Osaka was my second marathon. After completing the Tokyo marathon back in February, I had decided to make the marathon an annual event in my life, but I suppose something in me grew too fond of that great distance, and I was drawn right back in to participate once again, by the one race that rules them all, far sooner than I had anticipated allowing myself to do. So, 8 months after Tokyo, I found myself crammed into a 9 hour midnight bus ride to Osaka, on my way to meet the source of the sweet siren song sung by such a seductive serpentine beast, in order to see if I still had enough charm left in my legs to flee free from harm once again, in a race renowned for killing the messenger.
Pre-marathon
I suppose race day actually starts on the eve of the event. I was certainly sure that sticking to the pasta carb-loading tradition was the way to go, as it had helped me immensely last time around, but being on the road made things a bit tricky. The residence apartment I was staying at for the week did have a kitchen, at the foot of the bed, which, as you might imagine, wasn't the ideal stage to attempt a culinary magic show on, but I sloughed the straightjacket, and went to work with the space I had, sawing my nutritional assistants in half. The stove was little more than a single hotplate with 3 setting: 1) off 2) two people 3) three people. If you find it odd that the heat of the hotplate is measured in silhouettes of people, that's probably because it was odd. I thought at first they represented matchsticks, but upon closer inspection, I had a hard time refuting the very nature of their people-esque appearance. Maybe this stove was purchased at a clearance sale after the Soylent Green factory shut down, when the economy sank, as if tethered to a stone, at the end of the Salem witch trials? Anyway, I did my best juggling routine, working between the one source of heat and a variety of cookware, to keep an array of pasta, bread, & veggies swirling around my plate, while remaining ever cautious in leaving just enough pasta leftover for the all important predawn recharge.
Sleep came as a pleasant surprise. I really wasn't expecting to get a wink, but ended up with nearly 5 hours rest. I'd occasionally wake up in "pounce mode", expecting to get a jump on the alarm, but after a bleary inspection of the room, I realized I still had a few hours to go. When the alarm did sound for real, I lurched right into the leftovers as if I were answering the door at the Adams family estate, flinging open the refrigerator with a bellowing "you rang?".
Unfortunately there was no marinara sauce left; nor veggies or seasonings of any kind. So I sat, shoulders slouched, with my spindly legs dangling over the foot of the bed, as if it were the curb in front of an empty little league field where my absent-minded professor of a father, once again, had forgotten to pick me up after practice, shoveling cold forkfuls of plain, semi-crusty, capellini into my half awake face. This was a mechanized maneuver born from rote memory of simply intaking fuel, rather than anything resembling enjoyment of the meal itself. The carbs were a necessity, and I was determined to take them in, flavor be damned! I also had a spread of supplements ranging from ginseng to B-12 that I slowly began downing with glass after glass of tap water over the course of the next hour and a half. This copious quenching of thirst by the dawn's early light would play a Francis Scott Key role in complicating matters once I arrived at the castle gates ready to run the marathon.
Vegan Marathon Runner Supplies
It was time to head out the door, and even though I had written down very detailed directions on how to get from the apartment to the marathon check in area, I knew it was most likely an unnecessary step—other than satisfying my predilection for being obsessed with minutia—because: 1) the starting point was at Oskaka castle. This is probably the easiest place to get to from anywhere in Osaka. The subway map for the city itself carves out a rather unique negative space around the existence of the castle, so finding it wasn't even going to enter the spectrum of challenges that day. 2) when you're one of 30,000 runners heading to the same event, at the same time, chances are you just need to follow the influx of running shoes and plastic bags. This is one instance where the crowd knows best, so I didn't even doubt for a moment that I was heading in the right direction.
Starting the marathon around the outer moat of the Osaka castle was a flash of genius on the part of the race coordinators. Even though the area was packed with peoples, I never felt too boxed in (other than leaving the platform at the train station), because there was an abundance of open space surrounding the area. The only obstacles I did run into at that point were time constraints for the bag check coupled with the ill-fated bathroom situation. After leaving the station, we were collected like trading cards into an open baseball field. Along the way, I hopped in the first bathroom line I saw, and started changing my running gear while waiting in a near standstill line. This went on for several minutes without more than an awkward step or two forward. My anxiety grew like a fresh tilled garden of good grief while watching the clock click closer to check in time with no foreseeable end to my current circumstance in sight. I knew these races are run by sticklers for punctuality, so I was worried if I missed the bag check deadline, I'd be shouldered to the back pack of the starting line.
A small band of cantankerous old timers fomented a revolt from the back of the bathroom line. A chain, 5 links strong, pushed past the rest of us young whipper-snappers, murmuring something about this taking too long, and they shouldn't have to wait. While I agree, in general, with most of what they said, I found it in poor character that they leaned on their age crutches and hobbled to the front of the line. Nobody said a single word to them. I suppose it's understandable, if you consider Japanese society is influenced, at its core, by hints of Confucianism, in the sense that deference is due to the elderly—plus, with such a display of brazen lunacy, nobody probably wanted to deal with the potential backlash of craziness these coots were capable of—but that's when I decided to ditch out of the line.
