Last Sunday saw me and some 3,800 other hardy souls take a jog around the windy environs of Date city. Actually, the very windy bordering-on-gale-force environs of Date city. The occasion was the 24th Date Spring Half Marathon, an event that prides itself on being Hokkaido's first road race of the year. Given that it takes place in the middle of April, it is an indication of how long the winters over here actually are.
Anyway, I have ran this race a couple of times before, enjoyed it and decided to reaffirm my innate, primeval athleticism (but softened by my soulful stride - there's that effortless alliteration again, folks) after winter's enforced hibernation.
It was windy, though. Did I mention that? Bear it in mind.
As the first race of the season it is quite popular and attracts more than the usual number of entrants from all corners of Hokkaido and further afield from Honshu too. This to a somewhat out of the way place, a northern Japanese version of Wexford. It also attracts a disproportionate amount of old people. The oldest competitor there was Mr. Nishizawa, a sprightly 82 year old from Sapporo. Yes, 82. Or to put it another way, he was born in 1929, the year of the Wall Street Crash and the first television test broadcast. And he ran 21.1 km (13.1 miles). On a very windy day. Excessively windy, even.
To be honest, the rude good health of so many seniors was both refreshing and a tad unnerving to witness. According to the race guide there were 41 competitors over the age of 70 and I'd swear at least 40 of them passed me by.
There I'd be, trotting along at what I thought was a fair old clip, when I'd hear this cheerful 'Hello' come from beside me and a grinning, hobbit like man with a twinkle in his eye who looked as if he was on temporary day release from the local nursing home, would go pitter-pattering past me, all the while thanking me for taking part and urging me to ganbatte, or do my best. And then he'd continued to pitter-patter on until he dwindled into the distance (or got snatched by a roaming band of orcs - Date is notorious for them).
And this happened a lot. Obviously for the local elderly hobbit population there is nothing quite as motivating as beating someone from the Race of Hairy Men in the Date half marathon. Plus, given their smaller, whippet like frames, they could cut through the wind whereas us men folk bore the full brunt of nature's fury.
Christ, that wind.
Anyway, despite my best efforts to slipstream behind some of these speedy hobbits, I still ended up coming home in 1:46, a good five wind-resisted minutes outside my personal best. I know, I know, for shame - Cian still refuses to look me in the eye and Sanae has taken to calling me 'Lard Arse'. But I console myself with the thought of Mr. Nishizawa and the fact that (hopefully) I still have another 40 years to beat my personal best.
Team Ireland - Pre Race
All hail the foreigner, for he is from the Race of Men! And he has abundant chest hair!!
Cian, refusing to meet his father's eye.
Cian, refusing to share his rice ball.
Daddy, hiding his social ostracism behind alcohol.
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