Beverly Hills Maasai (17 page)

“Make way!” the official called out. “Let us through!”

The people parted and made a path for us.

“Excuse me,” I said to him. “I know this is the first year for this marathon, but do you know if anybody has ever started that far back in any marathon and won?”

“I don’t know the results of all marathons,” he said.

“But the ones you know of?”

“None that I know of … but there’s always a first time, I guess.”

We continued to weave through the crowd. We were the only people who weren’t in spandex and sneakers—Olivia, my mother, and I wore designer clothes; my father was dressed in a suit; and the three Maasai were in their brilliant red clothing. Runners turned to watch us pass. We were quite a sight.

“Here we are,” the official said. “Tenth grid spot.”

“Thanks for all your help,” I said.

“I’m here for the runners. I wish you three the best. Good luck, gentlemen.”

He shook hands with them and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

“One minute to start!” came another P.A. announcement.

“We’d better get out of here before they start or we’ll be stampeded,” Olivia said.

“We’ll be okay.”

“Don’t you remember that scene in
Lion King?”
she asked. “That’s how they got Simba’s dad.”

“I don’t see any wildebeest, so I think we’re okay,” I said. “Nebala, you know we’re going to keep moving along the route. Like we discussed, you’ll see us every five miles, and we’ll try to give you information about how many people are still in front of you.”

He nodded.

“Remember, you have to keep up a five-minute-mile pace to win. There are big clocks at every mile, so you’ll be able to know your pace.”

“We do not need clocks. We will run as fast as we can.”

“You have to pace yourself.”

“We have to run until there are no more runners in front. That is our pace.”

“Are you sure you remember the route … where to run?”

“We will follow other runners until just before the end. And then we will pass them.”

“You’ll have to run
very
fast to win.”

“We will win,” he said. “We
have
to win.”

“I know.”

“Thirty seconds!” the P.A. called out.

“Come on, quickly, before we get trampled to death,” Olivia pleaded.

“We’d better get going now,” my mother said, “or we won’t be able to get to the first spot along the route before they get there.”

Now that was something that did make sense.

I wanted to give them one final word of encouragement, say something smart or inspirational. Instead I reached up and gave Nebala a hug, then Samuel, and finally Koyati.

We started working our way to the very back of the crowd. We didn’t have to move very far. We were almost at the very, very back of the pack.

“Runners, take your mark!” the P.A. sounded.

I looked back through the mass of runners. Thanks to their bright-red clothing, the three Maasai were easily visible, just ten or fifteen yards ahead of us. Looking beyond them I saw a sea of runners stretching
to the horizon. Wherever the first runners were, I couldn’t see them. All I did know was that there were over twenty thousand runners standing between Nebala and the finish line.

A gun sounded and I jumped slightly as the entire throng of people came to life and started moving. I watched as the crowd surged forward, en masse, like one big, living organism instead of thousands of individuals.

“Do you think they can win?” my mother asked.

“It’s going to be awfully difficult,” my father answered.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “They’ll win.”

“How can you be so certain?” Olivia asked.

“I just am. We’d better get to the car.”

“You girls should get out right here,” my father said as he pulled the car to the curb. “Just walk toward the crowd.”

“Thanks,” I said as Olivia and I climbed out.

“I’ll be right here waiting to drive you to the next checkpoint.”

“I’m coming too!” my mother said, and she jumped out of the car to join us.

“You’d better run. It’s been over twenty minutes since the race started,” my father called out after us.

I closed the door, and the three of us ran toward the crowd lining the road up ahead. There was a wall of people at least five or six rows deep. Through the heads and shoulders of the spectators I could make out little glimpses of runners passing by. That didn’t make sense; nobody should have been this far this
fast, but some runners had already come and gone.

From where we stood I couldn’t tell how many runners had passed. Worse still, I wouldn’t be able to see or help our guys. We had to get to the front, and there was only one way to do that. When in doubt, just act like you own the place.

“Excuse us,” I said to the person directly in front of me. “We have to get through.”

A few people turned around, but nobody moved. A couple just gave us dirty looks.

“Please let us by,” I commanded, trying for a mix of polite, official, and regal—people would always let royalty through, and I
was
, in fact, a California princess. Nobody moved. Apparently either they were disputing my sovereignty, or everybody in Beverly Hills felt like they were royalty, too.

“This is no good; we have to get through,” I said to my mother and Olivia.

“Maybe I can help,” my mother said.

“I’m not quite sure how yoga could help this situation,” I said sarcastically.

“Yoga helps in almost
all
situations. If these people were less stressed and more centred they wouldn’t object to us passing. But we don’t have time for that right now. Follow me.”

Reluctantly I followed behind as she walked along the back of the crowd. I didn’t have time for this. I needed to somehow break through. Maybe if I yelled or—

“Press!” my mother yelled. “Let us through. We’re with Channel Seven News!”

People in the crowd turned around. She held up her camera like it was proof of some sort.

There was no way that this was going to—Wow, two people in the back shifted to the side to create an opening!

“Thank you!” my mother said.

She moved forward and we followed behind as row after row the crowd shifted and separated until we got to the front. We were blocked by a thin blue rope that separated the runners and the watchers. My mother ducked underneath and then held the rope up to allow me and Olivia to follow.

“That was impressive, Mrs. H.,” Olivia said.

“Thank you, dear. Now, you girls look for the boys. I want to get some more pictures.”

We walked a few paces away from the rope and onto the course. The runners were basically moving down the middle of the boulevard. The blob of runners that had started the race had thinned out to a long line no more than a dozen or so runners wide, stretching out of sight in both directions. There were a lot of runners out there, and lots of runners who had already gone by.

“I don’t see them,” Olivia said.

“Me neither.”

“Do you think it’s possible that they’ve already passed this spot?”