My new plan was bag check first, then circle back around to find a whiz palace on the outskirts of the castle, while doing my best to resist the hypnotic shimmer of the surrounding moat. This new plan went smoothly up to a point. The check-in lines were nearly non-existent (probably because everyone was busy waiting in the bathroom lines). I threw the rest of my belongings into the sack and headed back to find a new relief area to a greater degree of success.
The starting blocks were set up as a siege surrounding the castle, after which we were meant to take the city by storm. I liked the way they had laid out the line up area. We wound in and around the smaller outside moat area, with the green & yellow canopy of ginko trees linning the streets, then went through a series of small bridges & fancy gates on the way to our designated start areas. All the while Osaka castle perched upon the hill, like one of the many tigers that adorn its upper level facade, watching over the proceedings with a keen cautious eye.
There was a slight drizzle of droplets falling from the drab canopy of clouds lingering above, and with 20 minutes to kill until start time—which, from where I was, equates to at least 35 minutes of overall waiting to cross the starting line—I perused my ipod for something to settle my jittery nerves. I found the upbeat optimistic swing of Ella & Basie's On the Sunny Side of the Street was a fitting juxtaposition to the otherwise overwrought air of the pre-race atmosphere. The runners in my area (H) had space to spare, which was a luxury that afforded us some much welcomed last minute warm-up stretches to stay loose & limber for the task ahead. Right about then, it became clear that I was in need of another whiz break—damn that diuretic indulgence of caffeine!—but I bulldozed those thoughts to the back of my brainpan, because there wasn't enough time to risk getting to the lot & back again; I was stuck, unless I was ready to rekindle, and concede to, reconstructing the moat idea.
I was also getting hungry again. I guess I didn't recharge enough in the morning with those cold Capellini noodles. After all, breakfast was a dish best not served cold, but at 5am, all I had was the ever vengeful Wrath of Khan plate of refrigerated carbs to settle the score; now that it was 9am—and I had burnt up a lot of fuel walking to get here—I really wanted something more. I had meant to stop at a conbini to grab an onigiri (rice ball) and some orange juice along the way, but ended up with no time to spare, as I was Spirited Away in the migratory motion of the morning's marathon milieu. It was here that thoughts of bananas began prancing pirouettes in a perennial play throughout my head, and there they would stay, in a far off fantasy filled fog, for quite sometime.
THE RACE BEGINS...
There was a false start. Our herd suddenly jolted into a jog, then after about 200 meters, we collectively compressed into a stop like a box-spring bed beneath the girth of something that once ate Gilbert Grape easing into slumbering postion. It must have had something to do with the confluence of our starting sections funneling into the same bottleneck as the adjoining segment of blocks (D through F). It was a tease to be sure, but that initial motion shot through me, and I was now raring to go. We had to walk the rest of the way to the starting line, as the area was obstructed by an abundance of bodies that just couldn't move forward any faster. So, against all other worldly urges, our race began not with bang (though there was one), but more of an awkwardly stifled run/walk whimper.
Around the bend the road spread out a bit, so the pace quickened considerably, but getting out ahead of people at this point was difficult. There was no space to kick forward, so you just had to go with whatever pace was dictated by the group. This is a problem that cropped up in other fields throughout the marathon. At points, the path was just too narrow to pick your own pace, so you're saddled with whatever speed the flock of seagulls is flying. Initially, I was frustrated by this, but overall, I just relaxed, and accepted that there are basically two ways to run a marathon: fast or fun. If you're idea of fun is going fast, then you're probably better off in one of the lead starting blocks (A-C). Otherwise, you're going to use up excess energy trying to charge around the droves of runners ahead of you. While I'm sure it's readily possible—especially if you're in top-notch shape and remain consciously aggressive about your goal time—to pull in impressive finish times from the back of the pack, I was wary of wearing out my welcome in the race so soon after starting. So I thought it best to conserve my energy for the later miles, and cruised by, content with the current of my contemporaries.
The road eventually did widen, but the course, oddly enough, did not. Though there was plenty of space along the side, there were traffic cones corralling us into the center of the street. I thought this was a bad idea, because—despite what the organizers probably saw as a good thing—it created a distance between race participants and the crowds, alienating us from one another. Whether your the one that tears the tape crossing the finish line first, or you're the person in a Suica penguin suit shuffling along in last place, marathons are, to some extent, at their best when acting as an interactive parade. The challenge of running one is yours alone, but finding encouragement in a supportive crowd, and reveling in the festive nature of it all, is a big part of remaining motivated during such an extended endurance challenge.
I had turned off my ipod almost immediately after crossing the starting line, because I was looking forward to hearing the cheers & soaking in some spirited excitement of the marathon atmosphere, but the trees of fandom that lined the Osaka city streets at that point were barren of anything fruitful. Indeed, other than some random raucousness, the early stages of the marathon were so quite, I suspected that maybe the officials had used the marathon as a ruse in order to surreptitiously line the course with mime troops, in a greedy grab for some Guinness World Records title for longest pantomime line ever. I was certain, they had finally found a way to meld Marcel Marcaeu & Hands Across America into one substance, creating an of awe inspiring wall of speechless spectators. I had a bad feeling about this. As I settled into approaching this race from the side of fun, I casually scanned the sidelines for prospects to assist in satiating the hankering for some much anticipated high fives, but the outlook, thus far, was bleak. Maybe it was because this was Osaka's inaugural marathon that the crowds didn't really know how to react to the event, but I spent much of my early miles wishing for someone to really teach this town how to spectate properly. I had been told, prior to arriving in Osaka, that this was a city known for it's outrageous and fun loving citizens, a place that traded comedy gold as its currency, but none of that spirit was on display now, as we marched forth in nearly eerie silence.
