Whether you follow sports or not, you probably have a pretty good idea of the big names in America's major events. Bret Favre, Alex Rodriguez, and Kobe Bryant are just a few that come to mind for me right off the bat, and I follow team sports about as much as I eat chilled monkey brains. Which is to say, not at all.
Distance running is a different matter. Most Americans I know can't name a single elite runner, but they do know this: most of them are from East Africa. Beyond that, zilch. They don't know the difference between Robert Cheruiyot and Genna Tufa, Catherine Ndereba and Serkalem Abrha.
But the differences are great, beyond the fact that Cheriuyot and Ndereba are Kenyan while Tufa and Abrha are from Ethiopia. The first two in that list are world-famous athletes and earn enough in prize money and appearance fees to live like kings in their native Kenya. The latter two live a monastic life among several other runners in a single apartment in the Bronx, surviving on whatever they can earn at smaller, less-televised events around the country.
Such athletes represent a growing phenomenon in the US running scene: African immigrants who are here on temporary visas not to get rich and famous, but to eek out a modest living and send whatever they can to their families back home.
It's a radically different image than the glamour often associated with Kenyan and Ethiopian elite runners, but it also makes perfect sense. Just as not all professional musicians can be David Bowie, and not all writers are Stephen King, not every African you see breaking the tape at a race is Robert Cheruiyot.
In running, like any field, success is a relative term. For every Kenyan or Ethiopian (usually) who takes home $150,000 for winning a major a marathon, there are hundreds who earn a fraction that much, or sometimes nothing, in their quest to just make ends meet.
Kassahun Kabiso, an Ethiopian who has lived in New York for the past six years, finished 14th in the New York City Marathon last year, beating out the remaining 40,000 runners in the field that day. But 14th isn't good enough for a prize, so Kabiso, who has won smaller marathons for awards of less than $10,000, also drives a cab for 20-30 hours per week.
Meanwhile, most of Kabiso's roommates don't work at all, and rely on their coach, Mike Barnow, for the necessary race fees and travel expenses. Barnow is as much a humanitarian as he is a coach. Using his own money to subsidize his runners, Barnow is rarely reimbursed. After all, his top runners send whatever they earn back home.
I discovered all this last weekend, after I ran a 5K in Harlem, which Genna Tufa and Serkalem Abrha won with times of 15:34 and 17:40, respectively. I came in 5th, finishing in 16:45, wishing I'd run just over a minute faster and won the men's race myself. Then I did a little research on Tufa and the struggles that he and his fellow immigrant runners face, and I realized that I wouldn't want to beat him.
I like to win races, but he needs to.
[Image: Village Voice]