This entry courtesy of Jen, who caused me to relive this painful memory.
Jen came down today to tell me about her most recent marathon adventure. Now, I know it’s hard to believe that my large, cumbersome, pregnant body ever ran a marathon, but I did run a half marathon when I was in Japan. I was thin and lithe back then (isn’t “lithe” a great word?). I could also put my legs behind my head and was freakishly limber from actually having the time to do real yoga every single day. And I ran, about 10-12 miles a week. My goal was to run the Yoron Marathon in 1999 (yes, I am old), and I started training literally the night after the 1998 marathon. A couple of young, svelte (svelte is right up there with lithe) male ALTs ran it that year and left me feeling inadequate and chubby. So, I decided to run a little every day for the next year. By the time 1999 rolled around, I was into advanced yoga, running said 10 miles or so a week, and had lost 25 pounds. It was probably my best year, ever.
Okay, okay, you were young and lithe. What about the barfing, you say.
Well, even though I had dropped to a size four, in the Japanese world, I was still fat. It’s this weird Japanese thing that everyone is so polite, but then when someone greets you, it’s pretty common to say, “How’s it going? Gosh, you’ve really gained weight! You’re pretty fat now, aren’t you?” The first time anyone said this to me, I went home and sobbed for a few hours, like any other self-respecting American female. After about the 50th time or so, I got used to it. I also learned that, oddly enough, this isn’t rude in Japanese, but telling someone they have short legs — well, now, that’s a real insult.
Different strokes for different folks.
So anyway, I signed up for the marathon, which made everyone within a three mile radius chortle with laughter (okay, this means the whole island, because it was only three miles wide). People openly smirked, and some asked exactly how much weight I planned to lose in order to make it to the end. Most of this was done in good fun — contrary to popular opinion, Japanese people do frequently have a macabre sense of humor. I was especially good friends with the elementary school teacher crowd, probably because a good sense of humor goes hand in hand with working with children. You can get by without one, and I know plenty of people that do, but elementary school teachers are a special breed. I mean, students are sweet and wonderful and sometimes they make daisy chains for you…and, sometimes they pee on your shoes. It all depends on the day, and humor is very helpful in cleaning up little rolly poops that try to scamper out of the way, for example, when you are chasing them with a paper towel. Some of those teachers were an absolute riot, and they frequently assisted their sense of humor (and mine) with rice wine and karaoke. But anyway, I digress. Those said teachers kept taunting me about the marathon, and telling me they were going to carry me to the finish line — you know the story. And I just smiled mysteriously and said I would be happy to kick their asses at the marathon. Which always got a laugh.
After all, I was the fat American.
So the day came, and everyone rushed off in the light spring drizzle. I am not, nor will I ever be, a sprinter, and even race-day adrenaline couldn’t get me over a 12-minutes mile the first mile. Also, I tend to start slow and gain speed as I go. Nevertheless, I was passed by…oh, about 80 percent of the racers in the first mile. I could hear Japanese people discreetly discussing “That poor gaijin (foreigner)” as they passed, and it was a little discouraging. I mean, people were flying by me, and here I was just plodding along. Flashbacks of my junior high track days — all one of them — and everyone racing by me returned. My students were at the first station, bravely cheering me on. Then a funny thing happened. Everyone slowed down.
And I mean really, really slowed down.
I kept plodding along at my 11-12 minute mile, and by the third mile, I had caught up with the main crowd. I also started feeling limbered up and was able to increase my pace.
By the fifth mile, I was moving along at a 10-11 minute mile and passing people right and left. The course was extremely hilly, with a long, hard hill at about mile 9 (full marathoners turned around and went back, since the island was only a little over 13 miles around). I knew that hill — it was very steep with multiple switchbacks, and it was almost a mile long. When I hit that hill, I was still able to run straight up it, and that was when I passed the last of the teachers wheezing along. They were all thin, Japanese men but they were each and every one of them smokers, and I remember passing the P.E. teacher with a smile on my face. I turned around and waved as I jogged backward up the hill.
At that hill I passed this guy — I don’t know who, just some guy — who decided he didn’t like the fact that a fat, gaijin girl was kicking his ass, so he started racing me. And I started racing him. I mean, after all, I had passed everyone else, and I wasn’t about to let some guy beat me.
I increased my pace. He increased his. I upped the anty a little more. He matched me. I was almost sprinting at the 10th mile…and then the 11th…I couldn’t feel my legs…I was high, high as a kite…and then we both hit “the wall.” And suddenly I felt like my legs had turned to wood. I watched as the 11th mile passed. Seeing the 12th mile raised my spirits, and now we were both pushing ourselves to the absolute limit. Finally, I saw the sign for the last half a mile, and we both started sprinting…sort of. We were both exhausted and nearly to our limit, and so we were in a sort of slow motion. We passed dozens and dozens of people who were limping their way to the finish line, and in comparison, we were flying. I dodged around some other people I knew and was too tired to even crow about it. This stranger and I were locked in our own private race, and we both knew it.
Finally, I could see the finish line. I was nearly there. I put on a burst of speed. The other guy did too. He pulled a little in front of me. “No!” I thought, and from somewhere inside of me, I found my last reserve and started pulling away from him. And then — then, about fifty feet from the finish line, my body gave out and I started heaving. I absolutely cannot throw up, I told myself firmly. I have to beat this guy. Thirty feet…twenty feet…ten feet…we were neck in neck. The last five feet he darted in front of me and I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I crossed the finish line, still at full speed but in mid-barf. I barfed on about ten people who were waiting to high five me at the finish. I couldn’t help it — blue-tinged gatorade water was welling up from the depths of my intestines and spilling on all those brave volunteers. I tried to cover my mouth with one hand and high-five with the other, but I couldn’t help it — they kept pulling my hand out congratulate me. I must have puked on at least 20 people by the end. I finally found a quiet place to finish heaving and walked up to receive my race time and my free t-shirt.
I came in fourth in my age group. If I had been a few minutes faster, I would have gotten a top medal.
I couldn’t believe it! I paraded around in my gatorade-barf spattered t-shirt. The fat American did it! Teachers congratulated me, and promised celebrations including, of course, rice wine and karaoke. Everyone patted me on the back. But the best part was yet to come.
I officially received a picture of me at the finish line…barfing on everyone and everything as I came through. Now with that kind of prize, who needs a medal?
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