Survival Weekend (Part Two)

I awoke with the kindly station gaurd in my face, softly informing me that we could not sleep in the station. I smiled at him, said O.K., then went back to sleep. Ten minutes later, George rallied the group, and we got a move on, which is to say we went to get coffee. Coffee was and is fuel paramount to such adventures, and we took no small effort to consume a good amount before beating it on down the line. It had stopped raining, and we had stopped at a convenient store to buy breakfast, which was a curry role and granola bar. Patches of blue began to poke through the gray, and by 10 a.m. the weather was sunny and relatively warm. I stripped back down to my leotard, and we saw a big tank of puffer fish displayed in front of a restaurant. Puffer fish can be fatal if eaten when it hasn't beeen prepared carefully. I ate puffer fish once but it was prepared carefully, which is why I am still alive. At Kanda Station, we tried to take a group picture, but a rather curious gentleman tried to hit us with his cain. He saluted us when we left. Alex was being grumpy, so he was dubbed the pink afro dunce. He argued that he wasn't being grumpy, which of course made him sound even grumpier, so we told him he had to wear it all morning. He said it was hot. We stopped again after arriving at the gothic looking Tokyo Station, the biggest but not busiest station on the Yamanote Line. We ate again, and my stomach and the curry udon I ordered had an argument. Everyone elses food and stomachs were arguing, too, so we used the bathroom. The coffee's nectar began to subside, so, clearly, it was time to go to the Imperial Park and have a nap. It was the best nap I've ever had, lying on trimmed grass with an unusually warm November sun beating down on me like I was a lizard. Actually, I am a lizard. When I woke up my socks were dry. George rallied us again, and Cory was still wearing his dumb cowboy hat. Alex took more wonderful pictures, and everyone else was giddy with tired jollies. I was afraid that we would hit The Wall at this point, but the break in the weather seemed to provide the extra push we would need to make it through the afternoon. Metropoliton stores and cafes distinctly not Japanese lined the streets, and we were soon in an area of money and commerce. George had stripped down to his game uniform, and Sarah was no longer wearing her pirate outfit. Arrrrrrr! We peed in an alley because public bathrooms were hard to come by. The buildings got taller and fancier; it did not seem like we were in Japan. We got a little lost, but thanks to Dai, got un-lost very quickly. We arrived at that half-way point: Shinagawa. For whatever reason, but not by any stroke of fairness, I was voted by the group to be the next pink afro bearer. So, the afro, my leotard, and the rubber snake around my neck whose name was and still is Reggie, got me a lot of stares from frightened Japanese adults and giggling children. It felt oddly liberating to be in such ridiculous garb amongst the suits and ties of the army of Salary Men, and my face started hurting from laughing so much. We sat down because everyone's legs were turning to brittle stone, and Cory and Sarah put fallen leaves in my afro without me noticing it. I wondered why they were laughing so hard.

Survival Weekend (Part One)

Remember when we were kids and we'd call simple stuff by cool names? A piece of sharpened wood could easily be a "monster-thwarter," and water mixed with sugar was "power juice." We'd make crazy plans to do something impossibly exotic, and we made the plans simply because making them was almost just as much fun as the thought of actually doing it. Once, my friend Philip and I made a boat from wooden planks that we were going to take to Hawaii. We drew a map, and painted the bottom of the boat the same color as the ocean to camouflage us from lurking sharks. We constructed elaborate weapons, drew maps, and packed our clothes and sandwiches in water-proof bags. I even said goodbye to my parents. They smiled and said good-bye, too. That night I slept in my bed, already having innocently forgotten about our trip. I woke up the next day and Philip and I started working on our next plan, whatever it was. Maybe we tried to make a movie, or a special potion with supernatural health benefits.

As kids, we could entertain ourselves for days with projects and plans, most of which never saw fruition, or if they did, were considered lackluster by the adult mind. But not in our minds. In a kid's mind, success is never measured in terms of outcomes--it is measured by the girth of the idea. Big ideas always succeed, small ideas suck and are left behind, and if it comes off without a hitch, that is just an added bonus. Somewhere along the line, this idealism got swallowed up in the need for results, and the plans became less creative, were soon replaced by girls and T.V., and then I turned 13 and was too cool for school. Now, I'm 25 and no longer want to be cool, assuming I ever have been. No, I want ideas and girth. I want maps, plans, ropes that suspend contraptions, forts, journeys, trapdoors, hidden compartments, and weird inventions.

