The coldest run
A sea of running figures poured around the curve, while a small crowd cheered them on from the sidewalk. Eric ran through the turn and looked behind the crowd. He wore a blue technical outer layer, its zipper gone, its logo faded into a few flecks of white, and its collar worn down. On his chest a waxy piece of paper reading “Shinjuku city half marathon” and the number 3452 was pinned on. On his head a faded grey skullcap sat while his breath steamed around it. “There is a park just a few blocks behind there. It won’t have any lines because no one else lives on the race route like me and knows about it!” His eyes moved to stocky men with vaguely law enforcement style uniforms standing along the road ahead, scanning the crowd, and he continued running. “I'll just hold it, It would be a dumb to get kicked out for using the bathroom off course, and I’ll lose time”. Eric looked down at a thin watch on his wrist “9:10am, 6:15 minute per kilometer pace, doing great, no problem to finish.”. He continued down the hill and slipped smoothly into a pod of six runners with a similar pace, their bodies moving together through the city.
In front of Eric two Japanese women, dressed identically in white running shirts with pink Nike logos on the back, along with black shorts on top of black leggings, ran side by side. Eric noted their pony tails bouncing in unison, one’s stride holding back slightly and the other one breathing hard, but both slowly losing ground to the pack. A memory came to him of the two chatting with each other at the back of the start line, where he had put himself to avoid the inevitable crush of runners off the start line. Back on the run, the street inclined noticeably upwards. “Eeeeeeee another hill!, I’m already dead Saki-san, how are we going to make it back before the they close the race?” said the smaller one. “For sure, me too Sakura-chan. How far have we run? Are we close? Its so cold!” “Right?!”. Both women fell silent as they slogged on, their shoulders falling and their hands beginning to flop slightly.
From Eric’s right a tall older Japanese man, thin with leather like skin, moved casually towards the women. He wore short white see through, and a thin white sleeveless running shirt with “Honolulu Marathon” and a sunset printed on it, around which his wiry frame was visible. His stride was long and confident, his breathing light. The man held up an arm with a large digital watch on it towards the women. “Dont worry, I started my race timer at the starting gun, as I always do, our pace is a solid 6:40 per Kilometer. You are going to make it! Keep trying hard”. “Reeaaaly!?! Thank you! We are so tired. Who knew Shinjuku had so many hills?” “Yes. Definitely you are fine, we are nearing over 60% done, keep going just like you are ladies!”
As the pack hit the hill, Eric’s pace, like a train out of his control, moved him ahead and lost the chatting strangers. He knew these streets and these hills, had run them alone, in the heat, and in the cold over the last year. The river of runners, stretching from the national stadium, through East Shinjku, down Ichigaya river, up Kagurazaka, and back again moved steadily, continuing through a background of grey office buildings, deserted streets, tunnels without cars, traffic signs, and conbi towards the stadium at the finish line.
Eric looked ahead in surprise, one last check stood in front of him. A plastic strip over the road, a large clock measuring his race time against the 11:00am cut off. One last boss before he could enter the stadium and deliver the finish he'd worked towards over the past 7 months. The clock read 10:57. Below the clock race officials milled, checking their watches, rocking on their feet, and picking up orange cones, getting ready to close off the road to runners who came in too late. “What? Another one? How can my pace be fine but my time be this late? I've been running faster than I needed to this whole time!” Eric shook his head, his left calf aching, his feet numb with cold and pumped his feet just a little harder, the speed gain barely visible, up towards the final turn. Off the road past the check, the brown stadium track, blue finishing banner and green grass were visible on the other side of a garage-like entrance into the stadium as Eric ran in. “Barely made it. But those poor ladies, there is no way they got even close! That guy was dead wrong. Must have been crushed” and chuckled.