Running while female and foreign
According to Jeff Galloway鈥檚聽temperature-adjustment guide in his authoritative 鈥淕alloway鈥檚 Book on Running,鈥� my long run training pace should start around 10 minutes per kilometer in Djibouti鈥檚 cool season and move up to 12:30 per kilometer by summer.
I live in Djibouti and sort of adapt to the extreme heat (113 degrees Fahrenheit max, with heat indexes above 131). I sweat. The zippers on my hydration backpack clog with salt; I leave sweaty footprints when I run because, yes, I sweat through the soles of my shoes.
I鈥檝e been running for a decade here. I am not fast, but a 12:30 kilometer pace (a 21-minute mile) feels like a stroll. I think the point of such a slow pace is to suggest that I shouldn鈥檛 run at all.
Still, I run.聽
I wake at 5 a.m. and dress quickly, before I start to sweat. I begin running slowly, dodging potholes and garbage. I used to turn right, but had to run past construction workers. They stared and shouted things like 鈥淵ou are running!鈥� and 鈥淗ey, sexy lady!鈥� in Somali, which they don鈥檛 expect me to understand.
I turn left. I won鈥檛 encounter hecklers for at least three blocks. This gives me a chance to warm up physically and emotionally for the experience of running while foreign and female.
I run past the mosque, where men have finished morning prayers, and the corner where Hibo sews dresses in the afternoons. My nieces play in her dresses, in Oregon and in North Carolina. Past the garbage dump where men weigh and trade metal scrap. Past a scrum of low wooden benches that surrounds a fire. A woman crouches over the fire, preparing tea. Men squat on the benches and wait for their breakfast. They used to stare at me; now they merely glance.
The sky is 100-franc-coin silver. The heat is visible now as the sun rises above the low houses.聽
Sweat settles over me 鈥� a mask, a cocoon. Soon, I鈥檒l be able to wring out my shirt. Soon, I鈥檒l be leaving a trail of sweaty shoe prints. Someday, maybe soon, I鈥檒l give in, admit it is too hot to run here. But I鈥檓 stubborn. Why else would someone finish multiple marathons? Why else would a foreigner stay in the Horn of Africa for 17 years?聽
French soldiers run in packs, in matching mini-shorts and tank tops. If there is a woman among them, and there rarely is, she is in the middle, shielded, hidden. I am alone. It makes me feel exposed 鈥� and proud.聽
When I鈥檓 almost home, I鈥檓 relieved and disappointed. Relieved because I鈥檓 tired, thirsty, and practically hallucinating about the frozen watermelon cubes that await me. Disappointed because I want to run farther, longer, faster. The run is hard but reminds me of my physical and mental strength. I can live here. I can endure.
I can鈥檛 say I love running in Djibouti. I love having run. I love that I do run. I even love talking about running. But I鈥檓 not sure I actually love the miserable feat of defying ridiculous temperatures and ignoring sexual harassment. It is one of the hardest things I do. But I do it.
Habit, compulsion, choice, default 鈥� I don鈥檛 think it matters. It is wrapped up in my sense of courage and identity.
I run here because I love running other places: London, Istanbul, Minneapolis, Kuala Lumpur, Colorado Springs, Venice. My Djibouti runs prepare me, keep me strong, and exponentially increase, by comparison, the delight of running in these other cities.聽
As I write that, I realize I do love running in Djibouti. It鈥檚 challenging, but embracing such a challenge helps me understand myself. My Djibouti runs prepare me to take pleasure in the rest of my life here.
