Rudisha's Run

During the introductions, the other competitors in the 800 all respond to the camera shoved in their face. Leo Manzano waggles his finger in a "we're number 1" kind of way. Jackson Kivuva gives a sharp salute. Alfred Yego looks like he's about to give some odd Nairobi gang sign, and then thinks better of it and cups his hands over his face. Adam Kszczot thumps himself on either side of the chest. Boaz Lalang waves both fingers. Then the camera moves to the man in Lane 7, David Rudisha. His face is set in a mask of grim purpose, and it never changes. When his name is announced, he raises his arms to acknowledge the crowd, but he does not smile. This is a serious man on a serious errand. He knows full well that to accomplish his errand, he must be prepared to suffer, and he is prepared.

By now, you've probably watched the video of Rudisha breaking the 800m world record, eclipsing by two-hundredths of a second Wilson Kipketer's 1:41.11 from August 1997. Until this year, when Rudisha ran 1:42.04 at Bislett and then 1:41.51 at Huesden, it seemed like one of the more remote records in track, out there where few would even challenge it.

Watching Rudisha's run, there's something strangely inevitable about the way he seizes the race and charges through the invisible barriers standing in the way of a new record. Starting from the aforementioned Lane 7, he accelerates powerfully but without panic to the top of the back straight. At that point, he is sixth. He then uses the entire straight to dismiss all the runners but one, the rabbit, Sammy Tangui, who appears to hit 200m in 24-flat.

This, of course, is where every instinct tells the runner to ease off the pace, to save a little something, for God's sake, for the rigors to come. But up ahead Tangui is driving himself without letting up, beginning to thrash against the air to maintain pace, while Rudisha follows a few meters back. It seems a long way back to the rest of the field, which might as well be the rest of the world.

Tangui barely makes it to 450m. For a few moments you wonder if is going to stumble, but just in time he drifts to Lane 2 where he is safely out of the way. Rudisha, having passed 400m in about 49-flat, is keeping his appointment with the hurt now, driving himself down the backstretch, three seconds clear of his nearest mortal competitors, and a few tenths of a second ahead of Kipketer's 13-year-old ghost.

At the end of the straight, Rudisha passes 600m in 1:14.54. There's still a long way to go, the curve and then the agonizing straight. The meters stretch out ahead, giving the serious man every opportunity to slow down, to be just a fraction too late at the end. How terrible it would be to arrive and find Kipketer already waiting for him, telling him it was good, very good, but not quite enough. I wonder whether Kipketer felt that way, when he equaled, but did not break, Coe's world record, or did he know that he would have it, in the end?

Rudisha's stride remains long and smooth, slowing slightly, inexorably, as the lactic acid makes it more and more difficult to lift the knees. Still, he has come too far not to be strong, and strong he remains until his strength and momentum carry him across the finish line, stopping the fully-automatic timing equipment at 1:41:09.

Still he does not smile, not yet. But so glad to have it over. A few seconds later, Tangui tracks him down and gives him a hug, and then, finally, he begins to experience the joy of what he has done.