The Atsumi Ekiden

            There are things about the Japanese society that perplex me, things that frustrate me, things that make me think, and things that I want to take back to my country and share.  The way of thinking here permeates all aspects of society: work and play.  The notion of group reliance and unity exists without resistance.  The ekiden is a powerful example.  Many schools and other establishments hold these relay marathons every year.  I cannot, for the life of me, imagine such a phenomenon occurring in America.  It has a long, sacred tradition, like most things Japanese.

            This particular ekiden was my first, but not Erik’s.  The branch of my base school, Tsuruoka Chuou’s Atsumi Campus, asked us to join the teacher’s team.  I was excited; I knew this was one experience I wanted to have under my belt.  Erik was interested, but maybe not as excited as I.  We both had colds and the weather was threatening to put a damper on things:  eighty per cent chance of rain.  And so it did, rain that is…and rain…and rain.  It was a “in your bones” kind of rain that was quite happy where it was and didn’t have any notion to leave any time soon.  In no way, however, did the rain hinder the day’s events.  Kocho-sensei described it as “unlucky.”  I wanted to reply, “You think…”, but I refrained while shivering. 

            There were five teams total, a small ekiden at best.  This year, the Atsumi branch has only eighty-five students.  Later that day at the after-run party, a seemingly important volunteer make a speech in which she said that the population of Atsumi was decreasing and that all of the young men and women should make lots of babies.  She said this quite matter-of-factly.  It’s such a beautiful town; I hope it holds on.  Each grade/homeroom had a team, the teachers had a team, and there was another group of obvious seasoned runners whom all seemed to be firefighters, except for the 3^rd year girls they had recruited to run the female legs.  Each team had twelve runners whom as a team had to complete about 32K.  The students, except for a couple of rebel boys, were sporting identical running apparel of sport shorts, white T-shirts, and red shoes.  I couldn’t tell how they really felt about this spectacle, besides the fact that they were all cold.  I am still curious.

            Namba-sensei, the P.E. teacher in charge, had everything superbly organized.  The course was a large loop around the town, so there was an ever-traveling caravan of teachers and volunteers with radios and buses full of students.  We were given drinks as soon as we finished, as well as a bento for lunch.  As with every semi-important, or not important, event in Japan, there was an opening ceremony.  Kocho-sensei said something; I had a feeling that it was nothing novel because there were no reactions.  Then Namba-sensei made a speech; and once again, no reactions.  I found out that he explained that during the ekiden, when you pass off your sash to your teammate, you are passing the heart, and in Japanese logic, there is no distinction between the heart, mind, or soul.  I figured that this couldn’t have been the first time the students had heard this.  I wondered if the impact of his explanation had the same effect on them as it did on me; I decided not.

            As I waited with the other students with whom I would be running, I stretched, watched the nervous runners, and thought about Erik.  He ran right before me.  He had been having some problems with his hamstring, and he was running the most difficult leg of the race.  The two front teams were pretty untouchable; they were “the firefighters” and the 3^rd grade students.  I had assumed that my team would probably be fighting for last place, but I also knew that Erik was running hills, and not many people do that as well as he.  I knew to be ready, and sure enough… The “Oh’s” were coming from everywhere.  Come to find out, he started out 5^th, but ended up 3^rd.  He had the fastest time for that leg.  He had told me that because his leg was bothering him, and this was really just for fun, he would be using this solely for a training run, but I knew better.  He is a competitor, especially when teammates are part of the equation.  It was fortunate for him that his leg didn’t hurt.  We had even foolishly discussed the possibility that he would run with me also.  He tried.  For the first, and more than likely only time, in our running time together, I was too fast for Erik Anderson.  O.K., so he had just run straight up a mountain…

            I felt honored when I was asked to run the longest men’s leg, 5.3K.  Along with the honor came a bit of pressure; it’s hard not to dwell on expected expectations.  I took the team soul from Erik and put it around my head and under my arm.  The tied not hitting my back was driving me crazy.  Since the other two teams were at least four minutes ahead, I was on my own for direction.  Within one minute, I came to a dead-end and didn’t know which way to go.  Luckily, one of the town’s ladies was out and about, saw my despair, and pointed me in the right direction.  It didn’t take me very long to discover that I had started too fast.  Since my hip injury a year and a half ago, I had forgotten how to race.  I was running on pure adrenaline, I mean, my gosh!  I was carrying the team soul!  Unfortunately, it also didn’t take long for the soul to come untied, literally.  I was actually quite alarmed.  What was the significance of this?  Was it a sign of my failure?  Had I broken the symbol of the circle of life?  I decided not, tied the sash around my waist, and proceeded. 

            Despite my not-so-smart running strategy, I hung on.  I kept a good pace.  I was, however, passed by a 1^st year student in the last 5 minutes of our leg.  According to Erik, he had been trailing me the entire time; he was smart.  The race seemed so much longer than 5.3K; I was cursing every straightaway that didn’t show signs of the parked caravan.  Finally it appeared.  My endearing husband was waving his hat like a lunatic to ensure me that it was almost over.  It was liberating, passing the burden of the soul, but I realized its power as soon as I put it in my teammate’s hand.  I knew, and he knew, that my “ganbatte” didn’t hold much. It was just a word; but the sash, the heart and soul… and the look on my exhausted face told him it was his turn to bear the load.