there because of the Nairobi’s chaotic traffic. But there was a gym at the club, with running machines. At least I could start getting used to the altitude.

I put on my running shoes, set the treadmill at a nice slow pace (8-minute miles) and started to jog. As it turned out, it was lucky that I hadn’t journeyed across the city to run with a team of crack Kenyans, as I lasted barely a mile. I was just increasing the pace slightly, beeping the machine up to 7.6-minute miles, when I felt a sharp tightening in my calf. I stopped straight away. After a bit of stretching, I tried jogging again at a slower pace, but it was too sore. I causally backtracked out of the gym, smiling pathetically at the resident fitness instructor. It wasn’t a very impressive start.

Later that evening, someone told me it was probably the altitude. I hoped that was all it was. I really couldn’t afford to be injured already.

A few days later, out in the bush, on a ranch owned by some of my sister-in-law’s relatives, I set off on my second run. This was more like it, I thought, as the plains stretched out before me, a few isolated mountains dotted on the distant horizon.

I followed a dirt road for about a half a mile until I came to some sort of guardhouse at the gate to the ranch. Two men in uniform came out to watch me run by, calling to me in Swahili. I had no idea what they were saying, so I just called back: “Jambo.”

Then my calf went again. I stopped at the side of the road, feeling suddenly vulnerable. Up ahead a man with a cow was stopped, staring at me. Behind, the two guards were still standing there watching. I had no option but to start walking back.

Was it the barefoot running technique that was causing the problems? I really hope not. Yesterday I saw a Samburu tribesman running past – as you do – in full traditional costume. He wore sandals and was clearly landing forefoot first. He was the first Kenyan runner I’ve seen. If they do it, surely I can too?

Next week I’ll be in Iten, the epicentre of Kenyan running. Hopefully they’ll be a few decent physios around.

Struggling around the Drogo 10

Struggling up the last few steps. Photograph: Jiva Finn

About half a mile from the end of the Drogo 10 on Sunday I saw my brother and my daughter standing among the trees cheering me on - my brother grinning and taking a picture of me with his camera. I'd just climbed up one side of the beautiful Teign Valley, a half-mile accent so steep I had to walk most of it. I was running along a rare stretch of flat, looking out across Dartmoor, when the race stewards directed me right and up another short, sharp incline. My legs turned to sand. I could hardly move them, even to walk. My daughter, who is four, looked very concerned.

This was not my kind of race. Too many steep hills. Up one of them, a man in his mid-60s - I'd guess - edged passed me wearing a pair of Nike Free - Nike's barefoot-style trainers. I suddenly felt like I was wearing bricks, especially as my trail running shoes are too big for me and were caked in mud.

I ended up trundling across the finish line in 65th position. In a local race in Devon. What hope does that give me when, in just a few weeks, I turn up at the fastest village on earth?

Over the hill and far away

Last week I was pondering whether, after running four consecutive half marathons in 1 hr 30 mins, I had reached my running peak. I was now 36, struggling around training runs, and just didn't feel like I was getting anywhere. How did I honestly expect to train in Kenya with the greatest runners in the world? Who was I kidding? With all this in mind, yesterday morning I lined up in the Autumn sunshine at the start of the Dartmoor Vale half marathon.

Worried about my fitness, and mindful that I had set off too fast in all those four previous half marathons, I held back at the beginning, sitting behind two men going at what seemed like a nice pace. They kept chatting to each other and both seemed a lot more comfortable than I felt, but once we hit the first big hill, at about 3 miles, I went passed them.

Normally I hate hills. My legs start aching and a steady stream of people begin overtaking me. Old men with bandy legs, short, hardy women with hunched shoulders, even dog walkers who happen to be traversing the same stretch of road. But yesterday, for some reason, I felt fine. Nobody passed me. I didn't even feel the urge to look back and see where they were. The hill went on and on for miles, but I just kept plugging away.

At the top there was a drinks station. I grabbed a cup of water but nearly choked trying to drink it. It was a stupid place to be handing out water, I decided, chucking my cup towards one of the bins. It went straight in.

From that point on the course seemed to be a gradual downhill back to where we started. I used the slope to pick up the pace and was soon overtaking struggling runners. Even when we got back to sea level, I still felt strong. The mile markers, which usually seem to take forever to appear, especially at the end of a half marathon, where popping up quicker than I expected each time.

I sprinted across the line in 11th place and 1 hr 26 mins and 54 secs. A big PB. I wasn't quite past it yet, after all.

While I was out racing around the lanes of south Devon, Jophie, my sister-in-law, and her husband Alistair, were in Iten in Kenya, looking for a house for us. Although they didn't find one, they said the area was one of the most beautiful places they had ever been. I spoke to Jophie on the phone after my race:

"I've picked up the number of someone called brother Colm," she said. "I think he's a priest, but I'm told he might be able to find you somewhere to stay."

"Brother Colm? Oh my god."

"You know him?"

Brother Colm is a living legend, one of the men most responsible for Kenya's running success, as far as I can tell, and currently the coach of David Rudisha, the 800m world record holder and, after Usain Bolt, probably the biggest thing in athletics right now.

She offered to sell me his phone number for £20.

"Done," I said.

Lady on the train

I started reading Just Another Mzungu Passing Through on the train up to London today, a rather clunky account of a Welsh school teacher's two-year stay in Kenya. Anyway, it obviously wasn't holding my attention as I found myself waking up from a disorientating slumber just as the train pulled in to Paddington. The lady sitting next to me - she must have got on the train at Reading (ironically) - pointed at the book and said: "That's a swahili word [Mzungu]. That's my language." Turns out she was from Kenya. As she was standing up to get off the train, I discovered that her mother lives in Iten - the epicentre of Kenyan running. I was still just waking up. People were reaching for their bags, getting off the train. She gave me her email and said to contact her when I was out there. And then she was gone.

Rudisha's record run

My god, just watched David Rudisha's 800m world record run. He totally destroyed the rest of the field.

Rudisha is unusual among Kenyan runners in that he's a Masai - most of the runners are Kalenjin. He may also be one of the first second-generation runners, as his father ran at the 1968 Olympics. And while I'm reeling off the facts, he also went to the famous St Patrick's school in Iten. They plant a tree in the grounds for every world champion that has been to the school. It's now a small forest.