Chapter 14 – Running the marathon 2
Running to the venue
It was October 19. The Saturday for the travel had come and I was ready for it. I had already packed my bag the previous night and was planning to wake up as late as nine-thirty, which I did. After a quick shower and a cup of tea, I was surely ready to leave. It was just ten-thirty. The Kolumbus bus route planner app had advised that I should be at the UiS bus stage ready for the 11.30am bus no. 6 to Sandnes. I left P-10 at 11.25am, with just enough time for the 2-minute walk to the stage, 1-minute engagement at the ticket machine and a 2-minute wait for the bus. You really want to maximize the validity of a 1-hour ticket. You must just buy it at the brink of starting your journey.
I had my ticket ready, with a validity of upto until 12.27pm. Then I started waiting for the bus. It did not take me long to ‘discover’ that the bus would be late. The small 14-inch inch screen at the bus stage booth that shows four-rows of the next scheduled buses was already showing that the number 6 would arrive at 11.35am. Then later it changed this to 11.36am. Then later it displayed an 11.37am.
“At this rate this bus shall arrive tomorrow!,” I cursed out loud, as I paced around. I was already getting anxious!
It was not until 11.40am that it did arrive. I got in, said “Yes” to something that the driver said in Norsk that I did not understand, and proceeded to take a seat. I got to Sandnes just in time to switch over to the 12.15pm bus. My ticket was still valid for another 10 minutes, and that was allowable, provided I started the journey when the ticket was still valid. End of journey time, on the same bus, did not invalidate a ticket that was valid at the start of getting into the bus.
The bus dropped me at the steps of the ‘Departures’ door at the airport building at Sola International. I went straight to the KLM counter and showed them my cellphone which had the PDF confirmation that I had received from Air France prior, confirming that AF had booked me on KLM. She asked for my passport. I handed both the passport and resident permit. She scanned both on her system and handed all my items back, and then handed over a boarding pass.
“Gate twelve,” she stated.
I walked upstairs. It was about 1pm. I joined a queue to the security gates for scanning of luggage and people. The luggage, plus coats, shoes, belts, anything metallic was put on trays and let to go through a conveyor belt to the scanners. Passengers passed through a door-like scanner, with sentries keen to ensure that everyone passed ‘clean’ without a beep. Any beep would take you back to extract items from the pocket and so on until you would finally pass through cleanly.
The luggage also went through the x-ray scanner, with a sentry checking the screen on each luggage item before letting it go. It is after scanning that things got ‘interesting’. Two conveyor belts lead out of the luggage scanners. Your baggage should in most cases come off through the conveyor next to your waiting position, just next to where you are standing after you have been scanned. Normally, you should just pick the shoes, belt, bag etc. and leave. However, things do happen. You may get some of your items on this side of the convey for you to pick e.g. shoes, belt and then start waiting for your bag! Where is the bag? Oh, you realize that is has gone to the other conveyor belt, the one further away. When your bag goes ‘the other side’, then be ready for some serious inspection and Q&As. For whatever reason, my bag went the other side. That was strange! I only had running shoes in that bag!
And probably that was why it went the other side.
“Just take and go,” the Security person in charge of QAs and manual inspection said, after talking to the security person in charge of the scanning. It must have been a mistaken conveyor function. I was glad to leave that episode behind. They ‘refused’ to stamp my passport. They just let me go straight to the waiting area no. 12.
The flight was short and uneventful. We departed at 1415 and landed at Schiphol International at 1545. I just walked out of Schiphol since there was no stamping of the passport as I walked through Schengen exit lounge.
I was now heading to the exit of the airport. The plan was that I would get my host waiting. The host was not waiting. I would momentarily get a WhatsApp message…
“Coach, I am collecting the running kits. Expect me there in 20-minutes.”
I hanged around Schiphol. Walking aimless in front of the terminal exit. I was just one door to the external world. I did not want to go there yet, should I be stuck out there.
I would finally get a phone call with a “Where are you?”
I explained my position as “… somewhere out of the terminal… I can see something like burger king… and ABN AMRO… eh… near some exit.”
We exchanged information without knowing how to trace each other. Finally, I remained outside ABN until found.
“We have to get the 4.35pm train. I got you a train card. Just top it up and you are good to go”
I found myself facing a machine with instructions in Dutch. A blue button to be pressed looked like the best option. There was something that sounded like, ‘insert your card’, which I did, selected ‘50 Euro’ from the options on screen, and soon got another message to scan the train card. My 50 Euro card was ready to start me off.
