I'm not really a superstitious person. I don’t make a particular point of smashing mirrors while chasing black cats under ladders, but, as long as it’s not on a Friday the 13th, I don’t go out of my way to avoid these activities either. I am, however, very much a creature of habit (something that bears a mental image akin to an okapi, but compulsively functions more like an albatross), especially when it comes to race days. Though I may be quick on my feet, when things deviate from the expected routine, I have the capacity to go from placid casual to Chicken Little at the slightest sign of the falling sky.
In the final weeks leading up to the marathon I was nursing a knee injury in the form of ITBS. I was forced to cut training days like a sushi chef surgically slicing away the poison pieces of a puffer fish (no fugus were harmed in the use of this metaphor). Unfortunately, even with the additional rest days, the rigid build up of miles that far along the intermediate I program path never gave me enough time to warm the bench long enough for full recovery. So, just when I started feeling up to the task of returning to the full running schedule once again, I'd be promptly put back in the corner like Baby without a Swayze to save me, only to repeat those ole dirty dance moves down recovery Road House road once more. I was certainly at a disadvantage going into the marathon in such a compromised condition, but after sinking so much effort into months of training, I wasn’t going to let the little fact my leg was out of whack keep me from crossing the starting line. Now crossing the finish line…that’s a different story.
PRE-RACE
The night before the marathon, with a belly containing a wet-cement of complex carbohydrates just begging for the neighborhood kids to scratch their initials—if not worse—into it, I headed to Vin’s place to plot out our parceling plan for the following day’s pilgrimage. With fingers splayed upon the unfolded creases along official marathon treasure map, we poured over every portion of the course pondering the perfect meeting points. We both had the advantage of not just knowing the city fairly well, but having the course on total recall stored in our collective memory banks from the previous year’s escapades. It didn’t take long to get it done. Vin clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair like a Harrison Ford stunt double in a dive cantina on Tatooine. We had settled on an ambitious 8-point meeting plan, and Vin was soaking in the idea of the challenges of keeping up with me on his side of the table with with a smirk that would most certainly ensure Han shot first.
Since we would be meeting so often (nearly every 5km!) I chose not to bother waking up early for that extra bit of carb-loading I had done in preparation for previous races. Instead, I would take advantage of some additional rest, and simply put faith in the plan that I'd be well fed along the way. Essentially, Vin would be acting as the zookeeper to my okapi. As long as he didn’t get caught up in the distracting sight of seeing tortoises do it, I was confident he’d come through on the snack pack pact. And so, with the promise of carrot-flavored yastuhashi dangling behind my eyelids, I drifted to sleep on the comfy confines of one damn fine fold out sofa bed.
Marathon morning was met with a myriad of ritualistic preparations on my part, which, to the casual observer might seem like the acts of needless repetition done by a shameless shaman, but these things of minor threat haven't failed me yet, so I keep the tradition going. Although there was an air of apprehension on my part, this pre-race sensation felt far different than either of my previous marathon mornings. I wasn’t facing the irrational despair of “Am I insane? I’ll never be able to do this,” instead, I was more worried that I shouldn’t do it, but was going to go through with it anyway. Maybe I had met the eye of the storm in my hurricane of neuroses and floated by on jaded tranquility. Maybe my injury was to thank for this odd sense of relief. I wasn’t worried about speed or performance, I just wanted to be enveloped in the race atmosphere, and get as far as I could through the streets of Tokyo once more.
The kids came out to find me hunkered over the breakfast table tracing a line over the course map with my blue eyed laser vision, burning the road before me into the back of my mind, while taking swigs of a Vega Sport mix I brought from the States. Soon everyone was up & at them eating oatmeal. And then, with Pa in his kerchief & I in my cap, we both settled in for our long winter's mission to find where all the Nambans were at…
The weather forecast looked fine. Not as good as last year's sunny day that swept the clouds away, but a call for cloudy skies with zero chance of precipitation was a winning fistful of cherry flavored Flintstones™ vitamins that I was willing to chew on for the time being.