I looked up at the clock marking Mile Five. Big glowing numbers ticked out the time that had passed—twenty-three minutes and thirty-seven … thirty-eight … thirty-nine seconds.

“It would be great if they had gone this far this fast, but I don’t think so. Let’s just keep watching for them.”

I looked back through the runners. There were so many of them, and with each second more people passed by—runners who were in front of them, more runners they had to pass if they were going to win. With each second it seemed less possible that they could catch everybody. Could they really do it?

“How many people do you think have already gone past this spot?” Olivia asked.

I shook my head. “There’s no way to—”

“Excuse me, ladies, you have to get back behind the rope.”

I looked over. It was another one of the race officials—the same orange vest, same big walkie-talkie as the other guy.

I wasn’t stepping back anywhere. “Could you tell me how many runners have passed by already?”

“Close to two thousand runners.”

“Two thousand runners! Are you sure?” I asked.

“That’s just an educated guess, but a good one. I’ve been here watching throughout the entire race.”

“How long ago did the first runners pass by?” I asked.

“Almost two minutes ago. They did a fast first five—four-thirty splits.”

“What does that mean?” Olivia asked.

“They ran the first five miles with an average time of four minutes and thirty seconds.”

I gasped. There was no way our Maasai could run that fast, was there? And I’d told them that they only
had to run five-minute miles. What if they lost because they’d listened to me?

“But … but … that’s impossible,” I stammered. I’d read all about marathons, and he had to be wrong. “Nobody can run a whole marathon at that pace.”

“They won’t keep up that pace,” he agreed. “They always start fast to get ahead of the pack. If you get caught among the slower participants you have no chance of catching the front runners.”

I wanted to ask him what chance you had if you started so far back that you had to run fast even to catch the slow runners, but I was afraid I knew the answer. They could be way back, trapped, not able to weave through the pack.

There was a toot of a horn, and we all looked up to see a motorcycle coming along the side of the road toward us. We flattened against the rope and the crowd as it passed. There was a passenger, riding backwards, holding a big camera and filming the racers.

“I’m afraid you ladies really need to get back. I don’t want you to be run over by one of the race vehicles,” he said as he started to shoo us back.

“We won’t get hit, and we can’t go back,” I said firmly. “They won’t see us if we’re lost in the crowd.”

“It’s nice that you want to support your friends, but if everybody did that the whole race would be nothing but chaos.”

“That’s why it’s great that not everybody
is
doing it. Couldn’t we just stay for another minute? They’ll be here soon, promise.”

He looked as though he was thinking it through.

“Please?” I said. I smiled and tilted my head to one side, trying my best to flirt with him. “You could stay right here with us to make sure we’re okay …
pleeease?”

He let out a big sigh. “Maybe for a minute or two. Your friends must be good runners. Are you sure they haven’t passed?”

“I doubt it!” Olivia said. “Not judging from how far back they started in the pack.”

That was stupid. Why had she told him that? Why had she told him anything?

“How far back were they?” he asked. He sounded concerned.

“They were almost in the very last row,” I confessed. “The official at the start said something about them being in the tenth grid.”

“Then you’d better step back under the rope right now because there’s no way that anybody starting from that far back could ever get here nearly this soon.”

“They’re really good runners!” I pleaded. “They just got placed back there because they didn’t have qualifying times.”

“You mean they’ve never even run a marathon before?” he asked, sounding like he couldn’t believe his ears.

“They’ve never run a timed marathon, but they can run five-minute miles, so they should be here almost right now,” I said. “Just look at the clock.”

The big clock at the five-mile marker was just fifteen seconds short of twenty-five minutes.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “Even if they can run five-minute miles there’s no way they could
move that quickly from the back of the pack. There are hundreds—no, thousands,
tens
of thousands—of runners ahead of them, getting in their way, blocking their path, slowing them down. Now please, ladies, just step behind—”

His words were cut short by a roar from the crowd. What were they all so excited about?

“There they are!” the official said.

“There
who
are?” I asked.

He laughed. “This is so strange you won’t believe it … but I heard they were in the race.”

“Heard what? Who’s in the race?”

“Apparently there are three Maasai warriors running the marathon! They’re in traditional costumes and wearing shoes that are made out of old car tires! Can you believe that?”

I looked onto the course. There they were!

“Yeah, I think I can believe it,” I said. I took a couple of steps toward the runners. “Nebala!” I yelled out.

“Wait! You can’t run onto the course!” the official screamed.

I ignored him and ran out onto the road, waving my arms in the air to make sure they could see me.

All three of them changed course and angled toward me. They were almost on top of me now. Their mouths were wide open, their faces twisted in anguish, sweat running down their faces. Suddenly my mother was right at my side and she was snapping pictures like crazy.

“There are still over two thousand runners in front of you!” I yelled to Nebala. “You have to run the next five miles even faster! Faster!”

They kept running without acknowledging what I had said. Did they hear me? Did they understand?

“You have to run faster! Do you understand?”

“Faster,” Nebala huffed. “Yes … yes … faster … faster.”

They ran right by me without missing a stride, and I spun around to watch them run. My mother continued to snap pictures as they passed.

There was a hand on my arm. It was the official. “You know the Maasai?” he questioned.

“I’m sort of their trainer.”

“Wow,” he gasped. He looked genuinely impressed. “And is it true? Are they really Maasai from Kenya?”

“Yes, from the Maasai Mara in Kenya.”

“And they came here to try to raise money for a well.”

“Yes, that’s why they’re—Wait … how do
you
know that?” I questioned.

“It was on the website.”

“Website? They were mentioned on the race website?”

“Not the Beverly Hills Marathon website. It was the Maasai website. It was all about the three of them—Nebala and Samuel and … I can’t remember the name of the third runner.”