I just followed suit, as per what Fay did. We exited Schiphol and headed underground after scanning our train cards. We got a large group of passengers underground. The double-decker train would momentarily get to the platform and we got in and headed upstairs. I heard a whistle sounding after about two minutes and then the train left. The electric would soon zoom off, not so fast but not slow either. I guessed that it was going at eighty kpm.
“How long shall it take?,” I asked Fay as we sat perched up there, next to a window.
“One hour”
“Then that must be about 80km away?”
“Around there, actually 90km”
So, we kept going, with nothing but an hour of ride to ride our way to Ede Wageningen. We got to our station and alighted. It was now just past five-thirty. Each of us swiped our cards as we left the train station. I was lucky enough to momentarily see the cost of this ride as Euro 14.90. From there we swiped into bus no. 88 to Wageningen University and alighted at one of the stops near the Uni.
We walked to the nearby shopping complex. We shopped at Jumbo supermarket, paying for our goods in Euros, for a change, then walked the 300meters or so to Fay’s residence. I noted that the prices in the supermarket were quite low compared to where I was from. However, the Norsk were not in the EU anyway, so maybe there was some preferential pricing in EU that was not having an effect in Norway?
I was soon settled at Fay’s in the apartment that she was sharing with another African student. Dinner would be quickly done with before we would momentarily say our goodnights. I headed to my assigned room upstairs. I took an early sleep for the first time in almost a year, since the next day was the day of the big run.
TCS Amsterdam 2019 marathon
I woke up on Sunday, October 20, very aware that it was a national holiday back home. I would usually be celebrating the holiday with a long holiday rest. Not today. I was having an early morning breakfast at six-forty-five, ready to leave at seven. Our duo would soon be joined at Bornsesteeg stage near Wageningen Uni by our third team member, Dori. Bus number 88 soon arrived. It was still dark despite being just past seven.
One swipe of our travel cards on that bus took us to Ede Wageningen, a 15-minute travel on bus. We walked the short distance to the next block being the train station, passed through the underground route and emerged on the other side of the train platform. We swiped a second time, ready to get a train to ‘somewhere near Amsterdam’. The train soon arrived and the three of us got in and travelled for over forty-five minutes. We got out at some point, swiped out, and walked downstairs to the next train platform to wait for a ‘Metro’, read ‘city train’. It was just past eight.
At our underground platform of Amstelstation we did take the first train that came by – of course after card swipe. This electric took off, with most people in it just standing. But it did not take long. I had hardly started to enjoy the ride when…
“Wait a minute? This does not seem like the right direction!,” Fay exclaimed.
“What da-ya mean?,” I asked.
“This Metro is going in the opposite direction. We have to get out!”
We were out at the very next station. Dori was like, “Fay, you mean you don’t know the right train?”
“Of course, I do. It is number 51, I just got it wrong. Was in a hurry,” she responded, and turning to me, “Make sure you do not write this on your blog.”
“I won’t,” I told her, “A long distance runner has so much in their mind to even remember such small details. I am now just thinking of the starting line. Just get us there in good time.”
“I will,” she said.
Zipping up
The no. 51 train was soon snaking onto the platform. We jumped in together the crowd at the platform before the doors closed behind us and it took off. I could feel it toss and tumble as it took us speedily towards Amstelveenseweg, the stage near the Amsterdam Olympic Stadium. It was full and continued being full as passengers forced themselves in at every station. It was a standing train and was now mostly a marathoners train. We had a light moment when at some train stop one passenger got in while his colleague was locked out of the door, with the train ready to go. The person in had to force the door open for the colleague to get in. It was a smileful moment. But the ride was short and we would soon be disembarking.
The exit swipe-out points were congested, as the big multitude of runners jostled to get out of the train station. It was just past nine. The stadium gates were to be closed at 9.15am. By that time all marathoners who intended to do the 42k should have crossed the gates that head into the stadium – or stay out. We did not come from KE to stay out of the stadium. Getting in was a must!
We did that last titration, at the portable washrooms just outside the stadium, before the start of marathon. It was a strange observation that the men had ‘an open’ urinal just there, next to the portables, just next to our queue of men and women. I could just see men assemble at this circular station that can stand four people, and just unzip! Just there – in full view, before adults, children, men, women and sundry.
“Surely! This ain’t right!,” I commented to Fay and Dori.
Dori just laughed it off, feeling shame-on-herself. Fay was not even hearing anything. She wanted to get over with all this and be at the stadium before gate closure. It was now 9.13am, and the people in the four cubicles did not seem to be in any hurry to do their thing. We just waited.
We dashed to the full stadium. It was full. Full at the stands, full on the pitch. We made it into the stadium just around 9.17am. The gate was not yet closed.
“I have to go, see you later,” I said my goodbye in readiness to join my running group.