The Namban base camp was at the same location as last year, so neither Vin nor I felt a need for such frivolous furnishings as maps or directions. Cocksure, we took it upon ourselves to shoot from the hip—like throwing an indecisive dart at a spinning globe trying to figure out where we want to go on our next summer holiday—and ended up riddling our feet with bullets of buffoonery. The thwarting began when the exit we wanted to use was blocked off. We surfaced in the throngs of runners wriggling their way toward the check-in point, while we walked away from them, assuming ever-expanding semi-figure 8 patterns, trying to locate the coffee shop we believed to be right around the perpetual “next corner”. The sands of the morning’s hourglass were fast piling up on the bottom portion of the bell curve. We probably would have done well to give up on locating the location long before we did, but hey, we're nothing else if not tenacious.
By the time we got to where we meant to go everyone we were looking for was long gone—and with good cause! They were announcing runners had 5 minutes remaining to make it to their starting blocks. Two cartoonish silhouettes of dust stood behind us as we dashed down the densely packed sidelines to the starting area. Vin followed as far as he could go before the “runners only” entrance separated us. I burst through chute gesticulating towards the number card attached to my shirt. Workers were waving me forward down the nearly empty street. I frantically sloughed my warm-up clothes shoving them into a backpack loosely slung over one shoulder while sprinting towards the baggage check trucks.
I quickly realized a theme among all the baggage trucks: they had all already battened down the hatches in preparation for the storm of runners ready to stream through the city streets. There was no hope of checking my bag at that point. The loudspeaker, echoing out reminders of the impending doomsday like a self-destruct countdown at a super villain complex, announced a mere 3 minutes until the cut-off clock implodes, sending all remaining runners to the back of the starting blocks. I took off sprinting back towards the ramp leading up to the starting area as my fully packed bag swung from my right shoulder, playing a brutal game of tetherball on my chest & back. Just around the bend I was met by a wall of people so colorful they could have been an elaborate work of graffiti. The good news was this gave me plenty of time to tie my timing chip to my shoe. The bad news was, this gave me plenty of time...time I couldn't spare.
Though Vin & I had plotted out a lot of meeting spots along the way, the first one wasn't until around the 7km mark. I really wasn't looking forward to taking down that much distance with a giant bolder on my back. I called Vin, who luckily enough was still standing near the start of the race. We established a drop off point right near the LOVE statue we had passed while lost at sea. Yep, it’s the same statue that stands in Love Park back in Philly. How serendipitously appropriate, eh?
By the time I was shuffled like a deck of cards to the top of the ramp, the gates to get into the starting blocks were closed off. I turned, walking towards the back, and started looking for any kind of in. As I surveyed my options, I saw some officials roping off the ramp behind me. All the runners that were left on the other side of that thin red line could no longer pass. I missed the cut-off by mere seconds. I’d venture to offer that this time, curiosity saved the cat. Those sad souls looked so discouraged, and I don't fault them for it, because they would now have to wait for the entire lot of runners to empty out before getting a chance to go anywhere.
Noting that I was standing in an area that suddenly seemed like a bed of hot coals slowly emblazoning my name on a tombstone of my own design, I made a snap decision to hop the waist high railing and force myself into the nearest starting block, before any officials could toss a lasso and wrangle me back into the not-so O.K. corral. It was so crowded I ended up doing a balancing act on a particularly knotty tree root that was protruding from the grassy knoll I found myself perched upon. I called Vin and informed him it was going to take an exceedingly long for me to reach the drop point, because I ended up way farther back than my original designated start block. With the clicking clap of my cell phone closing, as if marking the start of a new scene on a movie set, I took a deep breath, and waited for the action.
