This summer, I studied abroad in Kyoto, Japan; I’m sure my friends are sick of me mentioning that every chance I can. I can go on and on about what I did, what I saw, the feelings I had, the knowledge and perspective I gained, the friends I made, and the life-changing experiences being in a foreign country for that long has had on me. But instead, I’m going to distill my entire experience of studying abroad into one story, and that story is about a run.
Some of you who know me are well aware that I’m on track and cross country here at Doane. Before I left for Japan, I remember a conversation with my coach about how we were planning to attack the summer mileage while I was abroad. We both came to the understanding that the miles would come as they could and that as long as I was running consistently and not partying too hard, everything would be fine.
Those first two weeks of life in Japan were about accumulating. I had two six-week courses, I was learning to establish a routine in a foreign country, and I was trying to make connections with the students in my program. I ran by the river every day; the river was almost unapologetically simple. A concrete path with nothing but mountains ahead in the north and the countryside the tourists dare not visit down south, the river split the east and west parts of the city. Every day, no matter the time of day or the conditions, you’d say herons, ducks, and hawks by the dozen. They became familiar faces.
You learn pretty quickly that Kyoto loves to run. From spunky youth to resolved old men and women, no matter the time of day there was always another runner, another biker, or another walker. They’d run by the river, on the sidewalks, they’d run everywhere. Each runner had a silent resolve; no one gave you a little nod or wave, and no one talked when they were running in groups. Running by the river was worship at a church, a silent act with the understanding that the river and birds pulled you along.
Eventually, I got used to Kyoto, I became a frequent foreigner at certain restaurants, I made new friends, and I learned to become really good friends with the people who speak Japanese. Eventually, my running settled in, too; I started upping my paces and mileage as I became more comfortable.
But Kyoto finally clicked for me during my second to last week in Japan. After a long night of homework and studying, I left to run a quick five-mile shakeout. On my way back from running on the river, I have to turn back onto the main street, and I begin dodging people and jumping streetlights. At one street light, I see a man about my age. He’s sweaty and pacing at the stop light. He’s a runner like me.
My first thought was to slightly push him on his pace and eventually get ahead, show him how us Americans are better and stronger I guess. But he started picking up speed and suddenly I was chasing him. Me and him slowly but surely upping the pace step by step, we continued on and on. At one point a crowd was in front of us, he pointed to me to run on the street and get around them, I followed his lead.
We kept at it for about a mile. Eventually, we reached a turn and I figured that this was it. This silent stranger and I shared one mile together; he stayed calm and collected in the face of me pushing his pace and the crowds standing in our way. I rounded the corner and expected to finish the run out in silence. I round the corner and saw him, we both looked at each other and laughed, it was loud, it was wheezing, it was free.
After we rounded the corner we both said hi to each other, we talked about why we were running and what the other person does. Both of us wildly impressed at what the other did for school and work. I can’t remember what I told him, I can’t remember what he told me.
Eventually half a mile later I turned off. But in a mile and a half I realized I got it; everyone is just like me, I am like everyone else. Despite being worlds apart me and a stranger bonded for a lifetime over a simple run, the stubborn competition of both of us to turn an easy run into a high effort tempo was shared.
It was the purest joy, a happiness that only a chance encounter could bring. For one mile and a half I spoke the same universal language as someone with only a handful of words. I realized after that run that in the equivalent of ten minutes, that runner would be someone I’d remember for the rest of my life; we shared an honesty connection, pure moment.
I can tell you about the shrines and the temples, the culture and food, but what I will remember most from that trip is that runner and the river. A constant pulling force always in motion that brought two strangers under the same current and churned them out on to the city streets.
