In a tragic turn of fate, Kelvin Kiptum, the rising star who shattered marathon records, met his untimely demise alongside his coach in a car accident. His potential rivalry with Eliud Kipchoge, a beacon of inspiration in the running world, captivated enthusiasts and fuelled the competitive spirit. Nike’s commemorative shoes, a testament to their impact, now stand as relics of a lost dream. Howard Chua-Eoan, once a passionate runner himself, reflects on his own journey, the highs of the sport, and the toll it takes on the body. Despite the physical trials and tribulations, the allure of running lingers, evoking memories of exhilarating moments when every step brought one closer to the realm of the extraordinary.
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By Howard Chua-Eoan
On Oct. 8, Kelvin Kiptum stunned the world by clocking 2 hours and 36 seconds in a competitive marathon, shaving 34 seconds off the record set just over a year before by the greatest athlete of the sport, fellow Kenyan Eliud Kipchoge. It was only Kiptum’s third marathon. Just last week, the International Association of Athletic Federations certified the result, officially making Kiptum the world-record holder in the 42.195 kilometer (26 mile 385 yard) foot race.
Over the weekend, the running world was stunned by news that Kiptum, 24, had died after he reportedly lost control of his car late in the evening near his training camp in Kenya. His coach Gervais Hakizimana also perished in the accident. So many possibilities have been lost. He was preparing to challenge the under-two-hour marathon-length record set in 2019 by Kipchoge in a non-competitive, carefully calibrated, sponsored event. Kiptum’s boosters were saying he was bound for glory and would break the sub-2 bound under real race conditions. Maybe even at the Olympics in Paris this summer.
The words of A.E. Housman’s poem, “To an Athlete Dying Young,” remain a poignant tribute: “Now you will not swell the rout/ Of lads that wore their honours out, /Runners whom renown outran/ And the name died before the man.”
The prospective rivalry between Kiptum and Kipchoge, who will turn 40 in November, had been tantalizing, especially to the more than $15 billion running shoe industry and, in particular, Nike Inc., which dominates the market by miles over rivals like Adidas AG and Puma. The Oregon-based company released a statement: “Kelvin was one of those special athletes who showed the world what we can achieve. He was not only a beloved member of the Nike family, but an inspiration to all. Kelvin’s impact on running will never be forgotten.”
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A retail version of the Alphafly 3 that Nike created for Kiptum went on sale in January at £285 (available in the US for $285). The Vaporfly 3 model inspired by Kipchoge’s astonishing sub-two-hour feat is also on the market for runners at slightly less: £235 ($250). It’s how ordinary road warriors like me can buy into the long-distance dream.
Well, not me, actually. Not anymore. I loved running. At Time’s 75th anniversary gala at Radio City Music Hall in 1998 — where guests included many of the famous people featured in the magazine through the decades — I had the great privilege and thrill of sitting at the table of Roger Bannister, the first human to break the four-minute mile. I always religiously bought the shoes that I believed would inch me even a little bit toward the vain hope of elite running. Attacking the hills of Central Park in New York City, where I lived at the time, was a daily challenge. And I was proud of my 8-minute miles, a pace at which I would have completed a marathon in about 3.5 hours. Nowhere close to world-class but not bad for someone who didn’t run a full mile until the age of 30.
At one point, I was putting down 30-mile weeks — at that rate, I would have worn out lightweight racing shoes in about two months at the recommended 250-mile limit (you can run for weeks longer on more durable footwear). At $200 plus a pair, that can be more than $1,000 a year, without budgeting for peripheral gear like shorts and shirts and winter jackets as well as tape to fend off plantar fasciitis. I was making Nike and other manufacturers very happy, as were hundreds of millions of other runners.
I never ran a marathon because I psyched myself out. I’d trained — running 18 miles at a go one weekend — only to swear that it was the most boring thing I’d done. Central Park is beautiful but circumnavigating it three times got on my nerves. It wasn’t doing my knees any favors either. After about two decades of putting my Nikes to the pavement, I had to retire to running on the softer surfaces of treadmills — which were even more boring.
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I persisted because I believed it made me impervious to worse ills, perhaps — despite plantar fasciitis and knee pain — indestructible. Dieting had helped me lose 70 pounds (30 kilos), but running helped keep the weight off; its gift of a more active metabolism allowed me to scarf down enormous portions of food without having to change my pant size.
But mortality has different ways of catching up with you. A dear friend — like too many other runners — discovered that her alcohol intake could be offset by lots and lots of running mileage, until it couldn’t. I still mourn her. Even before I moved to London six years ago, I’d taken up walking to soften the impact on my knees. They’re still bad and now I’m afflicted by foot pain from the many miles I walk a day in a losing battle to keep the waistline demons at bay.
I miss running. Not for the shoes that I spent thousands of dollars on. Not for speed because I was too old to be swift. Not for the accumulation of miles because the scenery eventually repeats, as Housman wrote, like “fields where glory does not stay.” I miss it for that moment in the run when you are almost breathless and yet most alive, when every step has taken you closer to the impossible dreams of Bannister and Kiptum.
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