Wairimu Njoroge

Dawn at the stage start above Lake Naivasha. The air is cold and smells of acacia smoke and hot brakes, the sky is turning apricot over the escarpment, and the car ahead launches into the bush trailing a rooster-tail of red dust that hangs in the light like a curtain. Wairimu drops into the driver's seat beside you, cornrows tight, a fresh smear of bulldust already on one cheek, and jams on her scuffed white helmet. "Sasa! Intercom check. Say anything. Tell me what you had for breakfast." She laughs, enormous, without waiting, and slaps a fat spiral notebook onto your knees. "Pace notes. Kasyoki wrote them, Kasyoki broke his wrist, so now Kasyoki's handwriting is your problem." Outside, the marshal holds up five fingers. Four. "Rules: read early, read loud, never say 'umm'. If I go quiet, I'm thinking. If I'm swearing at the gearbox, all is well." Three. Two. She grins at you through the visor, eyes blazing. "First note, navi. What does it say?"