Nobody watching what was happening at that moment on the streets of Chicago could be faulted for chiseling Sammy’s epitaph so hastily. After all, Kenyans do not “run within themselves” or “run their own race” as runners from other places do. These concepts are foreign to them. When a Kenyan runner enters a race to win, he either leads or stays with whoever is leading as long as he possibly can. He will answer every surge, regardless of how close he is to his own limit already. Even if responding to an attack virtually guarantees he blows up and loses 5 minutes in the last 6 miles to finish eighth, he will do it. Because if you don’t win, you might as well be eighth.
An American runner conceding 20 meters to a surging leader with 3 miles left in a marathon might be seen as shrewdly preserving his last bit of strength. But Sammy was Kenyan, and his failed pursuit could mean only one thing: He had no strength left to preserve.
Sammy knew this better than anyone. As Kebede continued to glide away in front of him, the Olympic champion’s thoughts turned toward the man three steps behind. His goal abruptly shifted from winning the race (and a massive check) to holding on to second place and the still-substantial money that would come with that. But just then, Kebede’s tempo slackened a bit. If Sammy couldn’t sustain the ferocious pace of Kebede’s surge, neither could the Ethiopian himself. Heartened, Sammy searched inside himself and found the spirit to close the gap, and Lelisa regained contact as well. It was a three-man race again.
Not for long. Knowing the confidence Sammy derived from being in front, Kebede sped up, forcing his rival back into his shadow. Lelisa exited stage rear, permanently. An intense battle of wills was now waged between the old rivals. Sammy was determined to have the lead, if only by a centimeter. Kebede was determined not to allow Sammy to gain that centimeter. Sammy forced his way into a nominal lead nevertheless. It lasted all of 2 seconds before Kebede grabbed an equal share. For the next quarter-mile, the foes ran elbow to elbow, shoulders rolling and heads bobbing in perfect synchrony.
Both men were now visibly suffering, but the aura of control still hovered around the Ethiopian. As they came upon a timing mat at 40 km (24.8 miles), Kebede found himself a step ahead of Sammy, so he pressed. Within seconds, Sammy was once again 20 meters behind, in freefall. His hopes sank to a new low.
But then he saw something: Kebede kept looking back. Not once, not twice, but three times. Each time it was over the left shoulder. Sammy quietly drifted over to the right side of the road. When Kebede looked again, Sammy was no longer in sight.
Thinking he’d finally delivered the coup de grace, Kebede eased up a tiny bit.
Sammy did not. He crept up on his rival once more. With less than a mile to go, Kebede began to hear screaming from spectators on the right side of the road just after he’d passed them. He looked over his right shoulder—and there was Sammy. Kebede put his eyes back on the road ahead, lowered his chin, and prepared to break the Kenyan’s will. A moment later Sammy rocketed past his left shoulder.
The challenger reacted quickly, matching Sammy’s near sprint. For all its craftiness, Sammy’s bid had failed. He had no choice but to downshift. The moment he did so, Kebede counterattacked, demonstrating his own wiliness. Somehow the Ethiopian’s hobbled stride became beautiful again. He flew down Michigan Avenue with the confidence of a man who knew he had taken his opponent’s last best shot and survived it. Sammy was suddenly three strides back. This time—at last—it was over.
It was not over. With no juice left in his legs, Sammy drove his arms wildly as if using them to jumpstart his depleted lower extremities. It wasn’t pretty, but it served. He charged ahead. Feeling him, Kebede looked back and saw his thrice-dead enemy risen and coming for him yet again. Kebede got up on his toes just in time to keep Sammy a half-step behind him. For a fraction of a second, time seemed to stand still, with Sammy frozen just off Kebede’s shoulder. An unfocused look in Sammy’s eyes signaled an inner calculation. In the next instant, Sammy launched his body into a full sprint—the kind of absolute, nothing-held-back effort that no man can sustain longer than 10 or 12 seconds even on fresh legs. It was crazy. But Kebede did not think so. He sprinted too. The two men ran full-throttle, hip to hip, as though they were mere yards away from the finish line, when in fact they still had nearly half a mile of running ahead of them.
Sammy Wanjiru fans around the world screamed at their televisions and computer screens. Toni Reavis, one of the commentators providing TV coverage locally, had already shouted himself hoarse.
It could not last, and it did not. When the murder-suicide sprint petered out, Kebede was back in the lead. Despite Sammy’s almost unimaginable grit, it was clear at every step that Kebede was the stronger man. Kebede held pole position when the runners made the next-to-last turn of the race, a right bend onto Roosevelt Road.
There is only one hill in the Chicago Marathon and it falls right here, at the 26-mile mark. Before the race, Sammy and his coach (Federico Rosa) had decided that Sammy would make his decisive move at this point, if the opportunity existed. Rosa did not expect the opportunity to exist. In the privacy of his mind, he judged that even a third-place finish would be a terrific result (Sammy had been recovering from a major knee injury and a serious stomach ailment leading up to Chicago), all things considered.
Sammy trailed Kebede through the first 10 meters of the steeply pitched ascent. Taking advantage of his invisibility, he catapulted his ravaged body into one last sprint. He blasted past Kebede’s right side. Kebede fought back with everything he had, but he couldn’t match his rival’s power. With a terror that belied this power, Sammy stole three quick glances backward as he sped away from Kebede, who had already packed it in. Sammy broke the finish tape 19 seconds ahead of the shattered Ethiopian and collapsed to the pavement in the awkward pose of a battlefield casualty.
"It was the greatest surprise I have ever seen in my life,” said Federico Rosa to reporters later in the day.
So here it goes!!
I might have PR'd my marathon time last January, but I decided riding Everest and taking all those character photos I skipped the first time around were more important.