“You dash to your Pink area. I shall join my Green. All the best,” Fay responded.
“Enjoy your run and see you at the finish,” I left to find my way through the crowds to my assembly area. Different runners had gathered at the different colour sections within the running tracks of the stadium.
The runner numbers had been printed with some colour-coded strips, just below the run number – white for invited athletes and those intending to run it upto 2h 40min, Yellow for those who can run under 3hrs, Pink for those intending to run between 3hr and 3hr 30min, Orange for those intending to run 3hr 30min to 4.00 and Green for those intending run in the 4.00 to 4.30 range. There was even a Blue for those over 4.30 but upto the maximum time limit of 6-hours.
Colour-coded
The ‘White’ and ‘Yellow’ were let to leave at 9.30am. And I later learnt that the official timing started at that time. After their exit, the Yellow and Pink groups assembled at the starting line, rather, assembled at half of the stadium track, waiting to be allowed out. At 9.35am, this combined group was let out of the stadium.
I assumed that the next Orange group was let out at 9.40am, but I would not get to know this because I was out when the 9.35am run started inside the Olympic Stadium. The stadium track heading out of the stadium was full of athletes. Running was almost impossible – overtaking was completely impossible! We just started off walking and slowly jogged out of the stadium. By the first kilometer the road width had even thinned out and runners had to stop and wait for the crowd of runners ahead to fit themselves onto the narrow road, before we resumed our walk. There was not much running that was possible for the first 15km – and that to me was the undoing of this run!
I had to keeping being on the lookout for an open space, usually at the edge of the road, and then sprint to overtake the runners and keep running to take advantage of such gap. This opportunity would manifest for some 100-meters or so, and then I would once again be blocked and forced to run at the blocking group’s slow pace for over five minutes. I would do another sprint whenever the opportunity presented itself, only to be completely blocked once again by the next crowd ahead. This style of running was really usurping my energy. The run was supposed to be evenly-paced and evenly-ran. This was not happening – and these short bursts of high energy consumptions was starting to waste me.
Things would however improve on the 15km mark when we started going around the long river. Fay had corrected me that such features were actually canals, and not rivers, though this long stretch was surely the Amstel river. I was not sure whether this was a river or a canal myself. It was too modest to be a river, but I did not what a canal was either. I kept referring to it as a river – what’s the difference anyway? It is a body of water, flowing, possibly. What happened to ‘if it behaves like this, it is this’? Ah, who cares?
The giants
We did the 14k to 20k on one side of this river, then we crossed the river on a footbridge to face the 20k to 26k stretch on the opposite side. It is on this stretch of 20-26k that I saw the first traditional Dutch windmill just affixed onto a house besides the running track – static. Majestic! Gigantic!!. That thing was massive. From my estimation, each of the four fins had a radius of about 20m! Affixed to a middle hub. That would make a total tip to tip diameter of about 50m – a half the length of a stadium field! Wow! Amazing!! If only I could take a picture? But not when on motion aiming for a good run, in good time.
On this river we also saw a guy, and later a lady flying high over the water – they call it, eh… water jet or flyboard aruba or something – I am not sure, but it ain’t a marathon, or maybe it was an upwards marathon?. I also saw marathoners starting to lose their senses, so I guessed, since I just noted them stopping to pee next to the road, without a care in the world of the multitude of runners moving along next to them. Some runner seemed even ‘too tired’ and just stopped and let go at the edge of the tarmac. I shook my head with amazement as I kept going.
This would not be the last time that I would see of such episodes. Coincidentally, I only saw men do this. Again, who cares? Do what you want to do on a long run. Just do not infringe on the rights of other runners. This behavior was however about to cross the line, bearing in mind that each water station in 5km intervals had ‘proper’ washrooms. But before you judge, just remember that the real marathon starts after half-marathon distance – and when it does, insanity slowly starts sneaking into each runner. These sporadic episodes were surely observable after we had crossed the river, past the 21k mark.
We know you
I was still amused by what I was seeing when I was interrupted by the cheering crowd,
“Barack!, Go! Go! Go!”
I was taken aback. I was not expecting this. I just waved back as I wondered how someone would know me over here. I was 10k km from folks who knew me! This name calling would be repeated about five or six times over the course of the run.
“But how did they know me?,” I kept asking myself even as I waved back.
At least the person who shouted, “Kipchoge” at me knew me ‘somehow’, but the others? Knowing me ‘exactly’?
That part of the run, the river circuit, was as smooth as expected, especially after the runners had thinned out. We had already been given our dose of energy drink, water and chocolate cubes at 5k, 10k, 15k, 20k, 25k. As advertised. Without failure. At 26k I took a washroom break! I could not survive the rest of the journey without a break. From there it was more chocolates and bananas and gel at 30k and 35k, in fact from 15k we did have all these niceties.
