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Published: November 25th 2010
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The Great Ethiopian Run
Stupid is as stupid does. Consequently, I don’t run. Alcohol, fear, tear gas, or a frisbee may compel me to do so, but as a rule, running is moronic. For anyone running marathons to cope with mid-life, I would humbly recommend brushing up on your history. Nota Bene: Pheidippides collapsed and died. Please refer to first sentence. Given my animosity to running, I was much alarmed to find myself willingly getting up at 7:45 on a Sunday morning for a 10k run.
The only consolation was the near certainty that there would be minimal running and the possibility of writing something snotty. Also, over 30,000 people and Mino the dog were expected for the Great Ethiopian Run (for Mino's Tale see: http://nicojah.com/minos-tales-great-ethiopian-run). That counts as a cultural happening, no matter how misguided the impetus, and the touron handbook of life clearly states that happenings are mandatory.
The Great Ethiopian Run is fairly straightforward: You pay. You get a t-shirt. You run. Presumably the winner receives accolades and cash, but that wasn’t really a concern of mine as I spent the race losing ground. This afforded ample time to reflect on the pipe dream emblazoned
across the backs of the gold and green t-shirts: "We can end poverty by 2015". For all you UN fans out there (Matt Burks), ending poverty is one of the Millennium Development Goals, which I am way too cynical to think of as anything other than Johnny Walker fueled technocrats’ wild flights of Sheraton ballroom fantasy. Even the old fashioned ‘Peace on Earth and Good Will to Man’ goal only has a shelf life of three days or so around the end of December. It seems the largess of member country dollars allows you to dream big.
With the smog cloud slowly dissipating over the city, we amassed at Meskal Square. Awaiting the starting gun, there was plenty of milling about, some hilarious stretching, and a lot of rousing chanting. I assume the physical preparation was more genuine at the front of the mob where people actually planned on winning this thing. But with the riff raff at the back, enthusiasm trumped ability, evidenced by the guy in a gorilla mask and the stilt walker in a sparkly purple cloak. At 9:00, somewhere on the distant edge of the mob, there was movement, and then a collective surge forward.
Initially, one had to run or be trampled as the overly zealous elbowed there way forward. Soon though, the wheat separated from the chaff, and the masses who had no intention of running could give up the pretense. The good thing about 30,000 people is the lack of fluidity. Water flows uniformly. People thankfully do not.
Consequently, for about 4 km we ran a little, walked a little, and then ran a little more. Luckily, the fervor and the accompanying push waned quickly. A kilometer into the race, a large group veered off on an unauthorized short cut. Chants of ‘cheater’ erupted from the crowd. Watching them wistfully, I recalled the old adage, ‘sticks and stones may break my bones, but cheaters always prosper’. The course meandered through the city, passing the train station, the national theater, the giant Lion of Judah, and my favorite gas station before Addis ran out of note worthy landmarks. It eventually wound its way towards the slaughter house, which I would think you might want to avoid, but in years previous, the course had passed the presidential palace and the national police headquarters. For the last nine years, 30,000 people had used this
opportunity to boo, yell, and express their discontent. Actually, the Ethiopians are too clever to just call the president and the police thieves and liars and be done with it. Instead, there is a tradition from the time of court jesters and wandering minstrels where a verse is constructed with two meanings, an innocuous one and a secondary incendiary interpretation. Needless to say, powers that be got the 'hidden' message and after too many years of permitting the exercise of free speech, they decided they didn’t need to facilitate that kind of civil discourse and changed the route.
Through most of the middlish part of the race, there was general consensus that walking was far superior to running, and instead of focusing on not getting trampled, attention could be diverted to the more festive parts of the Run: bands playing, residents of high rises tossing buckets of water off their balconies, and impromptu dance circles of clapping, chanting, and shoulder-shaking pigeon posturing that formed spontaneously from the mass before dissolving back into it. Smiling locals lined the streets watching the proceeding bemusedly, and a few of the more enterprising little dingy bars along the route had opened early to
sate the thirst of gold and green clad patrons. Skirting the slaughter house, the route detoured onto the highway, passed some grain elevators, and splendidly highlighted some rather non-attractive parts of town (which in defense of the organizers laying out the new course, non-attractive is a pretty good description of Addis) before following equally unattractive Meskal Flower to Bole Road.
From here, a short hill descended back to Meskal Square. The end in sight animated the crowd, inspiring the walker’s resumption of a half-assed trot. Finish strong for the glory of Ethiopia, I suppose. The army of pretenders shuffled the final kilometer toward the finish line whooping at the miraculous; some perhaps from some ludicrous sense of accomplishment, others likely out of relief, and some at having somehow successfully made it 10km though Addis without being hounded by the beggar-phone card-movie mister multitudes. Turning into the square, there was a valiant last gasp effort, chariots of fire stuff, and the crossing of the finish line. The clock read 2 hours and some change. (Admittedly, this was probably less dramatic than the actual photo finish where Azmeraw Bekele, who finished at 29 minutes 24 seconds, crossed 2 seconds ahead of
the second and third place finishers. Also, for all you running types scoffing at the slow time, remember Addis is at 8000 feet). Given the enormity of our accomplishment, you would expect some heavenly hosannas, or at least some ticker tape and champagne, to shower the hearts of champions, but we were only awarded thanks-for-trying red ribboned gold medals.
Though inclined to celebrate, 10k had unfortunately provoked a panicy need for a bathroom and my euphoria was tempered by the specter of The Thunder Clap. We hurriedly re-crossed Mescal Square, where the faithful were pouring out of St Sebastian Church. Unfortunately, my guts were uninterested in the colorful blending of the sacred (gauzy white) and the profane (gold and yellow). An hour later, having run the race, we retired to Maren’s front porch for mojitos and margaritas: a breakfast of champions and an activity that I have trained far more vigorously for in life.
p.s. happy birthday to ms. bachman and happy turkey day to all.
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Pat Votruba
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Happy Turkey Day!
Hilarious post. Happy Thanksgiving to you and Carly as I set off for my pre-feast marathon training run. Those of us with boring desk jobs need to work off our empty booze calories somehow.