MY## A RMthousands, alighting for a moment and animating every leafand branch with motion, song, frantic wing-flapping. I stop,watch and listen, and start running again.Fifty metres ahead of me and straddling the road standabout a dozen zebras. As I approach they look up, skittish,bothered. I pause and look back at my guide in the followvehicle. He waves me ahead, amused that I’m slowingdown for zebras – one of the few species out here that poseabsolutely no danger to me. The zebras quickly move to oneside of the path as I approach. Nearby, I see a jackal slinkaway, then a couple of warthogs shuffle to the side. I realizethat running at the level of these animals, versus staringfrom a perch in a Land Cruiser, allows me to senseaits and gallops as much as their shapes, patterns, ands, especially from a distance. It reminds me of the firstrunner’s trick was revealed to me: I was meeting Paulson, 52, now a New York masters legend who I usedto run with frequently in Singapore, for a dawn group run inthat city-state. Before I even came into view, he yelled out,“Morning, Tom!” having identified me just by the sound ofmy gait. I hope that after a few days out here, I’ll be able todo the same for the myriad animals around me.As the morning sun warms the land, the plains comealive with the motion of thousands of mammals big and smallnow visible in every direction. Towards the distant horizonline there’s a herd of a hundred or so buffalo that looks likea jagged black wall, silhouetted by the sun. Closer to meon the right, two hyenas hop along with a gait that lookssuspicious, scavengery. Just ahead of them, many hundredsof topi, a kind of medium-sized antelope with a reddish-brown coat and awkward-looking posture, stand on eitherside of the trail. When they spot me approaching, the topibegin to move as one, stampeding to the side to escape me.I’m close enough that I can hear their hooves poundingloudly into the damp earth. As I approach they move evenfaster. I too pick up my pace, sprinting as hard as I can, myheart racing, my breathing accelerating. In the face of myexertion, they barely respond, their crossing point movingjust a tiny bit further and further away from me, down thetrail, until finally the last animal of the massive herd hascrossed in front of me; and as one, they gently slow down,come to a stop, and resume their grazing.In their lifetime each of these animals will have seenabout a thousand humans drive by, but they hardly ever seeanother runner like me. This isn’t just unusual for them. Theseruns are the most extraordinary, sublime, and immersiveencounters of my life.About now I’m sure you’re wondering how in the worldI managed to swing this. I’m lucky enough to call travellingmy trade – I’m a travel writer and roving video producer,and I’ve gone on safaris from Zimbabwe to Kenya, Botswanato Tanzania. Years ago, on one of my first safaris in Africa, Iheard that it was forbidden to run in areas inhabited by wildanimals. I wanted to dismiss this notion just like I’d dismissso many similar warnings I’d hear about a place being toorough or dangerous or off-limits to runners. But this wasone I couldn’t ignore. I simply wasn’t allowed to run in mostsafari areas because they are national parks, with strict rulesthat often prohibit exiting the vehicle, never mind going on aleisurely 10-K. The wild animals also presented a fundamentalproblem: I was told repeatedly by my safari guides thatGOE## OFFwhen it’s still dark outside my tent. Well, that’s what it’s called technically,but this tent comes with a four-poster bed, a cut-crystal decanter filled withport, and a wooden terrace overlooking the rolling grasslands of SingitaGrumeti, a private reserve north-west of the Serengeti National Park inTanzania. Even in the presence of such luxuries, I can’t shake the knowledgethat right now, alone in the black of night, I am completely surrounded bycreatures. I can’t see the animals, but I can hear and – even more clearly- imagine them: there’s a rustle of frantic scurrying just behind my bed,then some kind of desperate struggle in the dirt, all sounding close enoughthat I could touch whatever is making that noise. There’s snorting comingfrom the direction of the terrace that I hope is only warthogs. Further away,other animals squeal, shift location, and squeal again. In the distance is themost magnificent, frightening sound of all: the low, rumbling, unmistakableroar of a lion. While it’s still dark – and before I’m overwhelmed by fears of how muchforce the thick canvas tenting material can withstand – a guard escorts meto the dining area, a rifle slung over his shoulder, shining his flashlight backand forth in front of our path to spot and scare away any dangerous animals. Isip an espresso and watch the land go from murky blackness to amber dawn,until finally the orb of the sun peeks over the rolling plains that stretch tothe end of the horizon, and their true colour is revealed: a rich green, theresult of nourishing seasonal rains that began just weeks ago, after a long,dry season. I look at my armed companion and give a nod. I’m ready to run.I’M ON SAFARI in Tanzania’s Singita Sabora Tented Camp, situated in a vast,private, protected tract of savannah. The small number of other guests at thistiny, ultra-luxe property come here to go out on game drives and spot animals.I’m here for something different: to run alongside the same animals the restof the safari-goers will stare at from the comfort and safety of their vehicles.As the sun crests the horizon, and there’s finally enough light to spotpredators, I start to run out of the camp. As I pick up the pace, it’s not lionsroaring but the sound of European swallows chirping that drowns out themorning. They swoop from acacia to acacia in packs of hundreds, maybe