I have already known since time immemorial that the 42k starts at 21k, but let me add that the same 42k is also lost at 36k. That means that your 42k run success is determined in that 15k range between 21k and 36k. Beat that section and you have beat the marathon. I was very careful with this range. I was especially cognizant of the 36k. I preserved the chocolate that I had picked at the 35k water station and bit a small piece thereafter, keeping it in the mouth to melt away, seeping up the sugars as I went along.
In less than 5-minutes, the 36k came and went. It was a bit smooth. But not for few others. I started seeing people just drop off the run, sit on the side of the road or just stop and stand or stop and start walking or even stop and stoop. That distance was a very bad part of the course to lose your steam, with the end now near in sight. Unfortunately, then is where the body fails you and want you to abandon the run, end in sight or not. I could feel for them. Walking the last six was not an experience that you would even wish for the enemy of your enemy. The body is by then just hit with many things at once – tiredness, muscle aches, lightheadedness, loss of focus and the shoes start pinching with every step. Add to that the torture of having to walk for say one hour if you take the walking route?
I was not out of the woods yet myself. At least I had managed to stay on my feed and was still running. I now had to survive the last six. Just six more and this would be over. The trick now was just to keep going until you see the finish line. Do not check on time. Do not check on distance. Do not be distracted by other runners or the cheering crowds – just keep going, focusing on the finishing line.
Allez
The 40k would emerge at some point. By then I was just thinking about the finish line. I was not even seeing the many cheering crowds. There was even a sign along the road with “Go Go Go Allez Allez”. There were at least two live bands on the route. There were live DJs in at least ten places along the route. The count of the various music points, DJs or otherwise were over thirty in the 42km course.
I liked the DJs and their kits – their machines would usually be their full mixing decks affixed on top of some vehicle, with the DJ protruding through the roof of the same vehicle. I remember seeing a VW beetle, VW combi, Martin Mini, some sedan that looked like a Datsun – just funny vintage cars parked along the road used to DJ. There was even a DJ in a boat on that river circuit, or was that a pianist? He was just there – standing next to something that was either a mixer or a keyboard – loud classical music coming from his traveling boat.
There were also some small portable ‘music boxes’ for lack of a better word, hauled on 2-wheels, parked besides the road. These ‘things’ were playing some form of traditional accordion-like music. They called it ‘draaiorgel’ (barrel organ) playing ‘levenslied’ – life music.
I also learnt that as a runner you can waste so much energy checking on your timer for those splits when doing these long runs. There is little chance of changing your achievement by simply relying on your gadgets. Just learn to run your run, and let the gadgets confirm what you eventually did, when the run ends – my view though – as I headed for the finish, a phone on either side of the pockets of my shorts and the wristwatch on my left wrist – all the three unchecked, unattended, ever since I started the run.
Interview
I was glad to (finally) see the finish line inside the Olympic stadium. Two hundred metres was the only obstacle that lay ahead. This run was surely done! Nothing, repeat, nothing, was now standing on my way to conquer this marathon. I was happy!! It was a good marathon. A marathon like any other. Just a marathon with a difference – it has some difficulty that I do now know from where, since the course was fairly flat.
So, while a Kenyan took the men’s crown in 2.05.09 and our Ethiopian neighbours took the women’s gold in 2.19.26, I did bring my runner number 3518 to an end in 3.22.59 as per the analog wrist gadget that had refused, yet again to sync with the foot gadget. Runkeeper gave me a 42.78km - 3.23.26, while Endomondo gave me a 43.25km - 3.23.13.
The TCS Amsterdam international marathon 2019 had been conquered!
We finished off as a photographer pulled me aside to get a few pics for the TCS album.
“Barack, right?”
“Right!,” I was facing another how-did-he-know moment when I saw him staring at my runner number. The name was conspicuously written just above the number 3518.
“Kumbe!,” I sighed, even as the official photographer clicked away.
The Tata Consultancy Services, TCS Amsterdam marathon gave me a final official chip time of 3.22.23, and position 2289 (combined men and women) based on a ‘gun time’ of 3.27.29! Surely! The gun went off 5-minutes before we even started!!. You cannot allocate positions ‘by the gun’!
Thereafter it was a queue for medals within the stadium, followed by being provided with polythene sheets to keep us warm – this was a first one. Out of the stadium we did get that final Isostar 500ml energy drink and a banana, before we limped off back to the stadium to watch other runners finish their races. We all, at our terraces, celebrated and cheered each one of these athletes for their achievement. Fay would soon be doing her own lap of honour as she shattered her new 42k record. We were a happy duo celebrating our representation of team KE, team NMNM2, team IK, team KE-in-NL, team KE-in-NO, team ‘Wageni’, team ‘Wageningen’, team 'Wageniwengi', team 'Wangige'!