I skipped the first bathroom because I figured only suckers, or those in desperate need of relief, seek out the first station. Either way, I wasn't longing to hang out in those lines. By the time I got to the second spot, I realized I shot myself in the foot, because it seemed that everyone with the smart idea of skipping the first area made a point of going to the second one. So I blew through the second stop, and with another hop, skip, and a jump, found myself waiting in a long winding line at the third area. I'm pretty sure none of the choices in this miscalculation would have added up to solving the equation all that much better, however, my comfort quotient may have increased had I solved for sum much sooner.
We then passed a patch of water that I recognized as Dotonbori. This is one of the few places my brief, and often unsuccessful, excursions into sightseeing in the days leading up to the race, had led me— twice. During the day it was a completely different vibe, but still exciting. At night, a person can become disoriented among the many candy colored sights that adorn the facades of various stores & restaurants lining the thin canal with a spectacle of neon advertising that brands the blazing images of commerce to the inside of the skull. One spot in particular stands out by capturing the attention with the motion of a bright blue neon backdrop forming a track around a runner, the Glico Man—the real deal Willy Wonka of sorts. Erected in 1935, this is surely an attraction any runner would divine inspiration from while visiting Osaka prior to a race. It was comforting to cross paths with Ezaki Glico once again, and know I was in, somewhat, familiar territory. Other than this Namba neighborhood, and the far off finishing area, I had no idea what was in store for me as I footed through the framework of Osaka's endoskeleton. As we careened past this slim strip of stores, dimmed by daylight, the bystanders' vibe became more alive than it had been before, but turned decidedly dull once again, as we hooked north to hustle up the far more office oriented center of Midosuji street.
Dotonbori: The Glico Man
The course soon split off, letting the 10-K challenge runners rule the wide center berth of the road, while forcing the marathon runners into a slim, overcrowded, side section of the street. So, we finally did move closer to the crowd, but the majority of them were still in that awkward gawking phase. It seemed a bit unfair that the 10-K kids were getting the better treatment at that particular point in the path, but I guess the coordinators assumed, overall, marathoners were going at a slower pace, so the 10-K participants needed the extra space to charge ahead. Though, I doubt the 10-K runners came anywhere near the sheer number of participants that the marathon had (27,000 participants physically showed up to run), which probably suggests even more, that the marathon gang could have benefited from the added roaming room all the more. Maybe I was just irked about being cooped up in the narrow conduit, while the short distance runners got to frolic freely as they saw fit. Overall, it wasn't that big of a deal, I just thought it was another slight misstep in overall course planning. I realize, I'm probably being too critical of Osaka. As my second marathon I'm nitpicking the things that didn't stack up to my expectations in a way I didn't bother doing with Tokyo, since I was undoubtedly far too starstruck to pay attention to any potential shortcomings during that first marathon. I was also slightly crestfallen from the get go, because I was taking on Oskaka Han Solo, since Vin had to bail out early in this journey due to a training injury. Anyway, at the end of the street, the 10-K runners went on their merry way in one direction, and the marathoners continued on in another.
The first leg of the course was basically travelling around the West Side Story of the Osaka castle, then jetting back through the heart of the city. Right around where the right atrium would be, anatomically, there was a nice stretch of road that sent us bounding over a short arching bridge onto a narrow strip of an island where the Osaka central public hall is nestled in a fertile crescent among beautifully tended gardens, and caressed on both sides by one of the many inlets that naturally demarcates Osaka's numerous neighborhoods. A small orchestra was performing outside the hall. The tail end of a song had just began drifting off through air as my section of runners approached, and we all broke into applause for them. I'm not sure they were expecting the accolades, but they bowed appreciatively in response. In a race, that on occasion, felt as if Tralfamadorians may have placed us upon a hamster wheel, while recycling the scenery behind us, like in an old cartoon chase scene, the architecture of the buildings along this particular strip, combined with the landscape surrounding it, and the genial atmosphere it was drenched in at that moment, made this section, in addition to the Osaka castle & Kyocera dome areas, a true highlight of the sightseeing aspect of the race.
