Run the World: My 3,500-Mile Journey Through Running Cultures Around the Globe

213 Pages·2016·5.07 MB·English

by  Becky Wade

Photograph by Joel Rivera, Jr.
DEDICATION
For Mom, Dad, Matt, Rachel, and Luke: my world.
And for Jim Bevan: my pilot.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Introduction
1. Trading the Start Line for the Sideline
England
399 miles

2. Kitting Up and Forging Ahead
Greater England and Ireland
283 miles

3. Flying High in a Mountain Running Mecca
Switzerland
342 miles

4. Following the Lead of the Yaya Girls
Ethiopia
552 miles
5. Striking a Balance and Tackling the Track
Australia and New Zealand
1,058 miles
6. Pounding Pavement, Rethinking Recovery
Japan
297 miles
7. Speeding Swedes and Flying Finns
Sweden and Finland
573 miles
Conclusion
Acknowledgments
Pre-Race Playlist
Bibliography
About the Author
Advance Praise for Run the World
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
INTRODUCTION
“The Devil is in Derartu. Today very, very not strong.”
Stretching at the base of Mount Entoto, 8,500 feet above sea level, I caught
my breath after lagging behind Banchi and Meseret in that morning’s hill
workout. I had an excuse ready: I’d arrived in Ethiopia only days before and
would need several weeks to acclimate to the time zone and altitude. I longed to
prove to these women that I was also a serious runner, having competed at the
U.S. Olympic Trials and at the World Junior Track and Field Championship, but
neither my language nor my lungs would let me. I’d have to gasp my way
through the girls’ “easy” runs, watch helplessly as they pulled away from me in
workouts like this one, and grin with every shout of encouragement. “Aizosh,
Becky!” “Berta!”
Derartu, though, was struggling. The twenty-two-year-old, born and raised in
Sululta, a town ten kilometers outside Addis Ababa, could normally hold her
own against the other two. Pound for pound, my five-foot friend was one of the
stronger distance runners I’d encountered, with the quads of a soccer player and
the spring of an antelope. But you’d never know it if you saw her that morning.
As Banchi and Mesi bounded up the dirt road, Derartu lagged farther and farther
behind. Glistening with sweat, a grimace on her face, she looked more like the
local firewood carriers who piggybacked buffalo-size bundles up the mountain
than she did her fleet-footed training partners.
In broken English and the same nonchalant tone she used to describe doro
wat and shiro at dinner the night before, Banchi explained Derartu’s dilemma:
The Devil was inside her, sapping her strength.
I’ve never wished more than in that moment to understand a foreign tongue.
But given the English-to-Amharic language gap—not to mention cultural chasm
—I had to rely on a bare-bones explanation and my own limited experience to
make sense of what I had seen and heard.
I thought back to the blue Rice University track in Houston, Texas, where I’d
spent the past five years chasing faster times in the 10,000 meters, 5,000 meters,
and 3,000-meter steeplechase, and tried to imagine the same conversation.
“Sorry, Coach Bevan, but I can’t finish the last mile repeat [hard interval]
today.”
“What’s going on? Are you getting that weird sensation in your lower legs
again?” my coach of almost a decade, Jim Bevan, would ask, probably dreading
the details about my latest injury.
“No, it’s not that. I’m not hurt. It’s just that the Devil is inside me, and he
won’t let me finish the workout.”
There was a long list of excuses that my forgiving coach would accept from
his runners—a stomachache, a sleepless night, poor recovery from the last
workout, even a recent breakup—but inhabitation by the Devil had no place in it.
Worlds away in Ethiopia—the cradle of humanity, and of many of the
world’s best endurance athletes—Banchi’s explanation wouldn’t be given a
second thought. In fact, it was one of the more acceptable reasons that Derartu,
one of the most privileged runners in the area, would be too weak to complete a
hill session. Along with Banchi and Mesi, she had raced her way to a scholarship
that entitled her to four months of comfortable housing, balanced meals, English
and career-skills lessons, and her first structured running environment.
The Yaya Girls, named after the Yaya Village hotel and training camp where
I lived and volunteered for two months, were the envy of Sululta, living like
royalty compared to most of their family members and neighbors, whose homes
were typically shacks lacking electricity and running water. The girls were still
learning how to reconcile this new, temporary existence and its many resources
with the familiar, simpler one that awaited them at the end of the program. They
slept two to a twin bed for comfort when there were enough beds for all and
declined the pre-run breakfasts offered each morning. Clearly the lifestyle
preferred by first-world runners was not universally considered ideal.
Less apparent was if and how, by exposing Banchi, Mesi, and Derartu to new
elements such as a varied, meat-inclusive diet, a strength program, and fresh
shoes, the Yaya Girls Program was tinkering with their potential as runners.
Would such added comforts keep my friends healthier and more focused, or
make them softer athletes, more likely to fold during key decision points in a
race? Conversely, I wondered how adopting some rural Ethiopian practices—the
very ones which we were tweaking—might influence, even enhance, my own
running. Would a huge leap in the distance I walked daily interfere with my
training? Would treating every Sunday as a day of rest make me a more
consistent runner, or less fit? And how would a nutrition plan that emphasized
grains over fruits and vegetables, and little protein, affect my energy and ability