It was while traveling back to Wageningen on the ‘NS Intercity’ train for the 1-hour travel that I saw a ticket inspector for the first time come by our sitting place on the upper deck to check on our tickets. She demanded to see the cards, upon which she would scan each on a small portable machine. I learnt that this would show whether the ticket was initially swiped, and whether it had money to sustain the journey.
I had already used this train twice before and there had been no such ticket inspections on these previous two trips. The first one on Saturday evening, upon my arrival in Netherlands. This was the noisy travel with Fay, when we sat on the upper deck and chatted away for one hour. The second time was earlier on this morning, where we still sat at the upper level of the decker. However, this train ride was strangely quiet as we travelled to the stadium. We hardly said a word before some lady came to our sitting position of four to give us the “Shhh!,” quiet sign. I gestured to Fay and Dori in a manner of, “What is going on here?”. Fay would tell me in hardly audible whispers that this was a ‘silent’ coach.
However, this was the evening train and we had achieved something earlier on. We were all chatty in this evening train. It was after the marathon. We had our medals on as we travelled in the intercity towards Ede. We were glad to be back to a normal ‘you can talk’ coach, perched on top of the decker.
“What would happen if I did not have a ticket during this inspection?,” I asked the two.
“I don’t know. Maybe they fine you!?,” Dori stated.
“They would fine you something like sixty-five Euro!?,” Fay responded, forgetting to add that this would be over and above the usual fare that you would have to pay first. The normal fare was about 15 Euro per train ride for a 1-hour ride, such as this particular ride that we were having.
Running alone with confidence
“Three phenomenon at once!”
That was my sigh as I opened up the curtains and looked out the windows at ten on this Saturday, October 26. It was shining. I could see the brightness of the sun hit the white student hostels just across the road from my sitting position. And secondly, it was raining. The droplets were slowly staining my window pane and kind of blocking my view of the outside. And finally the third occurrence… the large rainbow was prominently colouring the sky, in the background just behind the student hostel blocks.
The view was spectacular from my sitting position. It was only spectacular because my room heater was on, at about 32 degrees, the windows were tightly closed and the cold out there was only in my imagination. The winter was on its way. Eight weeks ago, the trees and shrubs were green. Hardly two months later, the few remaining leaves of the trees and shrubs were now coloured yellowish-orange. The once dense leaves had mostly fallen off to the ground, littering the underground with layers of dead leaves. These were becoming an eyesore on the tarmacked parking spaces. It made them leafy-dirty.
The branches of trees and shrubs were now becoming more visible – actually the plants were becoming skeletons of the plants that they once were. At this rate, it would not be more than a month before there was no leaf left on anything. Even my favourite forest area, where I did my runs, visible on the background from my sitting position, just beyond those student hostels, was starting to turn yellowing from its usual dark green. Whether the forest shall also shed off to a skeleton remained to be seen.
I was already taken aback….
I had intended to sleep early after the marathon on that Sunday, October 20. I did not, since it would turn out not to be possible. My host was having an African party in NL. Apart from Dori whom I already knew from that trip to the marathon and was from Rwanda, and James from Kenya who co-shared the apartment with Fay, I had the opportunity to meet another three guests. Two gents from Kenya, whom I learnt were both graduate students, and one lady, Loraine, from Namibia. We just sat at the dinner table, dinner going on, and talked about dis-and-dat for over two hours. The house cleared around eleven. I slept past midnight.
The house was empty when I woke up on Monday morning, past ten. Fay and James had already left for school. I was scheduled to visit a friend at Amersfoot, two trains away. However, my day become uncertain when the person that I was to visit cancelled at the last minute due to unavailability. I just stayed indoors until evening, when I was taken around a tour of the University of Wageningen, a life science university. To be politically correct, sorry, academically correct, the place is called Wageningen University and Research (WUR). However, there is political correctness to this name, since I learnt that the institute was formed by a merger of a university and a government research institute.
At 100-year of existence as at 2018, the institution was surely well established. At the ‘walk of fame’, a paved walkway of about fifty-metres, I saw at least three Nobel laureates associated with that university. At a different section of the campus, a work of art, the giant ‘bumble bee’, flies without moving, on top of the water, just next to a pedestrian walkway bridge. In the water, under the bee, one can clearly read the illuminated sign – “Must leave”
“It is getting dark, I must leave,” I tell Fay.
It is already dark, though it is hardly seven in the evening.
“It is cold, can you feel it?”
