Beverly Hills Maasai (20 page)

“Imply?” I scoffed. “Those were your
exact
words.”

“Words can be so … so … Look, here they come!”

I spun around. There they were!

“Olivia!” I called out. “How many people?”

“Four hundred and fifty-seven just passed … and they will be the—let me count—the sixty-ninth, seventieth, and four hundred and seventy-first runners.”

“That’s great.” I looked up at the clock: 1:16:29. I did a quick estimate and mental calculation. If they got here within ten seconds they would have gained almost one minute and ten seconds on the second group. That was amazing, to close the gap that fast in five miles!

What wasn’t so amazing was that they really hadn’t gained much on the three front runners. They were
still more than two minutes behind. At this rate there was no way that they were going to catch them. But of course, they didn’t have to catch them to take home prize money. I had to remind myself that they just had to get into the top twenty to collect enough money for what they needed.

I kicked off my shoes. “Here, hold these,” I said as I passed my shoes to Dakota.

I ran out to meet the Maasai.

Nebala was leading. His mouth was wide open and there was sweat pouring off him. Koyati was next. He was a dozen paces back. His teeth were gritted and he looked as though he was working hard. Right tight behind him, no more than a step, was Samuel. He saw me, waved, and gave me a big smile.

I fell in beside Nebala. “How are you?”

“Tired,” he panted.

“Yeah, of course. You’re doing brilliantly. You’ve gained over a minute on the big group in second place.”

“And … and … the men who are winning?” he asked.

I almost didn’t want to answer, but I had no choice. “You’re gaining on them … a little.”

“How … little?”

“Less than thirty seconds—just run!”

He yelled something over his shoulder and then he started running even faster—too fast for me to keep up any longer. I came to an abrupt stop, and Koyati and Samuel brushed past me.

I moved over to the side and slowly walked back. Olivia, my mother, and Dakota were standing beside
his golf cart. Then I noticed that there was only one cart. Where was our golf cart? And where was our driver? Had Dakota told him to leave as part of a plan to get us off the course? I’d show him a plan of my own when I drove off in his golf cart!

“Where is our cart?” I demanded.

“I sent it away,” he said.

“You had no right to do that!”

“Of course I did. I’m the director of the race, remember? I can do pretty well whatever I want.”

“You can’t chase us away that easily!” I snapped.

“Nobody is trying to chase you anywhere.”

“How are we supposed to get around without our cart?”

“This wonderful young man is going to be our guide for the rest of the marathon,” my mother said, motioning to Dakota.

“You’re
going to drive us?” I asked in disbelief.

“It will be my honour. By the way … very nice shoes.”

I’d forgotten that I was standing barefoot, and that he was holding my shoes.

“Very elegant … very stylish … Prada, of course.”

“Yes, they are … and thank you.”

He handed me the shoes and I slipped them on.

“Now, we should be going. Please … all aboard,” he said as he bowed and gestured to the cart.

I hesitated for a second as my mother and Olivia climbed onto the back. There was no point in standing there. Reluctantly I climbed into the passenger seat as he climbed in behind the wheel, and we started up.

“These Maasai have been generating a great deal of coverage,” he said.

“That’s great, because I’d like to tell the press how you tried to keep them out of the race.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Yes, actually, I do blame you. So what exactly changed your attitude?”

“The reaction of the crowds, the press coverage, and of course, the website that started it all. That is an amazing website you designed.”

“Not me. My mother is the webmaster.”

He looked slightly over his shoulder at her. “Brilliant work. The pictures, the video clips, flash, and the overall layout! It’s so rare to find somebody with that combination of technical know-how and sense of style!”

“You are so kind.”

“I know you’re probably booked up so far in advance that you can’t accommodate it, but I was wondering if you would consider coming on board and designing our site for next year.”

“I think I might be able to find the time,” my mother said.

“We’d make it very much worth your while.”

“I’m sure we can discuss this further. Perhaps next week.”

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Do you have a business card so I can contact you?”

Business cards? There was no way she had business cards.

