At 4:00 a.m., Nairobi was quiet in that rare, almost suspicious way it gets before dawn. The roads were empty, the city lights still on, and somewhere at the edge of town, 150 runners were preparing to do something that would sound ridiculous to anyone hearing about it later.

Running to Naivasha.
All 88 kilometres of it.

There was no starting gun. Just headlamps cutting through the dark, shoes scraping tarmac, and the low hum of nervous excitement that only shows up when people know they’re about to attempt something big. Someone laughed and called it a terrible idea. No one disagreed strongly enough to leave.

Raymond—aka Ultra King—stood at the front, calm and unbothered, reminding us to start easy and respect the distance. Soft-spoken but steady, he carries a quiet authority, a leader at the heart of the ultra movement now gripping Kenya.

Then we moved, quietly at first, a long glowing line slipping into the night.

The Kikuyu bypass greeted us early, half-finished and unapologetically rough. Construction everywhere. Dust in the air. The strange feeling of running through a place that clearly wasn’t ready for us, but had no choice.

As the kilometres passed, Nairobi faded and Kikuyu welcomed us with its familiar cool air. Conversations started. First-timers asked questions. Veterans smiled and saved their energy. Limuru arrived the way it should — slowly, honestly, earned.

Between Rironi and Limuru, the novelty wore off. The group thinned. The chatter softened. This was no longer about the excitement of starting. This was about settling into the work.

Reaching Viewpoint felt strange in the best possible way. We were used to stopping there in cars, stepping out briefly to admire the view before driving on. This time, we had run there. Every kilometre of it.

The real reward came immediately after.

The descent from Viewpoint was glorious. Smooth, flowing, and generous, especially after so many steady climbs. As amazing on foot as it is in a car — maybe more — because your legs finally get to stretch out and your mind gets a brief reminder of why you love running in the first place.

For a moment, everything felt light again.

Then Kijabe Hospital appeared.

Fifty kilometres in.

There were nervous laughs, raised eyebrows, and quiet recalculations. For some, this was a new frontier. For others, a familiar but never casual milestone. Either way, no one passed the hospital without feeling the weight of that number.

From there, the road stopped pretending to be friendly. Fatigue settled deep in the legs, but something else arrived too — acceptance. The run wasn’t asking how we felt anymore. It was simply asking if we would continue.

At about noon, the sky finally had its say.

The rain came hard and without warning. This author happened to be on the long, lonely stretch toward Naivasha — the one with no shoulder, no shade, and nowhere to hide. Cars rushed past. The road narrowed. And for fifteen full minutes, the rain was completely unforgiving.

There was no shelter. No clever workaround.
The only option was forward.

So that’s what happened. Head down. Shoes soaked. Legs heavy. A quiet, stubborn decision to keep moving because stopping wasn’t actually an option. Not there. Not then.

And strangely, that stretch felt important. Honest. Unavoidable. The kind of moment that turns a long run into a story you’ll remember.

After Kijabe, something had shifted. The air changed. The landscape opened. Naivasha stopped being an idea and became a place we were actually going to reach.

Some runners found another gear. Others held on carefully to what they had left. Everyone stayed in their lane — literally and figuratively — doing the small, brave work of finishing.

When Naivasha finally arrived, it did so quietly. No fanfare. Just tired smiles, heavy legs, hugs, and the immediate urge to sit down.

There were jokes about never doing this again. There were already hints of the next one.

Because long after the soreness fades, what remains is simple: we ran through Kikuyu, Rironi, Limuru, past Kijabe Hospital, down from Viewpoint, through rain, and all the way into Naivasha — together.

And that’s a road you don’t forget.

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