Noting that I was standing in an area that suddenly seemed like a bed of hot coals slowly emblazoning my name on a tombstone of my own design, I made a snap decision to hop the waist high railing and force myself into the nearest starting block, before any officials could toss a lasso and wrangle me back into the not-so O.K. corral. It was so crowded I ended up doing a balancing act on a particularly knotty tree root that was protruding from the grassy knoll I found myself perched upon. I called Vin and informed him it was going to take an exceedingly long for me to reach the drop point, because I ended up way farther back than my original designated start block. With the clicking clap of my cell phone closing, as if marking the start of a new scene on a movie set, I took a deep breath, and waited for the action.
RACE
The race began with a reverberating bang at 9:10am sharp. The wheelchair race had already been well underway for 5 minutes by that time, but I was at a bad vantage point to witness the start of either event. As the dull thud of the starting gun rolled through the canyon of municipal building facades a flood of applause swept through the marathon crowd like a wave of excitation in anticipation of our decent into the marathon madness. People began scuffling forward, and I folded into the menagerie. I craned my neck with the skill of a giraffe to spy what lie ahead down the empty patch of sidewalk along the other side of the rail. I longingly leered at the corner on the end of the block that I knew swooped ever so swiftly into the main confetti strewn starting line. It occurred to me that patience is a virtue…that I would have to work on later, as I hopped back over the rail and began sprinting down the sidewalk with my backpack jingling all the way.
There were officials milling about the area, so if I was breaking all the rules, instead of just bending them with my there-is-no-spoon can-do attitude, they could have stopped me at anytime. Don't get me wrong; I didn’t approach this with a sense of entitlement. Vin & I had a very specific schedule planned out for the day, so as a courtesy to the plan, I wanted to arrive as promptly as possible, if it just so happened to shave 15 minutes off my gross time, well then, all the better.
When I reached the corner I saddled into the side of the slithering beast embracing my descent into Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. I basically bumped myself up to near first class—leaping like Michael Jordan in his Optimus Prime from the "J" section, I landed somewhere around “D”. Not too shabby. Now that I was ahead of my game, I could relax a bit more. I started handing out the high-fives to the volunteers lining the side of the street before even crossing the starting line. If you can imagine how a person would look doggy paddling without being submerged in water, that’s probably pretty close to how I appeared while gently traipsing over the shallow blue matted starting line, which commenced the anniversary of my initial duel with the marathon miles.
I knew Vin was just around the corner. After passing the LOVE statue & flowing into the gladiatorial intersection of traffic signals, I crept up slowly along the edge of the street, scanning the overcrowded sidelines for that old familiar face. Me ole peepers landed on a man perched upon a lamppost with a bird's eye view of the event. Finding one another turned out to be the easy part of the problem. Getting to one another was a thorny brush of cacti laying between us. The crowd was packed so deep that Vin wouldn’t have been able to mosh his way to the front even with a fully refined windmill maneuver while vocalizing the opening riff to Earth Crisis’s Firestorm, though it looked as if he was willing to try. My solution came as a shock to those standing between us; without a moment of hesitation I yelled, "toss!" and flung the backpack high over their heads. Vin stepped back with assured purpose, catching & cradling the sack into the crook of his arms like a precious newborn dewy-eyed fawn we just co-delivered. The switch went off without a hitch, and with a nod & a "Good luck! See you at the rendezvous", we were both off and running in different directions. The image of Vin, who was dressed in running gear, being mistaken for a marathoner that had lost his way, or even one that was cheating the course by catching the subway, amused me for many miles to come.
Having the weight off my shoulders was an amazing relief. I could breath easier, and fell into a more natural running form. I knew the first 5km of the Tokyo Marathon was downhill. I made the best of this natural slope by kicking out ahead while I had the lay of the land on my side.
Unlike never before, I kept my cell phone with me while running. I mainly planned to use it for photos, but it also proved itself useful as a communication tool too. I don't know why I had never thought of bringing it along in the past. I suppose I was more concerned with packing my pockets with race supplies, but, with a slight "home town" advantage time around, I had room to spare for such modern luxuries.
