By Charles Starmer Smith"Go and stand next to him while I take a photo," urges one of the British squaddies, nodding towards the impossibly long sugar cane frame of one of the Kenyans standing at the start of the Safaricom marathon. I reluctantly oblige, if only to take my mind off what lies ahead: more than 13 miles through the parched rolling hills of the Lewa Wildlife Conservancy in temperatures of 95F (35C) – all at a lung-bursting altitude of 5,500ft. The Kenyan smiles wearily as the elastic of his shorts finishes somewhere near my chest.
My embarrassment intensifies when I realise that these are not any old lanky limbs that we are photographing – they belong to a man who has run 26 miles and 385 yards in less than two hours five minutes – the Kenyan former world record holder, Paul Tergat.
I apologise but he is already engulfed by Beckham-like hysteria – every runner wants their moment with the man. A bit further along Catherine Ndereba, twice the women's world champion, is receiving similar attention. Whatever their running commitments they always make time for their "home" race, organised by the charity, the Tusk Trust. Since its inception in 2000, the race has raised more than £1.4 million for conservation, schooling, hospitals and water projects. Set among undulating bushveld some 140 miles north of Nairobi, the Safaricom marathon is not only one of the world's toughest, but one where you jog alongside the wildlife. Like 900 of the 1,000 participants, I opted for the half-marathon but am aware this will still be no stroll in the savannah.
For most holidaymakers-cum-runners the preceding days are spent admiring game from the safety of a 4x4. Organisers assure us that the big cats have been flushed out of the area. But over breakfast we conclude that, if nothing else, the threat of local lions sizing up the weakest members of the running herd, might just help our times.
It is not just the thrill of running wild that brings people, of all ages, from 20 nations, to Lewa each year, but also the cause. Initially set up to ward off poachers in Ruaha National Park in Tanzania, the Tusk Trust is now in its 20th year. In 2000 the safari marathon idea was conceived to raise funds to help conserve Kenya's rhino population which had been devastated by poaching. Under Tusk's watchful eye, the number of black rhino has risen to more than 100 among Lewa's 62,000 acres - 11 per cent of the total in Kenya. But Tusk's work goes beyond mere conservation. Charlie Mayhew, its founder, who has pledged to run this year for the first time in honour of the charity's 20th birthday, says it aims "to use conservation as a catalyst to alleviate poverty, reduce conflict, and improve education and livelihoods in rural areas".
Of course, paying lip-service to such lofty aims is easy, but a visit to one of the local schools set up with Tusk funding does much to answer those who question whether Tusk can walk the talk. The facilities at the school and its careful assimilation into the community put to shame many projects imposed by much larger charitable organisations, while a nearby water project provides a real lifeline for local tribes' herds ravaged by the unseasonably long drought.
But come race day the disparity between the "haves" and "have-nots" is still hard to take. Shortly after 7am groups of Lycra-clad Americans stretch off next to ruddy-cheeked Britons in rugby shorts and not enough sun cream – their gleaming £100 trainers contrast with the makeshift sandals coated with tyre rubber worn by local villagers. Many of the Kenyan entrants have walked or hitchhiked from outlying villages. Last year Benson Kaptikou sacrificed his only goat to pay for the bus fare to Lewa. But it was a gamble worth taking. He won the race and some $2,000 in prize money.
The gun goes off while Paul Tergat is still posing for a last-minute photo. Ignoring all the pre-race counsel, I take off like a rabbit in the last throes of myxomatosis. Cue the rousing Chariots of Fire music, David Coleman losing his voice with excitement mid-commentary and a thousand camera flashes … for 15 short but glorious strides (OK, so it was only seven of his) I am beating Kenya's most celebrated runner.
But, as sure as anguish will follow euphoria for England football supporters this summer, Tergat sails effortlessly by. His feet barely seem to kiss the rubble-strewn paths, while I slip and slide on the awkward camber of the dusty road.
After 15 minutes of running, the cool, pink dawn is but a distant memory as my skin begins to prickle under the sun. Ahead of me an antlike procession of runners already stretches far into the distance. My breathing becomes worryingly staccato as I weave through the bottleneck of runners, before belatedly slowing to a steadier pace, as I recall the advice of Bruce Tulloh, the sprightly 75-year-old director of the race, to "complete not compete". A much-feted long-distance runner, Tulloh is a man worth listening to. Usually. He also told me that "if anyone takes too long we send out the helicopter, dart them and bring them in".
At the five-mile marker the tortuous long ascents begin. It was hearing about these rolling hills that had seen me, in a last-ditch effort to get fit, head to London's Altitude Centre – a facility used by anyone from families planning trekking holidays in Peru to climbers heading for the Himalayas – for a fast-track education into the debilitating effects of altitude on the body.
It proves a godsend. Rather than panic as my lungs burn in their fight for oxygen, I slow my pace and actually begin to enjoy it. The sun may be beating down but I decide that the London Marathon can keep its Cutty Sark, Westminster Abbey and Mall, for there can be few more inspiring surrounds in which to run than this. In the distance the jagged peaks of Mount Kenya and Ololokwe cast a shadow across the vast plains of burned savannah, where groups of carefree impala bask in the realisation that the big cats have moved on for now.
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