Gasping for Air in Totsukawa

It was a beautiful day in Totsukawa, and I could not get enough air in my lungs.

I pounded the asphalt beneath me, trying to control my breathing. Cool mountain air hissed in and out of my mouth, reluctant to stay and calm my lungs. My legs, on the other hand, were reluctant to move, seemingly filled with concrete.

My “minder,” a grey-haired man in exercise gear whirring along behind me on a green scooter, was once again shouting encouragement at me. At least, I was assuming it was encouragement.

I was completing the final stretch for my seven-member relay team, and at the moment I felt like the weakest link.

On my left, far below, was a shining river winding through gravel banks. The sheer rock walls fell away down the hill. I tried to suck in some cosmic energy from the sight, give myself a boost, but it had no effect.

Sometimes, all you can do is keep moving forward.

It had been ten minutes since I started running and I still hadn’t caught my breath from my initial sprint, when our team captain, Hidekazu, handed me the sash that I would carry to the finish line.

I’d volunteered for the ekiden believing it to be an easy community run. Ekidens (relay races) are popular in Japan. Coming from Canada, where running is usually a solitary sport, a team race sounded like a fun new experience.

My partner and I had signed up for the race when our mutual friend Sarah had put out the call for volunteers. No qualifications were required so I figured no one would expect us to run very fast.

Our team was being organized by Hidekazu, a man I had never met before and wouldn’t meet until the day of the race.

Through Sarah, we were given three key pieces of information:

1) The race was on Jan. 13 (winters in central Japan are mild, so that wasn’t a problem).

2)There would be eight stretches of varying length, the shortest being 3 kilometres and the longest being 8 kilometres. 

3) The race was in a mountain town called Totsukawa.

And that was it. I assumed the lack of detail meant this was not a serious event. My dedication to running is middling, so I trained in the preceding weeks but didn’t seriously prepare.

I’d made two mistakes, I decided, as I ran along a very narrow sidewalk into a long, dark mountain tunnel.

One, I had, numbskull that I was, done interval training with walking breaks as if for a half-marathon back in Canada. The ekiden meant running top speed over relatively short distances.

Two, I hadn’t accounted for the thin mountain air. My lungs weren’t convinced it contained enough oxygen to keep me going.

The slap-slap of my footsteps echoed off the damp concrete walls, and found company.

A silver-haired man in a bright yellow shirt overtook me on my right. He easily gained a lead of about 10 yards before gradually pulling away.

Normally I’d take this as motivation to shift into a higher gear. Unfortunately, I was already at my top speed; “desperate slog.” I watched glumly as my fellow competitor disappeared around a corner.

Earlier that morning, we’d met up in the pre-dawn darkness at Yamato-Yagi station.  Hidekazu was waiting there with another member of our team, a young man who smiled and nodded at us between puffs on his cigarette.

Hidekazu told me I’d be running the seventh and final leg of the race, as the “anchor.” My stretch was 6.7 kilometres.

“No problem,” I told him, hoping I wouldn’t have to eat my words.

We grabbed some steamed pork buns and yogurt from the convenience store before we left, mindful to choose runner-friendly foods.

Piling into Hidekazu’s hatchback, we headed north, to the mountain village of Totsukawa.

The roads became narrower, twisting in tight turns and dipping up and down in rapid succession as we wove between the mountains.

As I watched the scenery from the front passenger seat, Hidekazu told me about the 40 km run he had done yesterday with a friend. Not for training; just for fun. 

A pit stop on the way to the race.

He did this race every year, he said. It was quite famous. The race even attracted relay teams of veterans from the Japan Self-Defence Forces.

It was slowly dawning on me that this race was a lot more serious than I had believed. 

When we arrived in Totsukawa we waited in a quiet room floored with straw “tatami.” Groups of other runners clustered around gas heaters in the winter morning cold.

As the ‘anchor,’ I was dropped off at the beginning of the final stretch, watching the Japanese runners and high school runners limber up.

I was impressed with how organized the race was.

As each runner approached their organizers would shout out that runner’s team number so their teammate could meet them for the sash hand-off. My number was 58, or “go-ju-hachi.”

“Go-ju-hachi, go-ju-hachi,” I repeated to myself, trying to remember the sound.

Knowing that Sarah and my partner were not planning to set any speed records, I figured I would be one of the last ten people to be called. 

So when people started pointing at me and the race number pinned to my shirt, I knew I’d miscalculated. Our other teammates had compensated for our poor times with monstrous sprints.  

Hidekazu was already waiting for me at his finish line, gasping for air and holding out the sash. 

“Cullen… come on Cullen,” he said.

I took the sash and immediately launched into a sprint as the other runners and race organizers laughed. 

I didn’t catch my breath for the rest of the race.

My minder didn’t give up on me, pulling up alongside me to once again give a short rousing speech. Each time I gave him the thumbs up.

Hidekazu caught up with me past the halfway point as I stumbled along. He leaned out of his car window to shout encouragement; “Cullen, faster! Come on!” To my embarrassment, I could barely increase my speed. After another minute, Hidekazu waved and sped off towards the finish line.

I wish I could say it got better. I did take heart from the volunteer cheer teams stationed along key points in the route. They waved and smiled and I tried to smile back.

As I crossed into the final kilometre, who was there to greet me? Hidekazu!

Together we faced the final hurdle; several long flights of narrow stone steps heading downwards to the finish line.

Hidekazu practically pranced down the stairs, feet moving in quick controlled steps. I followed slowly, afraid of losing my footing and rolling across the finish line.

I tried to pull it together while crossing under the grand arch of the finish line.

I quickly found a place to sit and didn’t get up until five minutes had passed.

There were food stalls to try, however; tonjiru and zenzai. 

The women serving the zenzai took one look at my face, still beet-red, and burst out laughing. She served me a bowl of the sweet bean soup anyways.

Hidekazu came over, a few drops of sweat already drying on his brow.

“Ah, Cullen, a little fast, ne?”

I nodded, embarrassed.

We’d finished in the second half of the pack. Neither Sarah nor my partner had managed an impressive time.

After I’d cooled down further and the last runners had arrived, we took a five-minute walk to one of Totsukawa’s famous attractions; the massive Tanize Suspension Bridge.

I took some heart from the thick steel cables and solid-looking fittings holding up the pedestrian bridge.

I hadn’t thought about the sound. The old wooden floorboards underneath us, linked together over a chainlink base, made alarming squeaks and groans of protest as we made the long walk across. The bridge swayed back and forth enough to make you nervous.

The view, however, was amazing.

We finished the day at an onsen. The water was hot, refreshing and smelled like eggs. I was assured this meant it was very healthy for me. 

It was a great experience and one I’m glad I had in Japan. In Canada and the U.S. at least, relay races are not very popular. I’d definitely recommend participating in one. It was nice to be supported (read; carried) by a team.