Winding through TV-screened building fronts of Shinjuku, set on a collision course with the imperial palace, I spent a great deal of time soaking in the early sights I had long been eager to reconnect with; all the while happily snapping photos along the way. The slight panic at my late arrival to the race had put me on edge, but now, with a beaming smile and nothing else left to do for the day except run, I ran.
Shinjuku: not to be confused with
Shibuya Crossing on an average day...
Shibuya Crossing on an average day...
Tokyo is a city worth marveling at on any given day of the week, so I felt an extra sense of privilege bestowed upon me by being able to race through its streets for a second year in a row. As I had anticipated, I found myself surrounded by the usual parade of ingenious costumes. The streets were flooded with super heroes & Super Mario Bros, beloved anime & Disney characters, and enough food & animal themed costumes to make an obento box of animal crackers crumble with envy. Knowing this was the environment I was throwing myself into, I meant to take more photos while through the looking glass menagerie, but my cell phone memory filled up after only a few measly morsels of sweetness. Flipping through the photos the following day I was flattened by the rolling pin revelation that I take a whole heck of a lot of pictures of cookies. I’m not saying too many, mind you, I’m just saying a lot. If I had only checked before the race I could have whipped up a fresh batch of free space. Oh well…at least I had enough room for this guy:
Jesus Christ! He is barefoot...
Vin called my now defunct camera to inform me he was going to miss the next drop point: our bag swap had thrown him off schedule. No worries. The race was still young. The marathon had only just begun and there were still seven other checkpoints ahead. I swooshed through Shinjuku like a Nike logo. The first 5km was folded up and tucked safely into my back pocket, like a love letter passed under a desk during chemistry class. I was showing very few signs of the pain I had presumed would plague me from the get go.
With the moat of the imperial palace now in site, I knew the second meet up spot was right around the bend in Hibiya Park. The course opens like the blossoming petals of a flower in this area, as the buildings peel back to give breathing room to large sections of flat open park space that feed into the majestic water & stone barriers surrounding the royalty held within.
Once I passed the palace I was anticipating the “where you at?” ring from Vin. But by the time I got that call I was already winding back around the bend and heading up to the 16th kilometer. This was exactly the same point in 2011's race where we met during the marathon. By sheer coincidence, we just so happened to reconnect—albeit by phone alone—at the same exact location. Another missed meeting, but still no worries. The plan was built around contingencies; at some point up ahead, we were going to synchronize.
High-fives were the mandatory marathon maneuver that I relied on to push me past the halfway marker and stave off any loneliness of the long distance running. I wouldn’t say I was burning through the course, but I made it that far in less than 2 hours with only a minor discomfort in my knee. The crowd support for the Tokyo Marathon this year had a special alacrity because of the buzz swarming around the Olympic hopefuls. With the London summer Olympics right around the corner, there was a lot of attention drawn to this being one of the last few qualifying races for Japanese runners.
At the 25th kilometer a small group of well-wishing friends were waiting for me. I stopped for a chat, and snacked on some goodies while filling them in on the happenings thus far. I was glad to hear that they were enjoying being spectators. They were finally experiencing the oft spoke of exciting cavalcade of camaraderie exuding forth from the pavement before their eyes that is the marathon. I filled them in on the adjustments in the meeting plans due to missing bag check. Then, after confirming our next meet point, and with my spirit nicely replenished by their warmth, I was off into the throngs once again.
I ground to a halt around the 26th kilometer. I had been putting off a bathroom break for the first half of the race and thought the line at the particular one I was about to pass looked short enough that it wouldn't sacrifice precious-precious time. I had seen one rest area soon after the halfway point that made runners descend steps into the subway to find relief. I couldn't fathom the discomfort of traversing up and down full flights of stairs after running 21 kilometers, and with just as much running left to do. It just seemed unusually cruel on the part of the coordinators to not even offer an escalator.
