Forty-two kilometers.
That’s not that much.
No, it is that much.
But I can’t back up.
I walk up to the white line that marks the start of the soon-to-come run. To the left and right, 61 men, already sweaty and pumped from their warm-up run, kick and punch the air, signaling their bodies to get ready for the most important run of the century. In German, the black speakers surrounding the crowd on all sides of the dome blast a sudden announcement that I don’t understand. I quickly turn my head and look around. The crowd bursts out in collective murmurs of excitement, quiets down, and sits. I realize: I’m about to start.
In the nearly silent dome, I shuffle and put myself in front of a line of fit, tan bodies. Their bodies hit mine, kicking and punching the “air,” but I stand tall and still. I don’t have the energy to waste. I look down at my shoes, then my shorts, then softly put my hands under my shirt and bring it up all the way up to chest level. On the white shirt, a red circle is prominently displayed. I bite my lips. I bite it hard. I haven’t even started, but the dark red circle makes my heartache as if I’d finished the run. I think, what if there were a few more lines? Just two more colors: blue and black? On the same white shirt, three bolded digits draw everyone’s attention. 135. I wonder, what if it said my name instead? But then again, what name would it be? The common, randomly generated Japanese name, or my birthname, beautifully handcrafted by my own parents? I know the answer, and I change my mind. I’m glad I don’t have a name.
On the very right end of the thick, white line, a foreign-looking man puts his arm straight up into the air. In his right hand, he holds a small, black gun. Through the microphone, he shouts a few undecipherable words that mark the start of the race. I put my left foot in front of my right foot, and my left hand, forcefully unclenched, in front of my right hand. I remind myself, don’t run with a clenched fist. Cut through the wind, and don’t take my time. This isn’t an enjoyable run – it’s a fight for my country.
Boom! Even before my brain fully comprehends the sound, I instinctively kick my feet and run. Around me, tall men whisper their rhythm. One, two, one, two. They move their legs accordingly. I look up ahead and feel the soft wind coming towards my face. Soon, each man finds their place in the race. Under the scorching heat with no one but trees around me, I feel a sense of freedom that I’d never felt before. I smile and burst out a huge, breathy laugh, knowing that no matter what they do, the Japanese will never be able to control my body the same way I can. It’s the one thing that belongs to me, not them. And I need to let my country know that. More determined than before, I force myself to move faster.
After hours that feel like decades, I anxiously watched the tip of the dome rise up from behind the trees. Slowly but surely, I could see more and more parts of the dome, and I knew I was near the end. The thought of arrival ironically made my panting more frequent and shook my legs. Refusing the thought to give up, I set my goal as beating the first runner, not as reaching the end. The thought of proudly representing my country brought goosebumps all over my body.
But in reality, I couldn’t express the desired beaming smile. As I stepped into the dome after nearly sprinting past the first runner, I heard the speaker shout something in shock. The crowd went wild. Later, flipping through the newspaper back at home, I realized I had set a new world record for the 42km marathon run. Standing on the highest point on the podium, I drooped my face down, unlike the second-place runner from the UK. The prominent red circle on my shirt will soon be imprinted on newspapers all over the world. I hid the circle with my victory flower. Now, I have no name. And no nation.
