My oldest son, in an attempt to keep his Mom from aging, has lured me into the sport of Spartan racing. My races are usually about five kilometers long, interspersed with around twenty obstacles ranging from rope climbs and spear throws to sandbag carries and multi-rig traverses. Besides providing a fun bonding activity for me with my kids, the preparation for these races entails fairly intense cross-fit training. I appreciate the incentive this hobby gives me to push my physical limits. Not long ago, I even achieved my son’s challenge to come in first place in my age group (with him at my side) at a national race.

Anticipating my long-awaited first-time visit to rural Kenya, I felt fairly confident in my physical preparedness. Privately, I considered myself more fit, adaptable, resilient and low-maintenance than most people I know.

That’s before I experienced Kenyan children.

When I’m planning for a race, I’m able to strategize my start time by taking into account the light, temperature, moisture, terrain condition and crowdedness of the path.  

The children in villages of Kwale County wake up in the dark without the help of any alarm clocks so they can begin their 7-kilometer walk to the closest primary school by 5:00 am.

Before my races, I plan exactly what and when I will eat. I load up on carbs the night before and bring the right balance of protein bars and electrolyte drinks to launch my start and carry me through the course.

The Kenyan children are lucky if they get more than a cup of tea for breakfast. They might carry a chapati (similar to a whole wheat tortilla) from last night’s supper but they’ll nibble on it sparingly since it’s probably all they’ll get to eat the entire day.

The obstacles I face along my Spartan course are predictable and controlled. I’ve studied them all beforehand in YouTube training videos that include professional coaching on how to conquer them. Along the course, there are staff in place at each obstacle ready to instruct, spot, and rescue any failed attempts. My trail is groomed, well-marked, and equipped with multiple water stations.

The Kenyan children have no warning of what they will encounter as they make their way in the dim pre-dawn light. Rocks and thorns are a given. Snakes are expected. Elephants are not unusual. Literally! Especially if they decide to hasten their trek by taking a shortcut off the barely visible dirt path and through the unpredictable thickets.

Like most of my Spartan competitors, I dress for my races in high-tech gear. Fabric that wicks up moisture while maintaining mobility. Shoes that have been scientifically crafted for my particular type of foot to give me maximum support and stability.

Kenyan students wear whatever uniform their school assigns. Cotton shirt with pants or skirt that is likely held together with pins or a piece of twine. Footwear? Bare feet, of course. Sandals are the exception. Most kids traverse wicked surfaces without even looking down at where their bare soles are landing. Not a single kid flinches from stepping on surfaces that would surely make me tip-toe at best and more likely crumple in pain.

Their rugged terrain doesn’t stop them from running, carrying heavy loads, dancing spontaneously, or even sitting on the ground for hours. At the school and community gatherings I attended, children sat comfortably and remarkably quietly on the bare ground for longer than most Westerners could stay still in an upholstered armchair. The Kenyans seem to become one with their natural world, molding their bodies to whatever surface, rock, or tree is supporting their weight - a “hakuna matata” co-existence with nature.

One of the obstacles in my Spartan races is to sling sandbags over our shoulders and then climb a muddy hill or a flight of stadium stairs. I think I’m pretty strong as I plod along grimacing through my labored steps.

Kenyan kids often carry backpacks that look like they weigh more than the skinny student wearing it. If not a school bag, they might carry a younger sibling the same way and distance. Several kilometers, barefoot, on an empty stomach, with no water bottle. But they don’t grimace. They just wave cheerfully at the awe-struck white woman who is watching them from an air-conditioned vehicle.

Most astounding to me is the way girls carry water.

I’m not just talking about the practiced women who balance a Gerry can of water on top of their head while accommodating a baby swaddled to their body so they can use one of their free hands to carry another bucket and the other hand to hang on to a toddler or sometimes hold a cellphone to their ear.

I’m talking about teenage, sometimes prepubescent, girls who effortlessly hoist 30-liter water jugs up to the crowns of their heads and then stroll along, arms flapping freely like they don’t even feel it.

There’s an obstacle in the Spartan race that involves picking up a large PVC bucket filled with rocks and then carrying it, however you prefer, about one hundred yards. I pride myself in my ability, even at my advanced age, to complete this obstacle by being deliberate. I take my time to get carefully into a squat position before I consciously engage my core as I lift the bucket so that I’m hugging it against my torso. Then I walk slowly, methodically, squeezing my core to protect my lower back. I’m sure I must be grunting every step of the way. The weight of my rock-filled bucket is probably 50 pounds, at the very most.

At the conclusion of one of my secondary school presentations in Taru, I watched the girls bring their daily rations of water from a well to their dormitory. I was told their Gerry cans and buckets hold 30 kilograms. That’s over 66 pounds. More than I’ve ever had to carry in any of my esteemed races. I was mesmerized watching the girls manage this weight. No big deal! They would hoist their load on top of their head and then continue chattering and giggling and even gesturing as if their buckets were empty.

Watching them, I couldn’t resist asking if I could try. They just laughed nervously at the suggestion, then finally consented to assist my experiment.

Even though they were the ones who lifted the bucket up on to my head, I could only sustain holding it there for a few seconds. They couldn’t stand to watch me fail (or maybe they just didn’t want the spilled water to be wasted) so they quickly came to my relief. All smiles, no malice.

My lecture to them had been about Female Empowerment (increasing their options by completing education before motherhood). Yet, who was I to tell them about power?!  Here were young women whose sleep the night before had been in a shared twin dormitory bed with one maybe two other girls, a sleep that ended well before dawn so they could be ready for class by 6:30 am. Here were girls whose breakfast was nothing more than a cup of tea and maybe a chipati, and who probably hadn’t had the luxury of lunch. Here were girls who didn’t carry around water bottles (like all of us westerners did). I never even witnessed any of them hydrate the entire day I was with them. Here were girls who could sit comfortably on prickly ground and, if there wasn’t room for them in the shade, could tolerate the brutal equatorial sun without squirming or squinting or hardly even sweating.

At my Spartan races, participants (including myself) complain a lot. Their start time was delayed. The trail was too crowded. The course wasn’t clearly marked. The obstacles were slippery. The water handouts were slow. The bananas at the end were too ripe.

The Kenyan students I observed don’t complain about anything. It doesn’t seem to be in their DNA. They go through 16-hour school schedules with hungry stomachs and brutal heat, yet they choose to dance every opportunity they get, whether to greet visitors or just to relax at the end of their classes. They smile broadly and talk about their dreams instead of their hardships. They acknowledge God’s goodness frequently, unabashedly. 

Their lives are challenging obstacle courses. Yet they easily - and cheerfully - surpass all self-proclaimed “Spartans” I know.