“This is nothing,” I respond, “I can shed my jacket and survive. Norway is twice this cold.”
It was a marvel to see the number of bicycles that were in use at Wageningen. It was like everybody had a bike and was using one. I even got a glimpse of two bicycle parking lots – one was open air, which to me was supposed to be a typical motor vehicle parking yard, converted to a bike yard. A second one was covered, with bikes neatly parked. I estimated about ten rows of bikes, each row holding probably one hundred bikes. There were probably more bikes than people at Wageni! I also saw many more bikes parked next to various uni buildings. “This is just crazy,” I told my observing self.
I was to sleep early on this Monday, in readiness for my early morning travel back to Amsterdam then back home. However, I found myself just typing on the keyboard, writing my stories until I realized that it was way past midnight. I surely had to sleep, or otherwise would risk oversleeping on one of my many changeovers planned for the next day as I travelled.
It was Tuesday morning already before I knew it. I left the apartment when it was still dark. I was not very sure of the route to take, even from the apartment to the stage. I was still getting familiar with the geography, having just stayed for two days. Fay showed me to the walkway outside the house. James had said his goodnight and goodbye the previous evening. I was now on my own. The timing from now henceforth had to work like clockwork. Any missed travel or connection would spell my doom. I was only wary of missing the location of my first bus stage. If I got to this bus stage, then I was surely making it to Schiphol. I walked from the apartment with apprehension. It was still dark, but the streets were well lit, though quite quiet. It was cold, but comparatively, not as cold as the North, where I was traveling back to.
Led by pure instinct and self-belief, I made my way through the residential estate and found myself at the bus stage. It was now 6.25am. I was waiting for the 6.30am bus no. 88. I found one other person waiting at the stage. Another person, suitcase in tow, would soon join us. The three of us waited for the bus at Bushalte Bornsesteeg and were swiping into the bus at exactly 6.30am.
“I am making it home,” I sighed as I took a seat in the well-lit bus, that had a driver only, no assistant, no conductor.
Getting this bus at this time was the only hurdle, which I had now overcome. There was no more hinderances. The rest was going to be smooth.
I was settling down to the boring ride, when I remembered that there was ‘internet in de bus’. I quickly searched the Wi-Fi on my phone, got the one ‘in de bus’ and was soon catching up on my route planner. I alighted at Ede Wageningen at 6.48am and swiped out of the bus, then crossed over to the train station in the next block. I recall seeing a fare charge of about Euro 2.44 on the small screen of the swiping machine just as I alighted from that bus.
“Three-hundred shillings? For a 8k distance!,” I Kenyan-thought about it even as I headed to the train platform.
I swiped into the train platform and was ready for the train at Platform 3. The display monitors updated us that the train was expected at 6.56am. The train actually arrived at 7.00am.
I remembered that final warning from Fay, “Do not get to first class... Unless you want to pay double.”
I looked around for a coach labelled ‘2’ and got in, then perched myself on the upper deck. It was still dark outside despite being seven already. The upper deck was virtually empty. I found only one other person on the deck that could sit twenty of so. I sat next to a window and started peering out in the dark. I could occasionally see streetlights and vehicle headlights somewhere in the background as the silent train sped along towards Schiphol.
It did not take long to remember that I was entitled to ‘internet in de train’. I once again searched my phone for the train Wi-Fi, clicked on a button that I assumed meant ‘OK’ or ‘Continue’, and there I was online... Journey planning, WhatsApping, checking mail and catching up with the going-ons in the world. But that online presence would not last long, since I would soon hear the first English announcement in the whole of the hour trip. Before that particular announcement, I had heard some station names being mentioned in the midst of Dutch announcements, whenever the train approached the four intermediate stations – Driebergen-Zeist, Utrecht Centraal, Amsterdam Bijlmer ArenA and Amsterdam Zuid. I especially remember ArenA as the place with that big Ajax Amsterdam stadium, clearly visible from the train. Now finally, the English announcement was loud and clear, “We are now getting to the last stop at Schiphol airport. All are asked to alight”
I double checked my two phones as I got off the train. I recalled that after the Sunday marathon, while on the train back from Amsterdam to Ede-Wageningen, I did lose my phone. At some point, I had tapped my pockets while perched up on that decker, seated on one side, with Fay and Dori opposite. We were chatting while the train pulled at my back. I had decided to check on my ‘smaller’ phone to see if it was capable of the free Wi-Fi. That is when I had noted that I did not have the phone with me.
“I cannot find my phone!,” I told the gals, “I believe that I must have lost it somewhere in Amsterdam.”
There was puzzlement.
“Are you sure? Check your pockets!”
“I have! There is nothing!”
