Runners In Japan

In America, runners come in many varieties. You have the wanna-be marathoners, the thrift store clad hipsters, the ironic runners, the fun runners, the carry weights around as you go runners, the spandex crowd, the giant headphone wearers, etc. In Japan, you have only one kind of runner. The stoic runner. These fit but silent types wear the latest running fashion, all the way down to the seasonally sanctioned tights. There is no fun in their run. You can see them running with backpacks around the imperial palace, or running in well color coordinated packs around Yoyogi Park. They signal their turns and shout serious warnings when they come up behind you. I wish the types of runners in Japan were as diverse as some of the other sub-cultures. But for now, these stoic warriors rule the city, with dreams of Ekiden glory in their heads all the year round.

“The Shark of Yoyogi Park”

Someone left a shark at the front gate of Yoyogi Park.

Authorities weren’t able to determine the species of the shark. Things like this don’t happen in Tokyo as they are prone to happen in other parts of the world. In Tokyo it is quite the strange occurrence for a shark to go showing up at the front gate of a public park. It’s no wonder the authorities are having a hard time determining the particular species of this particular shark. The Tokyo police just are not accustomed to having such peculiar cases to solve. Perhaps had it been a bear or some manner of lion left at the front gate of the park they would have had an easier time determining the species of the beast. But for the wretched beast to have been left to have been a shark, that is too queer of a happening for the Tokyo authorities to be expected to have any expertise in.

“Jogging”

There is no such thing as casual running in Tokyo.

The parks and sidewalks of Tokyo are basically a paved fashion runway for obsessive, maniacal souls who seek out every possible accessory that happens to remotely relate to running. Every runner in Tokyo is an entire catalogue of possibility. Tights are required. There are fanny packs involved. Backpacks. Packs for their iPods. Another pack for their wallet. Still another one for vending machine change. They wear watches, they wear Nike plus. They wear the dry fit shirt from the 5K ‘fun run’ last summer. They wear a head band that matches their tights. Their iPods match their fanny packs. They run with proper form and stoic expressions and check their pulse regularly. Tokyo runners constantly look like they are on the verge of a PR. They make running look unattainable. And they make this foreign jogger who runs in basketball shorts look like a complete slob. Running in Tokyo lives at the intersection of sports and high fashion. Live in only one of those realms and risk being ostracized by the community.

Running Yoyogi Park at Midnight

All is dark and the autumn winds are playing the branches of trees. Amplifying the gusts. This park is electric at night. The clouds speed past overhead. In the direction of Shibuya, there is a neon glow projecting onto the low hanging clouds.

In the park, at this hour, all is still, save an elite eccentric few characters.

There are the shadowy couples parked on distant benches. Statuesque in their secrecy.

There is the dreadlocked dude playing an African drum by the fountain. All of his mates have abandoned him. He plays to the trees and crows now.

There is the music man by the small pond, imitating Dylan. Singing in Japanese something that might be The Times They Are A Changin’. He’s got the one-man-band style harmonica holder, and he lets loose a carnival sounding solo as I run by. My footsteps tapping out the percussion.

There are the three other runners I pass on each loop. Each in marathon training mode. Running like the T-1000 from Terminator 2. It’s dark, but it feels like they are still wearing their trendy running sunglasses. Marathoners are not creatures to break from routine. They are clad in their spandex and sprint with easy gaits, whipping up the leaves in their trail.

There is the crazy man on the boardwalk. Dancing a whirling dervish of a dance. It’s part tap dance, part performance art and 100% fantasy. He laughs to himself. He bows to an invisible audience. He is a dancing army of one. His toe taps and arm flairs move to the rhythm of all the park has to offer. His moves are inspired by the marathoners, Dylan, the crows, my plodding footsteps, the branches and the leaves. And by possibly things that even no one else can hear.

I run past it all. On loop. I check my time. I improve my stride. I think about life and work. I admire the bright yellow leaves swirling in the wind as I run through them. I need no music. Running in the wind sounds great.

I feel way faster at night. I imagine I am a running machine, or inside of some vehicle, cruising past nature, slaloming past the crazies. Kicking up leaves.

At other moments it feels like I am running in place. Caught up on an epic sized treadmill, going nowhere fast. Surrounded by the elements and characters. A record spinning, and I am the immovable, steady needle.

And then I decide the record is over and I head down the slope that leads to the back gate. I pass a giant, ghost like dog, walking his owner. I see the blur of headlights. Reality calls me back.

I leave the harmonica solo and boardwalk tap dances behind. They will disappear at first light. But I will see them the next time that I go on a midnight run. They are all hardwired into the fantasy of the Yoyogi Park after hours running scene.