Osaka's "Isn't it good here" Book
At the center of the city we slithered along the underbelly of a towering overpass that cast a shadowy presence down upon us, but at least it sheltered us from the rain. Here it became clear that where the orange traffic cones, once posted as perimeters promoting gridlock, actually proved much more useful to the crafty fleet foxes that out-footed their confinements: the no-go zone, quickly became a speedway. There were staff members that would earnestly attempt to wave you back to the appropriate side of the cones along the way (because a cone alone can't be trusted to uphold such authority), but if you kept going fast clip, careening in & out along the edge of the lane, there was nothing they could really do but gesticulate. I would often wave & smile at them, making it look like I was in the midst of an honest mistake of stepping out of the runner's lane, and ever so slightly embarrassed, thankful for the helpful staff members guiding me back in the right direction, only to hop back out again up ahead: win-win! At one point, the guy that was supposed to be course correcting my out-of-bounds trajectory, started clapping and with a nod gave me the old "がんばって". He probably knew, I knew, what I wasn't supposed to do, but figured, what the hell, let the kid have some fun. Honestly though, I wasn't the only one charging down the speedway, so I'm guessing as long as you were using it to pass people, and you didn't overstay your welcome, they somewhat tolerated the abuse.
Soon after, my friend called out to me from the crowd right before the 17km marker. The night before, we had planned out 5 specific locations, as if it were an elaborate heist, for her to deliver food and beverages for me along the way. This was the second spot, but the first & only one which she actually made it to. I had banana on the brain since before the race began, so I tore into one with a ravenous rapture. As par for the course, they don't start handing out food at these races until you're well past the halfway point. Having not eaten anything besides a cliff shot since 5:30am, I was more than elated to peel slowly and see into the center of all that banana goodness.
Banana-crazed Gaze!!!
(at 17km)
I left with a wave, making sure that we were still on target to meet again at 24km, because there were more goodies in that bag that I left behind that I would spend the rest of the race craving. Had I know that was going to be the last time I would see my friend carrying a backpack full of vegan treats, until after the race, I probably would have wolfed down many more mouthfuls of them right then & there. Though, I was slightly prepared for the odd chance I'd be on my own entirely, since my pockets were packed with cliff bars & organic fruit strips (Trader Joe's baby!). But I wasn't going to bite into any of them until I knew I absolutely needed it. They were a last resort, incase the food service tables were bereft of vegan options.
The halfway point came soon after, and was marked by a simple sign stating "21km", with a tiny yellow clock clicking away our pace times: nothing more. I felt kinda down about this, because I was expecting some sort of a bigger deal to be made out of the achievement of getting, at least, halfway done, this whole marathon thing. I suppose if I truly wanted a warmer reception at the half marathon point, then I should have entered a half marathon, instead of a full one. No regrets. Another segment of the race falls behind with little or no fanfare. I was disappointed to see a crowd that already seemed jaded with what was only it's first marathon. Again, maybe I was hoping for too much, but despite being Halloween, there were hardly any costumes to be seen. I realize Halloween isn't a big deal in Japan, but shouldn't the two events coinciding be like the full moon to a Teen Wolf, and bring out the fan fervor from deep within?
I did see a golden angel running barefoot (though I think she was a 10-K racer. Still, impressive), some samurais, transformers, and pikachus. Later in the race I spotted a Mario & Luigi dancing on the sidelines to their own theme music. The padding as I patted their oversized white gloved hands was a fluffy palm-plant of nostalgic delight. I also ran next to a Captain Jack Sparrow impersonator, with a uncanny resemblance to Johnny Depp, for more than a few kilometers. His accuracy and dedication to portraying the role were impressive. Every so often he would go into full character, stumbling around & mumbling phrases with a charmingly slurred style of speech. My guess is he's either the #1 Pirates of the Caribbean fan on this side of the Pacific Ocean (if not anywhere), or maybe he was a professional employee at Universal Studios Japan (which, with the fully operational Back to the Future: The Ride, sits right on the watery edge of Osaka's harbor; nearly within sight of the marathon's finish line), who just happened to get swept on stranger tides while on his way to work that day.
Despite all my griping over lackadaisical onlookers surrounding the proceedings thus far, I was having a good time. Elation surged through me as I truly enjoyed the thrill of the race. Then, something began to happen as we followed the trail southbound, away from the city's center: the crowd, through some unexplained plot hole in the story, reanimated, and became actively involved from the sidelines. I'm not sure what they had been waiting for this entire time, but as soon as we turned our backs to the heart of Osaka, the love of its people started to inexplicably grow. Maybe I should have eased up on the crowd sooner, because apparently, all I needed to do was wait for their enthusiasm to catch up with mine, and by then, they were giving me a run for my money. Maybe, they were a hard to impress lot, that had heard one too many cautionary tales about the way a marathoners woo you one minute, then leave you the next, and they just wanted us to prove we weren't like those other heartbreakers they'd heard of, we were far more committed. Maybe, now that there was no longer a barrier of orange traffic cones separating us from the crowd, people felt an irresistible immediacy of the rushing race of runners passing by, and—like a child, that can't resist the urge of holding their hand out the car window on a hot summer day, with competing smells of honeysuckles & exhaust wafting through a backseat that's scattered with crayons and cracker crumbs, lets the mystery of aerodynamics push & pull their arm with every changing shape of their stiff little fingers—were swept up in a compulsion to have a hand in the hijinks. Or, maybe the alacrity that began here is indicative of the specific neighbors we traveled through, and we had miraculously meandered into the fun-loving neck of the woods, whose constant calls of "ファイト!" (fight-o!) spurred us on. Whatever it was, I have to say, by and large, the most active spectators during this later stage of the race were the elderly!
