Daniel Head, a 2004 graduate of Rhodes College, was a recipient of the Thomas J. Watson Research Fellowship to pursue an individualized research project around the globe for 12 months. Head chose to explore his project entitled "From Messenger to Masochist: Cultural Motivations of Marathon Runners" in seven countries spanning the globe: Australia, Greece, Egypt, Denmark, United Arab Emirates, Tanzania, and South Africa. During his visit to each country, Head explored the running scene through local running clubs and races, while learning about local cultures and peoples. His report from Australia was published in the Jan-Feb '07 issue, and from Greece in the Mar-Apr '07 issue. Here, he writes of his experiences in Egypt.

Why they don't do it by the Nile

Asalaamu alaykum! Greetings from Cairo! My three months in Cairo have been nothing but the best, and I never found myself bored for even one minute. The running scene is virtually nonexistent but I've managed to be the sole runner on the streets of Cairo, to run a 100-kilometer (62-mile) race past the pyramids, and to drive 400 miles south to Luxor to run a marathon through the Valley of the Kings.

My reason for choosing Egypt as part of my marathon study was two-fold: First, to get the perspective of a Muslim culture to delve deeper into a runner's psyche in order to compare various religious and cultural motivations. Second, to view the perspective of a country whose people have never even put one footstep on the running scene. I figured that in order to understand fully why people run marathons, it's necessary to understand why they don't run at all.

My daily running routine here has become obsolete and I've found myself dreading any kind of run, even the short ones. It only took about a couple weeks of trying to find a comfortable, enjoyable place to run to realize why I was always the sole runner on the streets or in the park. Note the singular form of park. There is only one in Cairo and it has only one running track-a 2-kilometer loop that doubles as a horse racing track, complete with muddy holes and horse manure. Although it's located on an island in the Nile River, it runs underneath the most congested bridge in Cairo. Not a great place for a weekend 14 miler. Not a great place for Tuesday's 3-miler either.

I started off living in a cozy apartment downtown on an island in the Nile in the district of Zamalek before moving out to more "suburban" Masr Gadeeda. I found myself running alone most times-for the first time since I left the States. It was enjoyable at first; I was able to concentrate more on my pace and myself and had more time to ponder life. Until now it was easy to determine one reason people love to run--having a venue to share an experience with other people and a chance to catch up with friends and family. But I had forgotten how meditative running could be while alone and despite the pollution and monotony, I enjoyed the solitude. It wasn't long, though, before I began to notice how much I missed the company. I looked harder for running clubs in Cairo and finally joined one. Not to my surprise, they were 99% western expatriates and ran several miles outside of Cairo in the desert, and only once a week. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the few times I was able to run with them, but it sure was a long way from the sporty, friendly, buff, and talkative Sydney crowd.

Three weeks after I arrived, I took part in my first marathon in Egypt, the Pharaonic 100K (62 miles). Truly the most awful, unorganized, and stressful marathon ever, but also an incredibly rewarding adventure. The Egyptians are friendly and hospitable, yes, but seriously lack any organizational skills. The organizers bussed us to the start line and literally fired the gun when we stepped out, so no warm up or stretching or peeing. We would pass through a village about every mile, and in each would be at least ten kids who would run along beside me and say "What's your name?" and "Hello" and then would snicker when I would say something back to them. That was cute enough for the first 30 miles, but then became such an energy draining annoyance I had to put my politeness to the side and become a stone faced, unfriendly westerner. The rest of my energy went to fending myself off from the bad little kids. Obviously they need to take some lessons from the Cairenes on how to treat foreigners. Some kids would just scream "money, money" and run along next to me and grab at my running shorts. But the worst ones were much worse. One kid came out of the fields in the Nile River Valley and threatened me with his sickle if I didn't give him my watch. Another kid tried to take my Nike cap off my head. One guy threw tomatoes at me from a moving truck. And yet another group of kids ganged up on me and threw stones at me when I passed. I know now they weren't doing it out of hate, but rather for attention, but, nevertheless, I didn't have much understanding with such low blood sugar and fatigue.

