No Surrender.

Last Sunday, I went for a run up the mountains in nearby Noboribetsu, along with 26 fellow fleet-footed souls of questionable sanity. The occasion was the annual 'Forest Kozan Trail Run' though this was my first year to compete. And compete I did. There was honor at stake, national pride, as Ireland's representative at what is now the 'International Forest Kozan Trail Run', I had the expectations of a nation resting on my slim, albeit still toned, shoulders. Plus, I didn't want Cian calling his Daddy 'a wuss'.

So 'Bang!' goes the starter's gun and, as you will see from the following clip, in a turn of speed and a sudden burst of acceleration, within 10 metres of the start I had already opened up a commanding lead on the donkey in 25th and made 24th place my own.

Now, keep an eye on the old guy in the yellow top, number 402.

In every race I have entered in Japan their has always been a 'Death before Dishonor' older Japanese competitor, who takes it personally if the tall, hairy foreigner passes him by. In the Kozan race, he was the man, the Nihonjin who embodied the samurai spirit of old, who would rather run himself into the ground, smear himself in honey and get torn to pieces by ravenous bears rather than let a lanky gaijin beat him. Also, they all run like the Duracell Bunny, constant, clockwork-like steps, pat--pat--pat--pat--pat--pat, that only ever changes when they realize they have been overtaken by yours truly, when they suddenly shift from low to high and go pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat as they scurry past me.

Anyway, we come to the 2km marker, and there we are, me and Swifty Suzuki, little and large, dueling it out for the highly coveted 20th spot.

Back up into the mountains, this time for a good, lung-burning 7km constant climb. At the top I'm still behind him, but as we descend, I stretch those gazelle like limbs of mine and lope past him. But not for long, Pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat and he, I swear, 'whirrs' past me, damned if the spirit of the absent Emperor isn't willing him along. "Ah-hah sweaty foreigner, eat my dust!"

7km though, is a long down hill and well, my legs relish the stretch. Go by him again. More frenetic pat-pat-pat-pat-pating but it's a warm Autumn day, I've got at least 20 years and 30 centimetres on him and I'll be damned if I'm going to lose to a bald hobbit.

After this we headed back up into the mountains again, for what turned out to be a 'Sweet-Mother-of-Jesus-what-was-I-thinking" final 6km of an absolute bastard of a climb. Embroiled in my own private world of excruciating hamstring pain, I don't know what happened to Mr. 402 but I thought I saw some empty honey jars on the trail as I finally plodded home.

To a surprising 10th finish, which I was quite pleased with. Until Cian called me "a wuss".