Whistling Willie Nelson's On the Road Again while waiting in line for the whiz palace, I witnessed the runners queued up with me all striking a stretching pose. I took the cue from the vogue zeitgeist, and I began stretching too. This ill-fated game of follow the leader flashlight tagged me in the knee when I stepped up into the port-a. Something felt funny, but I quickly suppressed that initial wave of woe with mo' Willie whistling. I turned to step back down and my knee went from funny to hilarious. That is, if we're using degrees of humor as a scale to quantify pain. I stumbled off the step as my knee buckled beneath me. A look of concern flashed across the race attendant’s face, but I quelled his doubts with a quick "大丈夫ですよ” (I assure you, I'm OK). My worst fear at that moment wasn't the pain in my knee, but being forced out of the race by an official that made a snap judgment that I was too hurt to go on. I had seen those large green charter buses circling the back of the pack like sharks ready to feed on the limbs of cut-off runners. I was determined not to end up in the belly of that beast. I merged back into the race with a stiff legged limp and a wincing grimace that could have easily landed me a spot as a gangly reject from the Lollipop Guild.
When it comes right down to it I've never been much for the great outdoors. I’ve always been a bit of a thoroughbred beach bum. So once I found myself lost in a thicket of pain I was far from being a happy camper. I shimmied my way to the center of the runway attempting to hide the fact—as best as I could while essentially strutting down a catwalk of discomfort—that I was feeling anything less than too sexy for my shirt.
I was teetering through Taito, as the awesomeness of Asakusa approached, when I reached into my pocket to call Vin only to find I had nothing to call him with (unless we count telepathy). Reaching into the other pocket only led me to deduce the same Sherlockian conclusion: I had dropped my cell phone into the careening stampede nipping at my heels. It seemed like things were quickly stacking up against me. Once I hit the 26th kilometer, I was tossed into a slippery spinning downward spiral of misfortune. Though the phone was gone, I still held out hope I could catch somebody I knew at some point along the way to inform them of the new situation. Despite the downpour of calamity, there were still no worries. I limped on.
As the Kaminarimon gate approached, I took out my ipod and began taking shaky video while rounding the bend into a stretch of street that hosted the sight of sheer frightening height that is the Tokyo Sky Tree off in the distance. While this structure was in place last year, it wasn’t finished until after the 2011 marathon, so now I was witnessing the power of a fully armed & operational broadcasting station: the tallest structure in Japan (3rd tallest in the world). Along that same stretch of road is the Asahi Brewery with the oddest-looking horizontal golden teardrop shape adorning its roof. I've heard locals refer to it as the golden poop, and once you witness it, you’ll shrug your shoulders and mumble to yourself “I can see that”. Despite the fecal-like facades, this section really packed in the ocular cavity candy, with the red lantern gate, golden poop building, and the grey sky tree, it could almost be an e.e. Cummings poem.
When my knee gave out on my at the 26th kilometer mark I was faced with a choice: I could either try my best to walk fast enough to finish the full 42km, or I could say “eff it”, and run as fast as I could until I could no longer move another step. Knowing this race could very well be my last marathon in Japan (or even ever), I went with uttering, “eff it”, and lit the fuse to the trilling commencement of the Mission: Impossible theme projecting from the amphitheater in the back of my brain.
Happy days were here again when I bumped into Vin with my finest Fonzerelli shrug & “Eeyyyy”. This time he was waving a camera in my face with one hand and balancing an open bag of snacks in the other. I tore into the yatsuhashi, and seeing that my one-man pit crew was making do without a hand to spare I tossed a tasty triangle like a skilled ninja flicking a shiriken at his mouth and hit the spot dead on delicious! This was a brief stop, maybe the shortest of them all. I had been gaining momentum away from the pain, and stopping just made the shrill incessant bleats beat harder than a telltale heart under wooden floorboards. Advising him that the schedule might lag behind because of this, a wince shot across his face like a shower of fireworks in a balmy July night sky, as recollections of his injury last year must have come rushing back to him.