The worst part wasn't the attention-starved kids, but rather that the race organizers didn't put any signs at the turns. With only 16 people taking part in a 62-mile stretch of course, it's hard to just "go with the flow." With the little Arabic I had learned, I luckily managed to decipher some of the signs to "Sakara Pyramids," which was the site of the finish line. But, I guess I misread one of the signs at mile 60 (95km) because I ran for another hour after reaching the 95 km sign. So there I was in a village decked out in my running gear and asking the local merchants for directions in my broken Arabic and trying to decipher what they were saying back.

Comprehension after running 60 miles is hard. Speaking Arabic is hard. The combination could be the most grueling endeavor I've ever attempted. Three people pointed me in three different directions, but, elhamduleleh, an angel from heaven appeared in the form of a taxi driver and told me to get in. He knew I didn't have a dime to compensate him, but taxied me to within half a mile of the finish line, pointed to the finish line and said "Yalla ya habiby!" Everything felt surreal as I ran across the finish in the dark, gazed up at a vague silhouette of a pyramid, and accepted my certificate before collapsing in the van.

The race had its good points as well. I slowly ran alongside a train of camels carrying palm branches, which were going even slower than me at mile 50, and saw breathtaking pyramids at both sunrise and sunset. A nice man offered me his donkey to ride on because, of course, anyone who was running was doing so because they had no other means of transportation. Another couple of guys on the side of the road invited me to sit for tea and a puff on the sheesha. All in all it was an awful time, but a great experience and I met some great fellow runners from around the globe. None of them could really tell me why they were running-especially toward the end. I'd never take the experience away, but couldn't say I was eagerly awaiting the next marathon I would be attending in Luxor, organized by the same people . . . gulp.

Although many people have misconceptions about Middle Easterners, one stereotype is right on the money--athleticism is not their forte nor do they know a thing about it. I've always said-it's the people you meet in a place that make it or break it, and here I've met so many hospitable, friendly, and extraordinary Egyptians. However, not one of them was a runner, nor did even one know what a marathon was.

I met a guy my age, Zeyad, who did everything he could to make my time here memorable and informative. He graciously offered to take me on a walking tour of Islamic Cairo. He scheduled our walking tour the morning after the Pharaonic 100km race. He didn't seem to understand just how far 100 km is, and that I actually did it on foot, nonstop. Nor did he have much patience with me as I tried to climb to the top of a minaret to overlook the city. And, of course, he didn't understand why, on the way down the hundreds of steep, winding, stairs, I had a small tear of pain forming in my left eye. Egyptians, from all classes, seem to have no clue or perspective of what the marathon (or running in general) is all about. They've never tried it.

I made a great friend, Ahmed, whose family invited me to live with them for the last two months I was here. Ahmed's family and friends are from the uppermost tier of society and extremely westernized and educated. His cousin, Shamel, a former boxer and still quite athletic, finally agreed to go running with me. Not even a mile into it he was doubled over and asking to stop. I wasn't faring that well either, since he had chosen for us to run down the busiest street in Cairo, Sharia Salah Salem, which connects the airport to the Pyramids. Ahmed was actually intrigued by my project, and wanted to run the marathon with me in Luxor. Six weeks before the marathon, he still hadn't begun to train and insisted that he didn't need that much time to prepare. He was the former captain of Egypt's National Junior Water Polo Team, after all. I insisted he at least do one 13-mile training run with me. "Tayeb yallah," he said, "fine, let's go." After an hour we had finally gotten through 6 miles (mostly walking), and he had to quit. He was sore for about a week and decided not to enter the marathon.