It functioned like this: a small cluster of golden girls would be(a Arthur) gently clapping their (Rue McClana)hands with (Betty) white-toothed smiles draped across their faces, I would raise my hand and bow slightly to acknowledge their cheering, then I would (Estelle) get(ty) even louder cheers in return. This snowballed into a frenetic line of applause along the way, and I ended up bowing and raising my hand so much that I have a sore spot at the base of my neck, exactly where my spine & shoulder meet, but it was totally worth it! This is the point where I began testing out the waters to see if the waves were ready for some high five surfing—they were! Score! I finally fished my wish, and was thriving in the supportive atmosphere I had craved since the start. I'm by no means implying that I single handedly saved the race from solem spectators—far from it, since I had sorta given up on on them—it just became apparent that it was easier to elicit excitement the farther we eased on down the road. Though, maybe the old adage "be careful what you wish for" comes into play here, since once one group was given high fives, it became impossible to pull away from the sidelines, because the next group of people already had their arms eagerly outstretched for some "タッチ" (touch, or contact). But why ponder old adages when you run the risk of leaving high fives hanging? Now, with a palpable shift in the atmosphere, I could hardly keep up with the demand. I couldn't have been happier. And yet...
...The thought of 37km had been weighing heavy on my mind since before the marathon even began. I had been pouring over portions of the course in Google maps in the week prior to the event, and found that the elevation noted in the 37km was attached to a huge bridge taking us into the final 5km. I should probably disclose that I have a terrible fear of heights, which maybe you could imagine made the idea of running over this thing on a rainy day far from appealing. Someone, however, had figured out just what we all needed right before the ascent onto the Highway to Hell (yes, sometimes you need to ascend to hell. Does that seem right?): Scooby snacks!
I blinked my eyes with a cartoonish flare, rubbing them to recheck the reality of the oasis before me; I was peering at a boatload of veggie sushi docked at the end of a short pier that I was taking a long walk off of...I plunged into the bottomless bins of kappa, oshinko, kanpyo maki, inari, daikon, and various other pickled veggies lining the sidewalk, all free for the taking. I asked if any of the food contained fish, and was given the all clear, this is not fish reply (conversation in Japanese). I stood there among many other stunned runners, reaching for troves of whatever we could palm, like a good old fashion coin trick, before making it all disappear, in a blurry spectacle of motion towards our mouths. The muffled sounds of satisfied deliciousness in the form of "おいしい" (delicious, or tasty) left our packed passages. Elation swept over my famished body, which felt incredibly fortunate for the fistfuls of food I was fueling it with, but it was the salty goodness of the pickled veggies that struck a primitive pleasure center on my tongue with a handcrafted giant wooden mallet that sent shivers along the edges of my taste bud timbers. An insatiable craving for more of that sharp saltiness snap, crackle, & popped synapses through the murky depths of my neural system. Alas, we couldn't stay lingering around the food bins all day, so we begrudgingly shuffled along, but I walked a bit as I still had a fistful of savory sushi to ingest, and I was secretly trying to avoid the bridge that I knew laid ahead, but this was a pleasant distraction from the mountain of madness that stretched out before us.
The first wary signs of the wicked water wedged between me and, what I perceived as, the winner's circle (i.e. simply finishing with my heart still intact), washed under the low laying bowed necks of conjoined twin bridges that clung close to the sea level as they straddled the shorelines on either side of the manmade inlets that occupy the south west side of the Suminoe ward of Osaka. I took note of the 37km sign as we crossed the second small bridge and headed around a blind bend. I was startled at the sight of a steep upward slopping ramp, but then felt immediate relief, as I saw the colorful crowd of marathoners making a rainbow together being led around the perceived precipice, instead of up it. We weren't going to have to cross the bridge after all! This put a spring in my step as my tongue darted around the corners of my mouth in search of more missed morsels.
Then, my heart sank. We were being led away from the steep ramp in order to ascend a more gradually sloping section of ramp onto the bridge. It was raining at this point. It had been doing so for a while, but it seemed to be coming down ominously harder now. I stared at the bobbing rainbow of colors running towards the grey smudged monochrome sky ahead and thought, "Well, I've come this far, 5 more kilometers and I'm done. I better get my ass to Mars!". With a Schwarzenegger swagger I hit the incline of the ramp, and where most people around me broke their stride and began wobble-walking up the slope, I charged ahead, like a frenetic fool, avalanching uphill. The mere fact that so many people were walking at this point made it hard to push ahead at the heightened pace I wanted to achieve, but that's not the first time jostling through crawling droves would be a problem during the race, this was just where breaking away from it mattered most. The bridge wasn't entirely closed off. Once the ramp reached the apex, it was clear that we were sectioned off with cones again, and some traffic, not a lot, was coming through on the other side of a narrow strip of snarling orange stalagmites protruding from the hide of this concrete colossus like a mashed mess of rotten fangs.