Right before I took off to ease on down the road once again, a spectator standing close by reached towards my legs with a tentatively helpful hand holding a spray can. He asked—in Japanese—if I wanted some. I glanced at Vin, who just sort of shrugged, so I turned back to the guy and passed along the shrug. He then began dowsing my legs and knees with a haze of muscle numbing coolant. The acrid cloud of chemical foulness was enough to choke a horse of a different color, but all in all, it actually went a long way towards helping my injured legs feel a damn sight better. I would spend much of the remainder of the race careening towards crowds waving these miracle-mist cans at runners in need of a slight reprieve from their constant pains.
Right before I took off to ease on down the road once again, a spectator standing close by reached towards my legs with a tentatively helpful hand holding a spray can. He asked—in Japanese—if I wanted some. I glanced at Vin, who just sort of shrugged, so I turned back to the guy and passed along the shrug. He then began dowsing my legs and knees with a haze of muscle numbing coolant. The acrid cloud of chemical foulness was enough to choke a horse of a different color, but all in all, it actually went a long way towards helping my injured legs feel a damn sight better. I would spend much of the remainder of the race careening towards crowds waving these miracle-mist cans at runners in need of a slight reprieve from their constant pains.
Off I was again, this time crawling near the edge of spectators, with as much speed as I could garner, because I knew the gang was waiting for me somewhere near the 30km mark. So I set my sights on that small goal, and lurched forward, kicking the high-five machine into turbo drive as I raised my hand to the crowd, and was greeted accordingly, like the return of the King of Cartoons upon entering Pee Wee’s Playhouse.
Hurt, and yet oh so happy
Meeting the gang, at nearly the same location as last year brought on an instant bout of nostalgia. I knew there were only 12 more kilometers to go. Even if my knee refused to cooperate, 12km didn’t seem all that far to me. Maybe all the long months of training have distorted my perception on what constitutes as far anymore, but for real, the challenge just didn’t seem all that imposing. I told them I’d probably be late for our final meet up due to my gnarled leg, and with a SMiLE & a wave, I was off. I discovered something slightly odd about my condition: if I ran fast enough, my legs went numb, and the pain didn't register as quickly anymore. If I slowed down too much, I was tagged with a sharp stabbing hurt that nearly doubled me over. So, the obvious choice was to outrun the pain while I remained comfortably numb, and worry about the repercussions later.
The crowds began to thin out as we entered the final leg of the race, which crosses into the more industrial areas of Tokyo, ending on the artificial island of Odaiba. The “thinning” is only really relative to how crowded it was earlier on, because it was still pretty packed with people. I suddenly saw the funneling of running colors ahead as they mashed into one another ascending over the first of three bridges in the homestretch. Last year I was squeamish when I thought of crossing this collection of heightened crosswalks, and the end bridge at Osaka had me petrified until the moment I plowed past it. But now, it was just another section of the race.
I was weaving in between the narrow asteroid belt of people nearly colliding into one another when I looked to the balconies above to see the residents with the unique seats for the only portion of the race you need to live in a mansion to see. I was wide-eyed and eager to get to the other side, but unlike last year, I took the risk of looking around while crossing to see a thin slice of river running beneath our feet. The sun glinted off the glossy surface, shining brilliantly back at the bright metallic metropolis that lined either side of the languid liquid partition. Other far off bridges stood as sinewy bindings holding the sleeping giant of this gorgeous city together. I tried one last time to record something with my ipod, but there wasn't any room left. This was just a sight I was going to have to take to heart.