I live near the biggest city in the world, Tokyo, and for a long time my friends and I have had a theory that it could be used as a giant playground, given the right circumstances and idea. Survival Weeekend provided me with the right time and place to recreate that feeling of kid-like possibility and renew my faith in ideas. Schemes about Survival Weekend began nearly two years before the actual event, so as my friends and I were taking the last train into Tokyo on Friday night, I couldn't help but feel tightness in my gut, the same kind I used to get when trying to go to sleep on Christmas Eve.

The point of Survival Weekend was simple: a group of us were to take the last train into Tokyo, arriving around midnight. We would then walk the circumference of the Yamanote Train line, forgoing sleep, beds, changes of clothes, and embracing any obstacles along the way. The Yamanote is a circular line that encompasses the inner-Tokyo area and boasts all of Japan's largest stations. There are roughly 30 stops, and the circle clocks in at around 50 kilometers distance. It's nothing short of a hoof, and there is no direct street or trail to follow. The most common response I received after telling someone about Survival Weekend was "Why?" Why not?

Here goes: it was raining when we left.

We started at a metropolitan station called Ikeburkuro, and I was wearing a full-body black polyester leotard that was good to walk in because a.) it dried quickly and b.) it was funny and weird. Sarah was dressed like a pirate and Cory wore a lame cowboy hat. He line-danced at the station before we left—very lame. George drew a brown mustache on his face making him look like he took a giant swig from a mug of hot cocoa or ate butt, and he then passed around a tube of fake blood to the group to apply wherever appropriate. He wore a soccer uniform the next day. Alex was the official photographer of the trip, and his fake blood design was the most realistic because it looked like he got his ass kicked. Dai, the lone Japanese member to complete the entire trek, was our navigator and he ended up winning the fart contest. As a result, we, the group, must pay his next month's gas bill. Don looks like Keanu Reeves and wore a blueberry colored rain outfit, and was perhaps the most determined member of the group. When he was voted president he made a rule that we could speak only in the form of questions for the duration of his term. Mizuho joined us late the next day because she had to work. She wore a green hat, and looked like an edamame bean. These were the key players, and we had a pink afro that was worn by whoever was acting like a grumpy dumpling, or simply put: a wiener. In this fashion, we began The Walk around 1 a.m. and did not make it to the first station until an hour later. We were still ironing out the basics of urban orienteering. It was still raining and I do not quite remember who was wearing the pink afro because I was trying to push Cory in a puddle, and continued to do so for the rest of the night. Don was quiet but cheerful, and Alex was taking great pictures that we have been looking and laughing at all week. Dai continued to guide us like an Arctic explore, and Sarah faithfully recorded farts and their respective point values (based on tonality, stench, and nastiness) and who wore the afro at which times. I was voted president but had a lousy and unproductive term. We walked up a big hill and bought beers and snacks at a convenient store at the top. We took a picture in which some random dude dashed at the last minute. Another foreigner walked past us, and said something rude but I don't remember because I was trying to push Cory in a bush. Don was livid and would have fought him had he turned around. For the record: we had Don's back. It kept raining, and we kept walking. There were farts and afros and presidents and rain and pictures and giggling and THEN...we arrived at Ueno Station at 5:30 a.m. and fell asleep on the cold, damp, linoleum station floor. I only brought one pair of socks (and they were soaking wet) so I borrowed some clean ones from Sara. A station guard woke us up around 7 the next morning. He was grinning as he said OHAYO GOZAIMASU in a soft voice.

Running to Stand Still

I've been running a lot lately, more than usual. Having moved recently, it was a bit daunting to think about having to find new running routes, and I did not look forward to the those runs where I would inevitably find myself miles away from my home and even farther from understanding how to get back. One evening, when searching for a new route, I found myself in front of a Denny's, which was disconcerting for two reasons: 1.) I knew for a fact that there was not a Denny's within a three-mile radius of my new apartment and b.) Japanese Denny's do not have "Moons Over My-Hammy" on their menu, which is a bit depressing in it's own right.