“Are you sure that you had it today?”
“Positive. I even remember viewing the stats from Runkeeper after the run. I for sure had it upto the point when you went to have your medal engraved outside the stadium.”
I was already resigned to losing it already. There was no chance of finding it, in case it had fallen somewhere on the route since the end of the marathon. I had walked on so many paths since the finish.
In consolation, I stated that, “I only worry about my bank app. I cannot transact without it. And I cannot replace it until I can call my bank, whom I cannot call until I get back to Kenya, which I cannot do until mid-November!”
Out of desperation, I decided to send a text message to the phone, using my other phone with the Endomondo. The SMS just indicated that the phone was lost and if someone found it then the person should communicate to my email address. Desperation, I told you. Then….
Beep beep!
Beep beep!
All the three looked around, as we heard the vibration alert as the ‘SMS-received’ notification sounded from somewhere on the floor under my seat! The phone had slipped and fell from the pocket, landing under the seat. It was such a relief to pick it up and now ensure that both phones remain ‘at hand’, never in the pocket, just in case.
Back to the moment. It was exactly 8.00am when I got out at Platform 4 of the underground station and took the escalator to the upper ground level. I did a final swipe out of the ticketing system and saw a charge of Euro 16.20 for that one-hour train ride. I ‘Kenyan-thought’ about this eighteen-hundred shillings charge, and just shook my head as I headed to the ‘Departures’ gate of Schiphol. It was a second time in one hour that I was doing such a ‘Kenyan-thinking’.
Getting through the airport was smoother than I thought. I walked the long distance to my gate and queued for security check. While I passed through the metal detector scanner without incidence, my bag failed me for yet another time – the second time in 4-days! My shoes and laptop, which were on separate trays, successfully passed through the scanner and I would soon be receiving them on the conveyor belt out of the scanner. I put on my shoes and picked up the laptop to now await the bag. However, my bag was redirected to a conveyor belt that led to another security person.
I saw some lady receive the bag at the end of that conveyor belt. I followed in that direction to await my fate.
“%@(*S#@#!,” she said.
“I do not understand,” I responded.
“Is this your bag sir?”
“Yes”
I have noted that airport security have this habit of adding ‘sir’ and ‘madam’ to make them seem harmless, when they are about to hit you hard.
“I want to check inside, can you open?,” then added, “Sir”
I moved next to the table where the bag had been placed in a tray. We were standing on either sides of the table, bag in the middle. I started opening the big zip of the main bag. Clothes were clearly visible. She motioned a ‘close that one’ message.
“How about here,” she pointed to the top zipped compartment. The small one where I would usually keep small handy items such as keys, money, cards and other small emergency items. It was a strange place to be checked. I unzipped the small purse and removed the small items. USB cables, keys, some money, ATM cards, then…
Then I finally removed the TCS Amsterdam marathon medal with its blue lanyard and gold of the medal.
“Yes, this is it!” she said, causing a pause to my movement. She took possession and looked at the medal.
I was surprised, waiting for what next. I was unsure. I was even about to bolt!
Did these TCS people deliberately set me up! Could it be real gold? Something that needed some export permit or something? Damn you TCS – setting me up with that lure of gold.
I then observed both relief and disappointment on her face. Relief probably due to the apparent lack of a dangerous situation, but disappointment due to the unlikelihood of a big bust! We just regarded each other.
Finally, she broke the stalemate, “This medal showed on the scanner, sir”
“I am just from the marathon,” I said for lack of a better statement.
“OK, you can close the bag and take your medal,” she said while handing back the medal with her gloved hands.
“It is OK, thanks,” I was also relieved to have averted an otherwise bad situation, if there was something bad to have come out of this.
“OK, but I know you can outrun me!,” and as if to conform, “Sir”
I just smiled at that. My legs were too painful at the moment. I could not outrun anybody for the next three days. I kept this secret to myself.
Apart from a change of boarding gate for the KLM Citihopper flight, nothing eventful happened thereafter. However, this change of gate at Schiphol was happening for the third time at this facility with the same airline. Maybe that was the norm. I had already learnt not to trust the gate number indicated on the boarding pass. This would likely mislead you to the extent of missing out on your flight. Always trust the display screens – never trust the boarding pass.
Events would start unfolding when we boarded at 9.45am ready for the 10.00am departure. It is then that we found ourselves stuck. We just sat in the Embraer 190, a 100-seater that was full to capacity, and waited as 10.00am came and went. We were just stationary, waiting for the start of our about 750km flight North, across the Atlantic ocean – actually across the North Sea. We had boarded this plane that had been parked ‘deep’ in the tarmac, having taken a bus from the boarding gate to the plane’s parking position somewhere isolated in the parking tarmac.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, expect delay in departure by about twenty-minutes. We are advised that the skies are busy today.”