“Not with me, I’m afraid,” my mother said. “I’ll have my personal assistant contact you after the race.”

Personal assistant? Business cards? Did she have a company jet that I didn’t know about as well?

“I’m very interested in how you are going to portray what happens next on your website,” Dakota said.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Well, it’s such a wonderful story—selling their cattle, flying halfway around the world, and doing it all to raise money for the well for their community …”

“That’s all on the website?” I asked.

“
You
haven’t seen it?” he questioned, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

This was becoming a recurring, embarrassing theme. I should have looked, and it was now becoming increasingly painful that I hadn’t.

“I’ve been very busy,” I said, “training them for the run and everything.” It was time to change the subject. “But getting back to my original question, what do you mean by ‘what happens next’?”

“The part where they can’t drill the well because they don’t win the race.”

“What makes you think they can’t win?” I demanded.

“I think it’s becoming obvious,” Dakota said.

“Not obvious to me!” I protested.

“Look, don’t get me wrong. I’d love for them to win.”

“And that’s why you put them in the back of the pack.”

“That,” he said, “was a major miscalculation on my part. If I had known then what a big story this was going to be they would have been right on the front line. But it’s too late for that now. And, I’m afraid, too late for them to win.”

“They still have lots of time.”

He shook his head. “Not enough time, not enough distance. You know the numbers.”

“I know the numbers, but you don’t know the Maasai. They don’t know how to quit.”

“Quit, no. Collapse, yes. You saw them at the fifteen-mile mark.”

“Of course I saw them. Your point being?”

“Then you saw how much they were struggling,” he said.

“You must have been looking at the wrong Maasai.”

“I appreciate your loyalty, but really … Look, they’re not too far ahead. I’ll pull alongside them and you can see for yourself.”

I didn’t want to say anything—I wasn’t going to say anything—but I had noticed that Koyati did look as if he was struggling, and Samuel didn’t seem to be able to keep up with Nebala either. Dakota pushed the little cart harder, and the electric engine whined louder.

“Did you notice the camera crew shadowing them?” Dakota asked.

“I did,” Olivia said. “On the back of a motorcycle.”

“That’s right,” Dakota said. “I pulled one of the cameras off the leaders and had him focus on them. I see that crew right up ahead.”

There, not far in front of us, was a motorcycle carrying a cameraman on the back. He had his camera aimed at the runners—and there were Nebala, Koyati, and Samuel. As we closed in, the cheers of the crowd started to sound louder than the whining of the electric golf cart engine. We pulled up until we were just
behind the motorcycle, paralleling them as they ran.

“They really are popular,” Dakota said. “I just wish they could win.”

“Why are you so certain they can’t?”

“Just look,” he said. “The leader … what’s his name?”

“Nebala.”

“He’s struggling. Do you see his steps, how short and choppy they are?”

“He looks like he’s doing just fine,” I argued.

“Okay, fine. How about the second runner?”

Koyati was now two dozen paces behind Nebala.

“You have to admit that he’s having some difficulties.”

His head was down, but I could still see the strain on his face, and it looked as though he was favouring one leg—one stride was longer than the other.

“I don’t know what’s keeping him upright and going forward,” Dakota said.

“The Maasai don’t know how to quit.”

“He may be a Maasai, but he certainly isn’t a runner. Wrong body type, wrong stride.”

I wanted to argue, but arguing wouldn’t change the truth of what he had said. Koyati was running on nothing more than sheer determination.

“Now that third runner is a different matter,” Dakota said.

“You mean Samuel … the one in the back?”

“I don’t know why he is at the rear. He’s a real runner. Look at him!”

I didn’t know much about running and runners, but even I could see what he meant. Samuel was moving as
though it were effortless. He was gliding over the pavement, and there wasn’t even any strain in his face. In fact, he really reminded me of the runners who were somewhere up at the front of the pack. He did run differently from Koyati, or even Nebala.

Samuel looked in our direction. He saw us, broke into a big smile, and waved. He didn’t look like he had run over fifteen miles. He looked like he was just out for a gentle stroll.