Vin called again to inform me they were all waiting together at Tsukishima (moon island!) around the 38th kilometer, and wanted to get an estimate on when to expect me. At that moment I was winding around the corner into the last bridge at the final kilometer. The Tokyo Big Sight building was staring back at me as I delivered the news to Vin that I was way ahead of schedule and about to finish the race. I heard squeals of disbelief on the other end of the phone and a hurried haze of confusion about how they were going to scramble to meet me. It all just faded into the background as I reached the peak of the bridge and descended into the final 0.195km stretch. I told Vin I'd call him back in a few minutes. And headed directly into the final bit of road that was closed off by a makeshift archway that looked as if it were the finishing line. Indeed, some people came to a sluggish halt, raising their hands in victory far too soon. As there was just a bit farther to go. Knowing where the proper end was, I broke into an all out sprint, weaving around other runners, I caught the clock clicking away and made up my mind to get to the end of the street before the next minute turned over. My trajectory was a zigzag, as if I was outrunning crocodiles, but I was making my way to the end with an alarming boost of energy.
I stomped over the finish line like a rhino run rampant in rejoice. Throwing my hands high into the air, I compulsively let out an unintentionally offensive “woo!” something I don't normally do, but I was too jazzed up on endorphin-fueled accomplishment to suppress. The involuntary outburst garnered a lot of strange looks from the sea of silent runners surrounding me who had just completed the same exact goal without feeling the need to celebrate it so vociferously. I immediately dialed up the gang, filling the phone with an unfettered fervent elation. I was proud of what I had done, probably more so than ever before.
At the end of the race, facing an injury and a truckload of uncertainty, I had netted a 4:22 finishing time (a personal best), and was pimp limping towards the medal area with an uncontrollable grin stamped across my face. In many other aspects of my life I've often felt I follow a natural fate of failure, and have, in some ways, grown accustomed to disappointment. Success is so often elusive. At that moment, my heart was overwhelmed with the joy of knowing that I can still surprise myself when I reach down deep enough.
For those unfamiliar with the process, in Japan at least, a finisher has a towel triumphantly placed around their shoulders with a swiftly spoken “おめでと” & おつかれさまでした, and is then pointed further down the funneling path to the fluid station. As I approached a series of A-frames, basking in a refined glowing hue of bronze—so thick you'd think you were at the Jersey Shore—I bowed towards the girl, and a medal was delicately placed around my neck, and I stared down in awe. This was my third completed marathon within the span of a year, and yet, for the first time ever, immediately after finishing a marathon, I became tearful. I haven't been able to entirely pinpoint where the dam broke, letting the flood of emotions gush through as if the little Dutch boy took his finger out of the crack just long enough to raise his hands in victory, thereby letting the deluge take rule. I know thoughts of my my aunt Nene surfaced immediately. It's no mere coincidence that I began running marathons shortly after her diagnosis with Scleroderma. I was elated to be able to deliver the news of another accomplishment I had done in her honor. Any chance I get to reflect even a portion of the brightness she exudes is worth doing, no matter how hard the challenge.
For those unfamiliar with the process, in Japan at least, a finisher has a towel triumphantly placed around their shoulders with a swiftly spoken “おめでと” & おつかれさまでした, and is then pointed further down the funneling path to the fluid station. As I approached a series of A-frames, basking in a refined glowing hue of bronze—so thick you'd think you were at the Jersey Shore—I bowed towards the girl, and a medal was delicately placed around my neck, and I stared down in awe. This was my third completed marathon within the span of a year, and yet, for the first time ever, immediately after finishing a marathon, I became tearful. I haven't been able to entirely pinpoint where the dam broke, letting the flood of emotions gush through as if the little Dutch boy took his finger out of the crack just long enough to raise his hands in victory, thereby letting the deluge take rule. I know thoughts of my my aunt Nene surfaced immediately. It's no mere coincidence that I began running marathons shortly after her diagnosis with Scleroderma. I was elated to be able to deliver the news of another accomplishment I had done in her honor. Any chance I get to reflect even a portion of the brightness she exudes is worth doing, no matter how hard the challenge.
