The only famous Catherines she knew growing up were dead Catherines.
And because she wanted to know how it would feel to be famous, for your name to be read by the whole world, Catherine Ndereba would cut the name Catherine out of the newspaper and stick it in her exercise book. She could not imagine her own name appearing in a newspaper while she was still alive.
It is a strange origin story for a woman who would become one of the most decorated marathoners in history: four-time winner in Boston, twice in Chicago, a world record holder, a double Olympic silver medalist, and for two decades the most recognisable name in Kenyan distance running. Her name appeared in newspapers local and foreign, again and again, and she is still very much alive.
Running was never a plan. It was just something she did, in Nyeri, without knowing it would lead anywhere. But she was good at it, good enough that the first time she ran as a guest for the Kenya Prisons team, at Nyayo Stadium, before she’d even been hired, she beat Helen Chepng’eno, the world cross-country champion, in the 3,000 metres. The doors opened almost immediately. She was 21, unemployed, and suddenly a corporal.
What followed was two decades of races won and lost in equal measure, a debut Boston Marathon so punishing she finished sixth and had to be wheeled off the course, a daughter who once asked her father who the woman under the blanket was, and a return, the following year, that ended in victory. ‘If you have nothing to sacrifice, you have nothing to gain.’
She retired at 42, went back to a quiet life as a government employee of Prisons, now a deputy director, Rehabilitation, Welfare and Sports, heading the sports section. We met in her office, a petite woman in a forest of trophies.
When did you realise you were good at running?
It was not until I was out of school. I just ran because it was my passion. I didn’t know anything would come of it; running made me happy.
Were there people running in Nyeri whom you looked up to?
My neighbour used to run, as did another boy from my primary school who got a job with Kenya Power. But I wouldn’t say I looked up to them.
In Form Four, a schoolmate told me that she had dreamed that Armed Forces officials came to our school looking for me. I jokingly said, ‘Those are good prayers, amen’. Little did I know I would end up in the discipline forces.
Right after school, I joined Kenya Prisons on August, 15, 1994. This was after I met some prison officials in Nyeri who noticed my talent and invited me to run for their team as a guest at the championships in May that year. That’s how my door opened.
At Nyayo Stadium, I competed against world cross-country gold medalist Helen Chepng’eno in the 3,000 metres race, and I beat her.
That must have been a great upset. How old were you?
I was 21. The commissioner (of Prisons) said, ‘If that girl is an officer, she should be promoted to corporal’. The head of my region said, ‘Sir, she’s not even an officer, she doesn’t have a job.’ He said, ‘Then that is a talent we should consider next time we enrol’. That’s how I got the job.
Are there athletes in your family?
Yes. My dad used to run, although I only learned that through my grandmother, because my dad never talked about it. I don’t know why.
The first time you earned good money from running, did it come as a shock?
What really amazed me is that my name was published in the newspaper. Throughout secondary school, I desired to see my name, Catherine, in newspapers.
But whenever I checked, the only place I found my name, or one close to mine, was in the obituaries section. I used to look for anybody named Catherine, cut out their name and stick it in my exercise book. I didn’t imagine my name could appear in the paper while I was alive.
You won the Boston Marathon four times, the Chicago Marathon twice and several other major races. What did you have to sacrifice?
A lot. I have a keychain with my motto: If you have nothing to sacrifice, you have nothing to gain. I’m married, so a wife; I’m a mother, a daughter, and a daughter-in-law. There were many times I was needed at home to attend to one or another responsibility that comes with the above roles, but I had to sacrifice all that to make sure that I flew the department’s flag high, and that of the nation too.
How did it feel the first time you won something and they played the national anthem?
I remember very well. Boston Marathon. It was spring, so it wasn’t very cold. I couldn’t stop crying.
What was it like to become globally famous almost overnight; a girl from Nyeri suddenly recognised around the world?
It made me uneasy. People pointing, staring, whispering. It was a shock at first, but I got used to it. You have to remain humble, even when everything around you asks you to be proud.
How did your extended family react to your success?
Nobody believed in me at first, apart from my parents. They didn’t have any restrictions; they were just watching to see what would come out of this. My cousins said things. Not many people, even in my neighbourhood, believed my running would have a significant impact on my life.
Who was the first person outside your parents to believe in you?
Mr Maina, my Grade Six class teacher. He believed I had the talent and encouraged me. After practice, we would get half a loaf of bread and a soda to replenish our energy, and some classmates started ridiculing me for it, saying I only ran because I couldn’t afford bread and soda.
You ran professionally for 20 years, what was the most difficult period?
Raising my daughter. Having to go race abroad after maternity leave and leaving her behind with my husband and my sisters.
Does she remember those days?
She does. She’s a woman now. I’m a grandmother. [Chuckles]. We talk about it. It used to make her feel lonely and left behind, and she developed into more of a daddy’s girl. That didn’t bother me; girls are often closer to their fathers anyway.
Did you meet your husband before you started running, or during your career?
Before I became popular. We met at prison college, enrolled the same year, same class, what they call school squads. We were in Squad 15. We fell in love and later got married.