But put the running scene aside for a moment and allow me to clear up some nasty misconceptions about Egypt, Muslims, and the Middle East in general. They don't hate Americans. You don't have to fear for your life on the streets. You won't get raped, killed, or mugged. Muslims don't hate Christians and they aren't fanatics. Even the most fully veiled women and men aren't necessarily closed minded; the other day I had a lovely conversation in the elevator with a woman whose face I couldn't even see As if meeting Ahmed and his family wasn't lucky enough, I also had the chance to get to know another, very different, but equally loving family. The second night I was in Cairo, I got on the metro and exited at a random stop a few miles away from downtown, Dar es Salaam. I hadn't heard of it before, but it looked lively enough. As I read in my Lonely Planet afterwards, it's the poorest neighborhood in Cairo and has been deemed "little China" of Cairo due to its density. When I was wandering, a nice man, Osman, invited me in with his family to celebrate the "Iftar," the meal each day at sunset during Ramadan, the most holy month of the Muslim calendar.

Even though I didn't speak much Arabic yet, and he spoke no English, we all communicated with expressions, and their hospitality and authenticity touched me. I went back a dozen times to enjoy the simple fellowship with them, and to laugh and learn. Sharing time with them has been the most moving experience I've had on my journey so far and what I've learned from this simple and happy family will stay with me forever. Last week Ahmed went with me for dinner at Osman's so he and I finally got the opportunity to discover more about the other, through Ahmed's translation. Osman eloquently explained that "love needs no language" and the fact that our friendship was founded on facial expressions and laughing made it even more special. If everyone could have such an experience the world would be a much better place, insha Allah. Osman, by the way, was not a runner. Nor did he know what a marathon was. Not surprising.

My last weekend in Egypt took me 400 miles south of Cairo, up the Nile to Luxor, home of the Valley of the Kings and Queens, for the 11th annual Egyptian Marathon. The road trip there was the most memorable portion of the weekend. Ahmed and I rented a car and navigated our way down. Besides dozens of security guards assuming he was kidnapping me and holding me hostage, the big surprise was when the four-lane highway hit a dead end in the middle of the desert. No sign, no nothing. I slammed on my brakes just in time to stay on the pavement before literally falling off into the sand in front of us. I was suddenly reminded of the shortage of signs in the 100km race back in November and started eagerly anticipating what insanity was awaiting me during the next marathon. I wasn't sure I could put up with another disorganized race leaving me exhausted and pissed off. If we weren't almost in Luxor, I might have just turned around then in fear of what the marathon would be like. I didn't want to run. I was starting to become an Egyptian . . . shwaya shwaya.

The weekend turned out beautifully. Ahmed and I stayed at the Movenpick with the rest of my running club from Cairo. We toured Luxor the day before the event, had a nice dinner while we watched the sun set over the Nile, and went to bed early. The beginning and end of the race was Queen Hatshepsut's temple and provided an appropriate backdrop to the startling line of the race through the Valley of the Kings. The marathon started on time; the only catch was that we started with the 5K runners. Ordinarily this might have been okay, but the 5K runners were a group of about 200 Egyptian middle and high school students from the area. As I've already referred to, most of the kids had never run before in their lives. You can just imagine the sprint and chaos that filled the first half- mile, and then the next mile or two of dodging the walkers and dropouts.

The course went by some great sites and monuments, but by the fourth loop I was more than ready for it to be over, especially in the 90-degree winter heat. As I ran toward the finish line, I remembered the 1997 massacre of 54 tourists shot dead right at this very spot and suddenly wondered whether it was appropriate for so many westerners to be running into the temple. Ahmed greeted me as I crossed the finish line and although he seemed either tired or sad, I could tell he was pretty happy with his decision not to enter the race. He let me get my medal and Gatorade before he told me his grandmother, who lived with him back in Cairo, had passed away that morning. He had the car waiting and we high-tailed it back north for the funeral.

This afternoon I leave for Denmark, which is going to be a complete shift from hot and dusty Cairo! I'm looking forward to the bitter cold and the jolly Christmas atmosphere. In Denmark I'll be living with a Danish runner and his family, which should be the perfect way to spend Christmas abroad.