Anyway, I'm sorry. This entry is not about Denny's. Almost two months have passed since my pioneer run, and I have since then come across plenty of good paths, trails, streets, and sidewalks that have far surpassed my old running routes. Furthermore, I have increased my mileage significantly since last year, and my runs have gradually gotten longer, and, as a result, offer me new opportunities for neighborhood exploration. Because my old apartment was located in a relatively urban and condensed area, my running routes were always along streets and through neighborhoods with tight corners barely wide enough for even a single car. My new routes, though, are in wide-open spaces, along rivers, and flow in and out of rice fields. My old runs were often stressful: I would always be looking for a car taking a corner too fast, or having to jig around those people who walk--not ride--their bikes along the sidewalks, and I would return to my apartment after my run frustrated and seething at someone who had cut me off or almost hit me. Now, however, because of my new, more rural routes I can achieve a soothing sense of solitude and peacefulness, two of many virtues that originally attracted me to long-distance running.

Last Sunday, I decided I was going to go on the longest run I have ever gone on to date, setting the goal of two hours of non-stop exertion. I recently read this book by ultarmarathoner Dean Karnazes, which put me into that hammer-it-out-tough-as-nails-never-stop-running-eat-your-own-foot frame of mind which made me want to test my endurance. The weather is getting colder now, but last Sunday was one of those warm, surreal late-October days that makes running more than just easy--it makes it, dare I say, a pleasure.

I started my watch at the staircase below my apartment, and was to the river side in less than five minutes, chugging past the families and groups of friends who were taking advantage of the nice day to have one last autumn BBQ or play catch. I slowed my pace down considerably, as I would be going twice as far as I usually go, so I had to keep my wits and not over exert myself at the beginning. Eventually, I left the recreational part of the river behind, and found myself out in the rice fields, dodging around swarms of the season's last wave of dragonflies, and watching the plumes of smoke rising from the rice farmers' burning fields. I decided to continue straight where I usually turn away from the river, and set a goal for an hour along the river, at which point I would turn and run back.

I've mentioned this point before, but there is a certain release that comes with getting outside the city, and moving into a place where I can see mountains in the distance and hear rivers slapping their water against natural banks (as opposed to the ubiquitous, concrete ones you see in Tokyo).

In no less than twenty minutes, by sheer movement of my body, I found a place where kids look for and discover cool stuff, where people pick things from trees and collect them in their free hands, where invisible creatures rustle and scurry in the bushes, where you can probably see the stars at night, where you don't have to second guess whether or not that car will stop because there are no cars, where people kick rocks along paths, where long grass tickles your legs and gets in your socks, where the houses have yards and even gardens, where nobody wears suits, where people exchange greetings as you pass, where eye-contact is NOT avoided, where it smells like grass that's just been cut, where older couples walk and talk about what I guess can only be good times. As such, I hit a Runner's High.

Runners always talk about the Runners' High. Although I know the feeling, I have never tried to explain exactly what it is. Before I really started running consistently, I thought a Runner's High was a physical phenomenon that you felt only after having attained a high level of physical fitness. But, I now modify the definition so that it includes certain mental, even emotional, attributes. Running, in itself, is not so interesting. It can be tedious, tiring, not to mention monotonous. But, when I reach a Runner's High, my mind ceases to dwell on all the discomforts listed above, but rather it focuses on the run itself without any thought of when it will finish, where it will finish, or when the fatigue will end. No, the Runners High is when the mind tunes into the body's rhythms, becomes fascinated with them, forgets all other minutia, and thus uses the time to enjoy the utter complexity and beauty of the human body.

Finding my new running route has been an enormously important part of this new stage of my time in Japan. I like my new routes so much that I look forward to waking up early in the morning to go running or throwing on my running shoes after a long day of work to hit the trail. Where running used to be a bit of a chore, something I did just to stay in shape or train for soccer, it's now more of a release from the stress and worry of egoism. When I hit my Runner's High, all thoughts about the day--about work, about responsibilities, about money, about life--cease to hold their solipsistic water, and I forget about everything except the toe-tap percussion of my running shoes on the ground and the breathe-in-breathe-out accompaniment of my expanding body.