"Eff this!" I mouthed (in good ole English), and began weaving my way to the outer strip of orange cones, while silently stating "punch it, Chewie!", to whichever of my ganglia wanted to step up and play the Wookie. A few cars passed by in the opposite direction, but they were slow moving, and I still had enough space not to get knocked over. There were some staff members waving me back to the middle section of the cones, but I looked at them and pulled the, by now, semi-classic wave with a smile, as if I thought they were just cheering me on. This move might be coined "The Foreign Express", since they probably didn't know exactly how to handle me, and, as often is the case, just let me keep going.
Other runners were looking at me and probably wondering what the hell I was in such a hurry for, but I was driven forward in an egoless effort of self preservation. From my vantage point, I saw a sea of winded faces plodding alongside me that had pushed to the brink of their breaking points, and now that they had sailed into the safe harbor of their next immediate goal (i.e. finishing the race), they were easing into their own imminent victories by rewarding themselves with a brief respite along this steep incline. My motivation was different. I knew I could finish the race at this point, if only I could make it over the gargantuan gauntlet that stood in the way.
I knew that clinging to the sensation of fear would allow panic to get the best of me. In much the same way George Lucas (or, Brackett & Kasdan) distilled Buddhist beliefs by paraphrasing a thought process of ancient philosophies from the mouthpiece of a classic character, "Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.". So, as outlined by historical Buddha & Jedi masters alike, emotions aren't the enemy, it's the attachment to them that is suffering. In this way, I acknowledged my fear, let myself be afraid, but knew, as another George once sang, "all things must pass". I doubt Harrison (not, Ford), was thinking about acrophobics and bridges when the then Beatle wrote that song, but maybe he was. I posit—even if this particular interpretation might be up for debate—that it can now be applied wholeheartedly to battling my way through a forest of fears as I crossed across the rain drenched pavement of that abominable bridge. With a swift swishing stride of frenetic feet, I mounted the spine of the slumbering concrete structure, which crested into a nerve-wracking high arch, that then descended onto a shoulder of solid land, embracing us all in the last arm of the race. I had bested the giant with an arsenal of pop culture paraphernalia, and was on course for taking my victory lap where its head laid to rest: on the hallowed grounds of the final 4 kilometers.
I used the downward momentum from the, once upon a time, farside of the bridge to ride the peak of my newly acquired wave of speed. Once we careened onto the island, I found that the roads in this area were wide open for the marathoners, giving me enough room to keep kicking full steam ahead. I weaved in and out of weary runners that looked fatigued beyond their means, but were brave enough to keep moving on. That's the marathoner's determination. I felt strange breezing past these people that were shooting incredulous glances at me for making my big moves so late in the game, as if they suspected I had been hopping from subway Station to Station, like a man who fell to earth, and just now resumed my running postion, all bright and chipper, like any number of Young Americans might do. Little did they know I was cruising off a high-octane rush of adrenaline that the sheer terror of teetering over already towering buildings in a single bound can do to a gland. Quite simply, I had found a way to combine the fight-or-flight response into one smooth elixir, and now that I had this burning, yearning feelin' inside me, I was gleefully letting it run its course, as I ran mine, into the ground.
The final 5km turned out to be my fastest of the entire race. I credit this almost entirely to the heart-pounding harrowing horror of not wanting to linger along the 37th kilometer bridge. The final 5km was also the wettest. The rain came down harder as we sloshed our way around the backwards C hook of road toward the end of the line. Though the weather was becoming more cumbersome, the spectators in the finishing area could not be dissuaded from their excitement. They knew we had come a long way, and most of them had probably been racing the sidelines themselves, just to catch fleeting glimpses of their friends & family along the way. From either side of the road cheers clashed in midair, as if London was calling "Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas to Heaven", and while runners funneled towards the finish line, nearly no one could resist the urge to heed that command. Those final marathon steps staved off any anguish, just long enough to enjoy a fine dose of cherry-flavored endorphin-fueled triumph.
I crossed the finish line, with flagging steps of heartache, in under 5 hours—about 20 minutes faster than my last marathon, and about 45 minutes later than I had hoped—with a 4:45 time. My pride might have taken a bullet of shame from the grassy knoll for a brief flash of a second, but I suppose a well placed finisher's medal around my neck, dangling precariously infront of my heart, was enough to absorb the potential damage on impact. The time chip chirped out its last binary song like a digital blue jay caged beneath my number card, as I raised my left hand and gently patted the Scleroderma band—that light blue bracelet that hardly ever leaves my wrist—with the fingers of my right hand. My thoughts, while traipsing over the black rubber matted finish line, returned once again to my aunt Nene. She told me in an email I had read right before heading out the door to the starting line that morning (not in these exact words), to stop worrying, and just go run the effin marathon. Her insight was spot on, and I imagine she's garnered such wisdom from facing endurance trials everyday that she outruns the hardships of Scleroderma while waiting for an unknown cure to catch up. Although the heart patch I had pasted onto my chest to keep thoughts of her close fell off somewhere before the halfway point, I finished the race knowing I never really needed to place a badge on my shirt to begin with, because I always keep my hopes for her in my heart, which I wear right there on my sleeve.