“Do you see what I mean?” Dakota asked. “I don’t know why he isn’t running harder. Why isn’t he in front of the other two?”

Maybe Dakota didn’t know—but I did.

“Drive over beside them,” I said to Dakota.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Insurance and liability. The support vehicles have to stay away from the runners.”

“Forget liability. I need to speak to them, so you
have
to do it.”

I reached over and grabbed the wheel and swerved the cart. Olivia shrieked, and Dakota snatched the wheel back, regaining control.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he yelled.

“I have to talk to Nebala.”

I reached for the wheel again, but he blocked my efforts.

“Just listen. I think I know why Samuel isn’t running faster.”

“You do?”

“Yes, and if I could talk to Nebala maybe I could take care of it, get Samuel to run faster … to have him maybe finish sooner … It would be a better story, wouldn’t it?”

Dakota looked at me and then turned slightly over his shoulder. “Hang on, ladies.”

He turned the cart and angled it toward the centre of the boulevard and the runners. There weren’t that many runners, and they were pretty strung out. I wasn’t sure why he was so worried about hitting somebody.

“I need to talk to Samuel and Koyati first.”

He brought us in so we were right beside Koyati, with Samuel just a half step behind. Samuel flashed me a big smile. Koyati didn’t react. It was as though he hadn’t noticed we were there.

His eyes were on the ground in front of him, his mouth was open, and he was panting and puffing, struggling and straining to get his breath. It was like he had to focus all his energy on just putting one foot in front of the other. It was pretty obvious that, Maasai or no Maasai, there was no way he was going to be able to keep on running this fast for the next nine or ten miles. Not only was he not going to be able to gain on the leaders, but it was just a matter of time until—Just then he stumbled, almost tripping, recovered, and kept running!

“Koyati!” I yelled.

He turned his head slightly to see me. His eyes were glazed over. Ten miles was out of the question. Could he keep going another ten minutes?

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He gritted his teeth and gave me a slight nod. He was obviously not okay.

I turned to Samuel. “How about you?”

“Doing good, dude!” He put both thumbs up in the air. He looked as though he
was
doing pretty good—not like a guy in the middle of running a marathon, but like someone who was running to the corner store to pick up a loaf of bread.

“Samuel, can you run faster?”

“Yes, faster, yes.”

“Then why
aren’t
you running faster?” Dakota asked him.

Samuel shrugged.

“I know why,” I told Dakota.

“You do?”

“Pretty sure. I need to talk to Nebala now.”

Nebala was now quite a bit in front of the other two—fifty or sixty feet. Dakota brought us in right beside him.

Nebala was doing better than Koyati, but it was obvious he was struggling too. I could see the strain in his face, and his steps were now shorter and choppier.

“Nebala,” I called out. “You cannot win unless you move faster!”

“Faster?” he gasped in disbelief.

“Much faster, but I don’t think Koyati can move any faster, or for much longer.” I paused. “I don’t know if
you
can run faster.” I paused again to see his reaction. He didn’t argue, so he didn’t disagree.

“But Samuel can run faster. You just have to give him permission to run faster … permission to pass Koyati and you.”

I was positive that’s what was holding him back. He couldn’t pass Koyati because he was his elder, and Nebala was not only his elder, but also the king’s son!

“Tell him it wouldn’t be disrespectful if he passed you. That you
want
him to pass you.”

Nebala didn’t react. Had he heard me? Had he understood what I was asking, what it meant? He just kept looking forward, running—and then he broke stride and we rolled past him. I looked back at him—at them.

He had slowed enough for Koyati and Samuel to catch him, and then he fell in beside them. They were talking—well, Nebala was talking, and the other two were listening. Koyati stumbled, and Nebala reached out and grabbed him by the arm to steady him. There was more conversation, and then Samuel burst past the other two.

In long, fluid strides he picked up speed, quickly pulling away from his friends. Within seconds he had caught up to us. He flashed another smile.