Retired Kenyan Marathon Runner Catherine Ndereba poses for a photo at ACK Guest House on September 16, 2026.
Francis Nderitu | Nation Media Group
How did he handle your fame?
He didn’t have any problem; he was really considerate and supportive. When I had my baby, I had some baby fat and struggled to get back into shape, so he motivated me to train. He’d transferred to Nairobi and would take me out for morning runs and speed work at Nyayo Stadium, 400 metres at a time, because I was too heavy to run fast. He’d start ahead and tell me, ‘Run so fast that I don’t catch you’. That’s how I got my speed back.
Does your daughter have the talent for running?
She does, but it wasn’t in her heart. She didn’t like it. I can’t blame her; I think she hated it because it used to steal her mum from her.
Do you miss those periods…running, winning trophies, travelling?
I don’t miss it. I gave it my all. It was a season, and once a season is over, you accept and build for something else.
You later developed a leg problem and had to retire, what happened?
I retired earlier than I planned, at 42 instead of 45. I believed my running was a mission, and a mission has a season, so I asked God for a sign for when to exit, and I took the injury as that sign. I was told I needed surgery; I asked to heal naturally instead, since it was my choice, even though it would take longer. I don’t regret it. I went back to the office at Nairobi West Prison in 2011, did a senior management course, and got promoted from chief officer to superintendent.
Your successes are well documented. But what failure stays with you.
[Chuckles] I don’t think I have anything I’d call a failure, only lessons.
How did it feel when you lost a race?
The one I lost that I don’t count as a loss, my second silver from the Beijing Olympics, I call it my gold. I was prepared to win gold, but developed back issues, and it rained at the start, so my back seized. I lost my competitors and couldn’t tell who was ahead.
Past 25 kilometres, I caught the chasing group, not realising someone was ahead of them. Around 39 kilometres, I spotted a runner on the other side of the road. It was Costantina Di?a of Romania, who had never beaten me. I closed a two-minute gap, but it was too close to the finish, one or two more kilometres and I would have caught her.
Running at that level must come with some unimaginable pain. Can you tell me something about that?
Nothing compares to the Boston Marathon, my debut, where I started winning. I went in 1999 out of frustration, with speed but not enough mileage. My manager said there was no budget except for marathons, so I told her, jokingly, book me anyway.
The organiser offered two return tickets and $10,000 if I finished top 10. I felt strong until past 30 kilometres, then my mileage ran out. I was number two, running with defending champion Fatuma Roba, passing the Boston College, where students cheered me on. I told myself Fatuma would know who Catherine was at the finish line. But she switched gears, and I couldn’t respond.
By 40 kilometres, I was exhausted, almost stopping, and had to stop for my water bottle. Moses Tanui, who’d already stopped himself, yelled at me not to stop, so I kept going, although it was a painful uphill and I could barely lift my legs. I finished sixth, passed near the finish line by Japanese and Ecuadorian runners. I could not move; my feet were cramping so badly I had to be carried off in a wheelchair. My daughter, I was later told, seeing me on TV covered in a towel and foil, asked my husband, ‘Who is that, daddy?’ It didn’t help that the photo that ran in the papers wasn’t nice.
That must have been painful in a different way…
If I were a coward, I could not have gone back, but it didn’t stop me. That night, around 3am, I had a strong feeling in my heart: even tomorrow, you’ll be on the podium. In the morning, my manager, Lisa Buster, asked me one honest question: Will you ever run a marathon again? I said, ‘Why not?’ She high-fived me and said, “If, despite all that pain, you give me that answer, you are a champion’. The following year, I won.
Do you still run?
Once in a while, not every day, just for recreation. Like when I was in Korea for the Masters World Championships, I’d wake up every morning to run.
Do people still recognise you in the streets?
Some do, some don’t.
You are just a girl from Nyeri who went to the world and won many important marathons, broke a world record and did so much. Do you ever wonder, why you?
It is very humbling. I don’t fully understand it; only God knows. I’m a third-born; nobody believed in me, not even myself. I just followed my desire, my passion. Even after school, I kept running every morning, not knowing why, just enjoying myself.
What else are you passionate about now?
The word of God.
Do you still keep in touch with the people you ran with, the people you beat, the people who beat you, your managers?
I try to. Naoko Takahashi, the Japanese runner who broke the world record a week before I broke it, invites me to her half marathon in her village, Gifu, Japan. I even ran it competitively for two years, 2010 and 2011; I won the first one and came second in the next.
Which country made the biggest impression on you?
The US, then Japan. In Europe I did some in London and Italy, also New Zealand and the Netherlands.
Where did you get your financial advice from? Did you have a team?
No, just my family and my manager. My first cheque came in May 1995. My manager wouldn’t bank it in her own account. When I got my third, she said, ‘Catherine, your money is not my money, and I’ll be taxed for it’. ‘What we’re going to do’, she said, ‘is take you to the bank, you open your own account and give me power of attorney, so I can move money for you when you’re travelling’. And that’s how we lived
Are you happy with how you spent your money?
Very happy. I count myself one of the most blessed, because I didn’t misuse my money.