I’ve always enjoyed running. Not in a sleek, gliding-Gerda-Steyn kind of way, but more like an elephant stomping around a marula tree. Graceful? Not quite. But there’s something deeply grounding about it—especially here, where the trail demands your focus. There’s no time to spiral into thought when each step needs your full attention. And honestly, that’s part of the therapy.
Since moving to the side of a mountain, I feel like I’m starting from scratch—again. The usual aches and breathless climbs are back, but the altitude (and gravity) works in my favour… as long as I’m heading downhill. Still, every run brings a small boost of confidence, a reminder that I’m moving forward—literally and figuratively.
Trail Encounters
Out here, the runs aren’t just about pace or distance. They’re about people. I’ve settled into a few familiar routes where faces have become friendly nods, and I’ve even picked up the occasional running companion. One of them is a young man I often cross paths with—me in my high-end running gear, him in worn Crocs and dusty work clothes. And yet, there we are, side by side for a few hundred metres, him often unknowingly pushing me to run harder than I ever plan to.
He once invited me to karaoke over club music—not quite my style—but what he said during one of our quick sprints stuck with me. With a wide grin and zero breathlessness, he said, “Running is the closest thing to real freedom. You can go as fast or as slow as you like, wherever you like. Unless you’ve been in prison, you’ll never understand what that really means.”
That hit me. No, I’ve never been in prison, and I don’t intend to, but in that moment, I caught a glimpse of what he felt. Running can be liberating. The kind that cuts deeper than fitness goals or finish lines.
Wild Beauty, Real Africa
Running here is never boring. It’s colourful, chaotic, and sometimes heart-breaking. You’re always aware—of people, of traffic, of life rushing around you. Bajaj’s (tuk-tuks) and boda-bodas fly by with little regard for pedestrians. You learn quickly: you’re at the bottom of the road hierarchy, a moving target on two legs.
And then there are the moments that remind you—this is Africa. Once, I saw a dog hit by a bike and fly across the road. Another time, a smell on the wind nearly made me lose breakfast. But the flip side? Unmatched support. Old men cheer from roadside “coffee shops” yelling, “Run baby, run!” Passer-by’s clap and call out encouragement, strangers celebrate your effort like you’re in a city marathon.
Sights and Sprints
You see things here you’d never spot from a car. An entire house worth of furniture balanced on a tiny Chinese motorbike. A forgotten golf course that’s more grassland than greens. A bridge hidden beneath the trees where the river sings louder than your thoughts. Banana plantations tangled with children’s laughter from nearby classrooms.
One day, I saw a bajaj stall at the base of a hill. No panic. His friend in another bajaj pulled up behind, stuck out his foot, and gave him a push—barefoot power steering at its best. Together, they conquered the speed bumps and the bend in the road, laughing all the way.
From Elephants to Gerda
Running has become more than a hobby—it’s a moving meditation, a micro-adventure, a way to reconnect with my goals and let go of the noise. It’s the reason I keep coming back, even after long breaks and sluggish starts. Maybe this will be my last “start again.” Maybe I’ll finally build toward the goals I keep tucked away in my mind.
For now, I’ll keep pounding the trails—elephant-style. Because even if I never glide like Gerda, I’ve found freedom in the run, and support where I least expect it. And that’s more than enough reason to lace up and try again tomorrow.
My Path Love Jess 