Once I stopped running, I noticed an immediate payoff in using the intermediate training schedule: my walk wasn't so much an injured stagger, as it was just a stiff gait. Sure enough, the only troubles I ran into were the ones I brought upon myself by burning through that final 5km like a silly rabbit after a bowl of Trix™. My right knee was shooting sparks of pain whenever I stepped too quickly, or had to move up or down steps, but a slow, methodical, steady stride was a relative breeze. I'm pretty sure if I hadn't pushed myself during that last bit of the race, my knee would have been fine. So, Hal Higdon delivered upon his promise: intermediate training wasn't necessarily meant to get me to the finish any faster than before, but it did get me there in much better shape to walk home in. At my relatively leisurely pace, I can say, relying on the intermediate schedule is mainly why I never hit the wall this time around. Who would have thought that the path to becoming a better runner was simply to spend more time on the path.
I do think a major flaw in my strategy when fantasizing over a 4 hour goal time (other than not running faster) was that I went off to see the wizard one too many times, when I should have stayed on the yellow brick until reaching the Emerald City. Damn that Lollipop Guild and their entire welcoming committee! Seriously, if you're aiming for a time target, then you should be wary of every stop along the way, because it costs precious race time queueing up for relief. It can easily take 10 minutes of line dancing until the final notes of that country westen song to drawl to an end. Multiply that by, say, 4 or 5, and you're edging ever closer to that 1 hour mark. Shocking isn't it? That's an entire episode of The Walking Dead spent standing around waiting for something to happen...For me, it probably didn't help that I was nearsighted in my hydration implementation, and therefore helplessly drawn into stopping at every food & water station along the way. I blame the frugal bastard inside of me that can't pass up the notion of free vegan food & beverages whenever they're offered—this is basically a dumpster dive shy of being a Freegan—which, just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water, becomes complicated by another roadside attraction distracting you from achieving goal PR time.
At one point, I hopped out of the race towards a sign for the bathroom, and they had staff waving me along, block after block. Three and half blocks later they directed me down an alley, that finally turned into an empty lot with makeshift medical tents circling the entrance. The redcoats at the closest tents turned and looked startled to see me, their uncertain glances toward one another were a dead give away they had no idea how to handle me. When I said "I'm not injured, I just need to the toilet" (in Japanese) I saw the visible tension leave their shoulders, and they enthusiastically pointed me to the other side of the tents where only a few portas were set up, but the line was relatively short. As I left, the workers with nothing else to do began applauding and shouting the ever encouraging "がんばって". At first, it felt like they were congratulating me on being able to use the toilet like a big boy, but really they just wanted to send me off in good spirits (though I'm not entirely ruling the potty postulate). Then came the 3 and a half block run back into the race.
I'm not trying to make excuses—because I certainly don't feel I failed—I'm more or less trying to pinpoint the places that I could stand to improve upon for the next bout. In the end, I might have been asking something unreasonable of myself by craving to carve such big slice out of my PR pie. I've been a runner for just over 2 short years now. In that time, I've ran 2 marathons, and a single 5-K. Though I suppose speed is every runner's desire, racing is a strategy you need to refine; and I hardly ever even look at a watch while running. While my third marathon, Tokyo 2012, is cresting over the horizon (the Osaka marathon puts me 2 weeks behind schedule in training for February's Tokyo marathon), just like one should expect from the land of the rising sun, I'm busy fine-tuning, not only the fragile biomechanics under the hood, but also the tactics I'll take to heart when it comes time to run the race again. I'm also considering that maybe, just maybe, I'm a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle when it comes to racing. Sure, once in awhile I can flick out a quick kick, but in the end, I'm still just a mutant turtle.
Post-marathon
The first steps towards the obstacle course of goodies they give you upon finishing a marathon were met with a gale of congratulatory words and a maelstrom of hands shoving sports drinks in my direction. Next, I traded in my time chips ahoy for a sweet-sweet inedible medal. Osaka's time chip was encased in a small plastic pouch on the backside of our number card. I thought this was a better idea than keeping it laced to your shoe, like in Tokyo, because I didn't have to force my lower half to make any unnecessarily movements in order to take it off after running 42km. Once you've handed over your chip, they ask you to bow, then place the medal delicately around your neck as if you're an Olympian. I don't remember them doing that at Tokyo. It looked a bit cloying while watching from the back of the line, but when I waddled up to take my turn, my heart was soft served in a cone, and I had to admit that it came with a certain sense of sweet satisfaction. This medal was proof, once again, that I successfully remain a vegan marathon runner.
