Iten, Kenya

One night, when I was 18, I sat in bed depressed at 4am. I’d torn my Achilles the previous fall, the price being my spot at any college worth running at.

That night I stumbled upon a VICE video. Two Kiwi runners, who at 16, with only a couple thousand to their names, up and moved to rural Kenya. Iten. The birthplace of many of the world’s finest distance runners. The home of champions. In hopes of becoming the same.

It wasn’t some dreamy montage. They got malaria. Got dropped in workouts. One even dropped a deuce mid-rep. For some reason, though, it spoke to me.

I bought a one-way ticket and packed my life into an Osprey bag.

Perched on the edge of the Great Rift Valley, 7,800 feet up, Iten had a single paved road, miles of hilly red dirt trails, and a history that ran deep—from Kip Keino to David Rudisha. I learned real quick what made these athletes so great. Had to stop and walk more times than I’d like to admit.

Eight thousand miles from home, I got sick, got hurt, trained with athletes whose talent I couldn’t touch. I met my heroes and my best friends. Learned mixing altitude and alcohol makes for a disastrous cocktail. Even narrowly dodged a terror attack in Nairobi.

I left Iten a Man of Oregon, ready to lace up for the world’s best collegiate distance program (if you ran for Arkansas, please seek out the nearest wall and see if it thinks you have a case).

So, I wanted to capture what Iten gave me—the beauty, the smiles, the poetry in every stride. And a couple of me along the way.