“Now what do to?,” I asked myself, “Even a simple bus has internet, for crying out loud!,” I cried out loud as I sat there, next to the window, top of the wings, with no internet and no story book. Just staring at the long fifteen-metre right wing, with a single engine beneath it. Wondering of the marvels of aviation. Wondering if we shall ever leave NL.
I did not wonder for long. We taxied off at 10.15am and joined the long queue of airplanes waiting to access the main runway. Our time to join the runway came and we left at 10.25am and cruised mostly at 550km/h in the cloudy skies. We touched down at Stavanger Lufthavn Sola at 11.38am, for a 3-minute taxing. We disembarked and walked to the terminal building and got out of the terminal in less than 3 minutes. There was no passport checks or stamps. Just out of plane and out of the building.
Of course, I did not have check-in luggage and hence did not have to wait for anything at the luggage claim. However, I vote Sola as the most efficient airport in the world! But read that again. The size of the airport in terms of passenger traffic could as well be a determinant to the efficiency – the smaller the better. While at it, we have bigger ones that are efficient and we also have bigger ones that are not. I am not naming names.
The carefree feelgood moment of speedy clearing would not last long. Things would change as I got to the Kolumbus bus no. 42 at the door of the arrivals gate, ready for my trip to UiS. I would have a change of bus at Sandnes, where I would either get an X60 or a no. 6. Since I was paying cash, I had to pay up NOK 57 for the hour ticket, instead of the normal NOK 37 (KShs.370) if I had got a ticket from a ticket machine. I am normally pained when paying Kr.37. You can imagine how parting with Kr.57 feels like! I am even lucky that I remembered to carry some Kroners. I normally would have just had a credit card on such a travel. This time luck was on my side because….
I got into the bus just as the person in front of me was in negotiations with the driver. He was also an arriver.
“You take credit card?,” he asked.
“No. Cash only!”
“How about Euros?”
“No. Kroner only!”
“So, what to do? I only have credit card and Euros!,” he showed the driver his wallet.
“I don’t know. I am just a driver!”
That was quite a welcome for this fellow traveler, as he was forced to disembark, uncertainty in each of his retreating footsteps. He looked like a first-time student of sort – just my observation. I could not think about him for long since I had trouble of my own. Being slapped with almost double the fare was also quite a re-welcome, simply because I paid cash. Surely, you cannot penalize passengers, where there is no chance of getting a ticket from a machine! There is no ticket machine at the airport! Was this ‘forced’ fare escalation a way of getting back at travelers? What wrong have we done?
All these memories were coming to me late into Saturday, four days after the event, as I sat looking out at the trees and shrubs that had mostly shed-off their leaves in a hurry. For sure, at this rate there would be no leaf left on any plant by next week! This progression was more serious than I thought. The weather was not relenting either. It rained or drizzled every day. The sun kept giving us the ‘luxury of its rays’ in short bursts of five minutes or so, for very few times in a day. The outside remained cold – truly cold if you were there to experience it and visibly cold by just looking out.
I was observing how things can change. Back home they have coined a phrase for this – ebindu bichenjanga! It is true. It was just last month, September, when the sun would set down at 10pm. I would do my runs until almost eight. By then it would still be as bright as mid-day. Hardly one month later and it is dark by six-thirty, pitch dark by seven! It was just last month that it was bright by four in the morning. Now it is still dark by seven! Surely!!
This environment was just messing up my physiological clock. I wanted to be home! And the worse was yet to come, when we had to reset our clocks backward by one hour – a once-a-year event on the last Sunday of October – in a few hours’ time. I could not miss it. I had to stay awake. This was surely the knockout in the craziness of events at the Arctic. In Stavanger, this ‘extra’ hour was handed down at 3.00am early morning. Imagine having an occasion when your clock reads 3.00am, then one hour later, it reads 3.00am again!. What a night it was! I could not sleep a wink. I had to see this double 3.00 with my own double eyes. How I shall miss the other once-a-year event, on the last Sunday in March when NO shall ‘lose’ 1hour as clocks are forced one hour ahead, as 2.00am is forced to be 3.00am!
It is on this same Sunday that I would be missing the Nairobi International Marathon, for the first time in ten years. However, while Team KE was running the Nairobi city marathon back home, while I was appreciating a personalized e-magazine from TCS, with my pictures, videos and all. Back home, a street run in the city, with sweat and sweet joy of running was ongoing – over here it was a relaxed seat in a heated room, with online results and online certificate to celebrate. Just another Sunday with everyone doing their runs – onstreet or online.
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