The post-marathon food available there was a bit of a tricky pickle. They handed out various things that weren't always properly labeled. Basically, I went with normal party rules: if I was given something I doubted was vegan, and couldn't confirm the ingredients, then I would decline the offer to take it, or, failing that, I threw it in my bag for someone else to eat later on. All obvious vegan choices were otherwise considered edible. I sat by a column under a massive eave at the back of the bag claim building eating a banana and gently trying to massage my calves. Once I was done, I wandered inside to collect my belongings, in order to further my ultimate pursuit of getting back to the apartment and laying down.The first steps towards the obstacle course of goodies they give you upon finishing a marathon were met with a gale of congratulatory words and a maelstrom of hands shoving sports drinks in my direction. Next, I traded in my time chips ahoy for a sweet-sweet inedible medal. Osaka's time chip was encased in a small plastic pouch on the backside of our number card. I thought this was a better idea than keeping it laced to your shoe, like in Tokyo, because I didn't have to force my lower half to make any unnecessarily movements in order to take it off after running 42km. Once you've handed over your chip, they ask you to bow, then place the medal delicately around your neck as if you're an Olympian. I don't remember them doing that at Tokyo. It looked a bit cloying while watching from the back of the line, but when I waddled up to take my turn, my heart was soft served in a cone, and I had to admit that it came with a certain sense of sweet satisfaction. This medal was proof, once again, that I successfully remain a vegan marathon runner.
Osaka Marathon 2011
Finisher Medal
By the time I got back outside it was pouring rain. I felt lucky that I had finished the marathon while the rain was only a mild nuisance, rather than a harsh element to combat. Leaving the marathon area is never an easy process, so I headed to a predetermined spot to meet my friend. Elevators & escalators were my choice modes of transportation when ascending/descending tall structures. Once I met my friend, we walked down the long throughway towards the train station, we then realized our mistake in misjudging the exact side of street that the marathon was going to bend around, so we were blocked off from the train station by an unending flow of runners. In the pouring rain we made our way, slowly, back to the pedestrian overpass, and joined in the sluggish march towards the station on the opposite side of the street. While waiting at the bottom of the overcrowded escalators to get into the train station, I noticed an elevator across the way that looked otherwise unnoticed by the crowd. Since they were only letting a certain amount of people up the escalator at a time, I devised a plan that had us cut out of line and head across the street. The elevator was empty. One other runner had followed us, seeing the genius of the plan. We got to the top of the platform and crossed into the station way ahead of where we should have been, and therefore, slightly less soaked: score!
By the time I got home I was drenched, but it didn't matter. I was exhausted, but it didn't matter. I could barely bend my knees, but it didn't matter. I felt like a tree falling in the forest, with no one around to hear, as I collapsed on a comfortable cushion of bedding. I laid horizontal and just let my circulatory system work its magic. I was strangely not hungry at all; I wasn't that sleepy either. I was in a lucid limbo, dazed & confused, yet perceptive. I eventually got into the ofuro (hot bath), and despite the size of the thing being so small it would prove difficult for Houdini to escape from on his best of days, and despite the water being lukewarm at best, I enjoyed it nonetheless. After another brief spell of lazing about horizontally, I made my way to a 回転寿司 (conveyor belt sushi!) joint, and proceeded to eat and defeat my own personal record of 8 plates by a whopping 4 dishes. Yep, 12 plates of sushi as a post marathon meal does a body good. Satiated, I sought sleep.
I woke up the morning after the marathon in good spirits. My body was akin to the fossilized remains of a Legosaurus Rex, but it didn't stop me from spending my last day in Osaka taking in the sights. It did, however, prevent me from entering Osaka castle, because there was no way I could maneuver those 8 floors of steps in my compromised condition. Oh well, I got to see the outside of it, and take a victorious Rocky stance on the ramp leading up to it.
Rocky Stance at Osaka Castle
So in the end, I may have tainted my marathon experience by swaggering into this second one with plenty of preconceived notions about what exactly I expected to take away from it. Though those ideas changed during the course of the race, I believe the core values of why I force myself to run such a great distance remains unwavering and as true as ever. As I started off, I thought I would burst across the finishing line in under 4 hours, but along the way, retreated to the decision that I didn't necessarily care about when I got there, just that I actually enjoyed getting there. After relaxing into this mindset, I could soak in the thrill of what was going on around me. I realize now, that not every step of a marathon is going to be a Golden Goose of rewards, but I found plenty of enjoyable peaks (the figurative ones) and made it all the way through uninjured, which seems like a trove of prizes worth keeping. At no point did I hit the wall that had previously punched me in the face with brick & stucco knuckle sandwich back in Tokyo. I stayed loose, and spry. I found camaraderie with fellow runners (some in costume, some just coasting along), and after the halfway point, I rejoiced with the crowds as they became more involved. Fortunately, the food service tables held a healthy array of mostly vegan items, which is a telltale sign for all naysayers that, if race coordinators have chosen to feed endurance athletes vegan foods, then maybe there's something to the overall athletic benefit of this way of life after all, eh?
Though I met the marathon morning with an initial high-tide of trepidation, I soon began cherishing the brief moments that move like adept brushstrokes painting a more meaningful portait before me. All doubts I initially had before the race began, dissipated into the pulse of people flowing through the circulatory system of city streets in the heart of Osaka. The marathon is a race that truly charms it's participants, both on the road & off. Finishing this second marathon has left me addicted, now more than ever before, to this thrilling event. In the days gone by, I've been obsessively mapping out other possible marathons I want to run in 2012. If things all go well—and I really hope they do—I'm looking at a new year with at least 3 marathon courses to cover. This will be a nice seque into the Ironman triathlon that I hope to accomplish sometime in the near future, after, of course, I learn how to swim.
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