POST-RACE
It occurred to me that since late June of 2011 I’ve been locked into a ceaseless training pattern that built up to the Osaka marathon, back in October, and avalanched right on through the winter into the Tokyo marathon in February. Eight months of straight training!
Before the race I set out thinking things weren’t going to go so smoothly. I felt I had forced myself into a situation that I'd be lucky to simply limp away from with all of my extremities still intact. Once I was faced with the reality of potentially losing everything I wanted out of this event, I pulled myself together and gave it everything I had. That's something I can't say about my other marathons. In Osaka, I finished while barely losing a spring in my step. For this one, I went in knowing full well I was juggling fire while wearing a peacoat dowsed in kerosene, but I bested my personal record by nearly 30 minutes. I roughly followed the same intermediate schedule both times, but I customized this last training circuit to what I thought worked best, especially considering my knee problem.
In Osaka 2011, I overtrained and underperformed. In Tokyo 2012, I undertrained and over performed. If I knew the exact spice I added to the recipe that allowed it to become so damn tasty, I'd gladly share it, but I just don't know. I had the good fortune of having friends meet me many times along the way to cheer me on and fill me up with food & fluid, so that's probably another contributing factor. But, maybe, going into this race thinking that it could very well be my last marathon in Japan, and maybe my last one ever, I was motivated to run until I was ruined. I was being conservative in my pace at the start of the race, worrying about the knee issue, but once my knee gave out at the 26th km, I was faced with a choice to either walk as fast as I could to try and beat the constant threat of cut-off, or I could just keep kicking until my legs no longer let me take another step. As much as I wanted to be one when I was younger, I'm no Karate Kid, but kicking, and kicking hard, seemed like the best course of action for this race. Overall, I might have turned out to be a Cobra Kai, since I did seem to follow their creed of "Pain does not exist in this dojo" for much of the marathon.
After the event the gang haphazardly gathered at Tokyo Big Sight, and we soon left to find real food. The fact that I had to hobble up & down steps to get anywhere kept slipping their insensitive minds, as they were caught up in conversation reflecting on the days journey and continuously drifted so far ahead they found themselves looking back to see me meandering behind with the tumbleweeds in my finest gunslinger shuffle. Eventually, we found our way to a vegan monjayaki joint on monja street ("Home of the Monjayaki") in Tsukishima. We had a hard time explaining the concept of vegans at first, but after repeated tries with multiple employees, we finally got the point across. Once everything was all good and well understood, we made ourselves a wonderful feast.
In the end, despite the fact that I began the day with many doubts about being pushed out of peak performance by a self-inflicted knee injury, the kilometers all seemed to fall fast behind me. Reviewing my splits, I found my final 10km were on par with my first 10km! And it's worth considering the first 5km are downhill, while the last 5km are uphill. The day after the race I was left with stiff legs and a completely shipwrecked knee, and yet, I din't feel nearly as trashed as I did after last year's inaugural run. It's strange, but I never really hit the wall (neither here or in Osaka). I suppose I was in much better shape than my self-doubts would allow me to believe. While it remains unclear at this point when or where my next marathon might be, I certainly haven't seen the last of that distance. The event has etched itself into the core of my being. As long as my feet still move, I will find a way to get it done.
Footnotes:
Really just an author's postscript...this post was originally over 12,000 words long (besting the Osaka Marathon post by 2,000 words!). While I felt much of the minutia in that original post was well worth reading, I wanted to save your patient eyes the trouble. I challenged myself at the start to not let myself go too far beyond 5,000 words. So when the tree was grown and in full bloom I went to work with a blunt-edged editor's hatchet, chopping this massive post to half of its former glory. Maybe what remains is more like the legs of a magician's assistant that has been sawed in half on stage...but in its truncated form, I feel some of the magic from the illusion of this act has been slightly lost. Maybe someday I'll have the chance to show you the orchard, but for now, hopefully you enjoy the taste of some of the fruits. 
No comments:
Post a Comment