Running and praying

 So there I am at nine o'clock in the morning on New Year's day (and yes U2 fans, all is quiet) on the north side of Obihiro train station, stretching. Draped around my shivering torso is a sky blue sash with "北方領土返還を祈願する" written on it, the jist of which is essentially "Give us back our islands you Russian feckers". It is a proclamation of pride, a demand for restitution; another year just begun and still our beloved Hoppo Yonto, off the east coast of Hokkaido, remains yolked to the bridle of mother Russia (yes, I know, excellent metaphor).
There are 45 of us gathered outside the train station for the Obihiro Enjoyable Running Club's annual new year's day marathon. We are a motley looking bunch of day-glo clad runners ranging in age from a 10 year old girl to a couple of old men who, if not quite knocking on heaven's door, seem to be at least standing on the porch in front of it. As I said we are stretching as there is nothing better for your body than to stretch your still sleep stiff muscles in sub zero temperatures.
It is feckin freezing. The oversized thermometer beside us reads minus 4. I am vaguely waving my arms about and leaning to and fro a bit for fear if I do any actual stretching my hamstrings might literally snap in two.
Not for the last time I wonder what I was thinking.
We finish the stretches. The club's chairman/director of running/small guy in the funny wool hat and ear muffs (who for brevity's sake I will henceforth refer to as 'Bob') stands in front of us and commences speaking. It is a heartfelt speech, full of pathos about how another year has passed and the islands are bridled and yoked, etc. and let 2014 be the year when Japan can finally reclaim its geographical own. At least that's what I think he said. I am kind of bowing along in all the right places but like most of my fellow athletes I am really wondering when I can start the running as it is still feckin freezing out here.
Apparently years ago Bob used to give these blood curling speeches, nay declarations of imminent war, denouncing those no-good thieving Russian sons-of-bitches. Then some of said sons-of-bitches actually turned up at one of the marathons and he had to tone down the war mongering rhetoric as they turned out to be quite nice comrades once you looked past the geo-politics.
Bob finishes his speech. We are led through to the station to the south entrance. The plaza in front of the south entrance is bathed in early morning sunlight and is actually quite pleasant. We are all wondering of course why the good feck we had to do our stretches on the cold, shadowed north side of the station, but there is no time to fling angry snowballs at Bob as we are off.
Our six kilometre course is an inverted U shape that will take us via three of Obihiro's numerous shrines before coming back to the station. Which should be nice as shrines in Japan on new year's day are lively bustling places and it will be pleasant to soak up some of the atmosphere as we jog past.
Even though we have officially started it has to be said that we are not really running very fast. Not really running at all. It's more like a slow shuffle, moving just enough to suffer from wind chill but not enough to warm one's body. We make our ponderous way east for a couple of blocks and then have to double back when it's discovered we have gone too far. Obihiro is laid out in a grid like pattern with straight lined streets north-south and east-west, so it takes a bit of effort to get lost in the city. But we're managing it all the same. Back at the station some of the 'veterans' had proudly proclaimed that it was their 14th year in a row running this course but their keeping pretty quiet now.
We find the street leading to Tokachi shrine and pick up the pace. Only to be brought to a halt by a set of red traffic lights. There is no traffic. In fact there isn't a car to be seen in any direction this early on new year's day. Yet we wait, for this is Japan and this is what we do and what we don't do will only make us stronger.
Or some such.
The lights turn green and off we set again only to come to another red light a block later. Thus a stuttering stop-start pattern begins. This particular road has a lot of traffic lights and all of them are staggered to turn red just as you reach them. So instead of constant running we are doing a successive series of block length jogs with 2 minute breaks. For the Bob Dylan contingent this is ideal as it lengthens their mortality that little bit more but for the rest of us its aggrevating. And cold.
We finally reach Tokachi shrine and there is already a sizeable crowd milling around, praying for good fortune and burning the relics of the year past in a small bonfire. I had assumed that we would just jog on by but no, we go in and join the queue in front of the main hall, offer a token donation, clap our hands twice, bow, and beseech the gods to grant our wishes. In my case it is to get a bloody move on as I am now really feckin freezing. For feck's sake.
The gods don't listen to me. They never do. Instead I have to wait until the other forty four blue sashed Hoppo Yonto activists each pray for the Russians to get off their islands. And to tidy up the place again before they do so.
Off we go again. Some of us younger, sprightlier types who, due to our lean, svelte, fat free bodies are particularly susceptible to the cold (a problem neither Sanae nor Cian suffer from) shift up the gears and inject a bit of pace into the proceedings, door knockers be damned. For all of three minutes as we round a corner and find ourselves at the next shrine. This is not as busy as the previous place but there are still enough people present to from a queue. Which we join. More praying. More shivering. Still the Russians are on the islands.
Although unspoken there is an emergent feeling of mutiny among some of us. We signed up for a run, a quick, refreshing 6 km jog around Obihiro and its sights on the first day of the year. We did not sign up for a political pilgrimage.
A small group of us set off in a hurry for the final shrine but then have to slow down when we belatedly realize that none of us know where it is. We are tempted to make a beeline for the station which we can see beckoning off in the distance. But then we think of the Hoppo Yonto and reluctantly wait for the others to catch up.
At the final shrine a significant number of us don't bother praying; if the gods haven't heard us by now, they're probably not listening. That or they are Russian. Instead we stand around for a respectable 20 seconds or so before galloping off towards the station. And gallop we do. At quite the clip. For the first time all morning I feel like we are actually running, properly pounding the pavements. Still though, we stop for each and every red light despite the lack of traffic.
We get back to the station nearly two hours after we started. That's two hours to run 6 kilometres. Even Sanae could run faster than that. Well, okay, maybe not Sanae, but Cian would certainly be quicker. Bob appears and thanks me for my participation and hopes to see me again next year. I politely reply, "maybe". What I really want to say is "not a feckin chance in hell, pal". In Russian.
I would like to end by saying that despite all the hardships the morning's running and praying had left me both physically and spiritually refreshed, but all it left me was cold, agnostic and with an ungodly desire for a cup of tea and a choco old-fashioned from Mr. Donuts.