Tokyo Marathon - Emotions or Efficiency ?

                             

                                     

  The sun was high when I crossed the finish line of the Tokyo Marathon, arms raised in exhausted triumph. My legs were heavy, my mind foggy, but my heart was full. Relief, pride, and gratitude washed over me—not just for finishing, but for the lessons this race had taught me. Lessons about discipline, resilience, and the quiet beauty of Japanese hospitality.

 Couple of days earlier in the labyrinthine subways  of Shinjuku. Lost and overwhelmed, I stopped a young office worker for directions. He didn’t speak much English, but he understood my confusion. Without hesitation, he walked me to the correct exit, bowing slightly before hurrying off. That small act of kindness, so characteristic of Japan, stayed with me as I ran through Tokyo’s streets. It reminded me that even in a race defined by efficiency and precision, there’s room for humanity.

Reflecting on the Tokyo Marathon, I couldn’t help but think of Charlie Chaplin’s Modern Times. The film satirizes the relentless efficiency of industrial workers, even inventing a machine to feed them during lunch to save time. Efficiency and precision are hallmarks of Japan, deeply ingrained in its culture. You feel this in the Tokyo Marathon—everything is meticulously designed for success. What’s needed is provided, checked off, and executed flawlessly. The event is a masterpiece of organization, but it doesn’t account for the emotional and physical demands of its “industrial workers”—the runners.

The marathon treats the event as a competitive sport rather than a festival. Strict cut-off times are enforced, and slower runners are swept off the course, unlike other major marathons that allow them to continue on footpaths. For 99% of runners, a marathon is a personal challenge, not a race to win. It’s an emotional journey, a celebration of perseverance. Tokyo, however, prioritizes efficiency and rules over this emotional side. In other cities, marathons are city-wide festivals where fast and slow runners are celebrated equally. In Tokyo, the event feels like a small blip on the city’s busy calendar.

 Getting into the Tokyo Marathon is as challenging as qualifying for Boston. I tried every avenue—time qualification, tour operators, charity bids—but nothing worked. Finally, a cancellation opened a spot, and I grabbed it without hesitation. This meant running three marathons in 100 days: Mumbai, Tokyo, and Boston. Each was important, and I found partners equally committed to this “crime.” The Indian World Marathon Major community is tight-knit, and past finishers shared invaluable tips about Tokyo’s unique demands.

Among my buddies was Sanjay Sethi, a fellow runner with an impressive finish in London the previous year. We had connected through our shared passion for running and were traveling together for Tokyo. “What pace are you planning to start at?” Sanjay asked me as we lined up in Corral E. I had a detailed pacing plan, broken into four segments for easy recall. “My plan is 11.50 km per hour for the first three hours,” I replied. I wanted to compensate for the tough weather during the Mumbai Marathon and aimed to push my collapse point beyond 42 km this time.

Another key member of our group was Kalyani, a much faster runner who had already conquered several World Marathon Majors. Her experience and advice were invaluable. On race morning, she lent me a 250 ml drink box she had cleverly repurposed. I had emptied the apple juice and refilled it with water as my emergency supply. This small act of camaraderie became a lifeline during the race, allowing me to sip water between aid stations without breaking stride.

Tokyo’s efficiency is remarkable. The race doesn’t wait for stragglers; roads are reopened promptly, and cut-off times are strictly enforced. This can feel cruel for slower runners, but it’s a reflection of Japan’s culture. The marathon is a well-oiled machine, and the city moves on quickly, leaving no trace of the event.

Race day arrived with unpredictable weather. The forecast promised cool conditions, but the weather gods had other plans. It was warm, and the sun grew harsh as the race progressed. The Tokyo Marathon rule book warned of limited porta-potties, and public urination would lead to disqualification. I avoided drinking water the night before, but the heat made hydration crucial. Aid stations were placed every 5 km, with additional ones every 2 km after that. Water  and thrir sport drink Pocari Sweat was served in  cups, and littering wasn’t allowed. I had to stop, gulp, and keep moving—a stark contrast to Indian marathons, where runners carry their own bottles and plenty of water stations with disposable bottles .

The race began smoothly. I settled into my pace, keeping an eye on the pacers for direction. The route was full of turns, and running tangentially was essential to avoid adding extra distance. The early kilometers felt good, and I completed the first segment (11.50km) right on target. The second segment (23 km in my watch) was equally steady, but the sun grew relentless. By the second hour, I was pouring water over my head at every aid station, frustrated by the small quantities. “Why only a quarter-filled cup?” I thought. “I need 200 ml, not 50!”

The third segment (34 .5km) was where mental fatigue began to set in.    My feet      could feel  hidden elevations on small bridges now.  I had planned meticulously, but the heat and lack of water were taking a toll.

One of the most emotionally charged moments came during the switchbacks—those U-turns where you see runners coming from the opposite direction. In Tokyo, these switchbacks are poetic. If you feel fast, you see elites and faster runners gliding past, inspiring you to push harder. If you feel tired, you realize you’re still ahead of many others, giving you a boost of motivation. At every switchback, I looked for familiar faces but found none. The runners moved silently, like the millions of hurried commuters in Tokyo’s subways. The only sound was the rhythmic thumping of shoes on pavement.

The fourth segment ( after 34.50 km ) was where the real mental battle began. My legs weren’t tired, but my mind was. I pushed through, reminding myself of the privilege of running this prestigious race. Some wait years for a spot, and here I was, just kilometers from the finish, wanting to quit. “This isn’t funny,” I told myself. “You need mental strength as much as physical fitness.”

 I searched for external motivation—cheering crowds, funny signs, anything to lift my spirits. But Tokyo’s crowds were eerily silent. Unlike other marathons, where spectators line the streets with colorful placards and deafening cheers, here the atmosphere was subdued. The few cheerleaders I spotted were placed so far off the route that they felt more like decorations than motivators. It was as if they were there to entertain the city, not the runners.

I thought of my friends back home tracking my progress, but the R Navi app was basic and difficult to navigate. I wasn’t even sure if anyone was following my race. The lack of external support forced me to dig deeper into my own reserves. I reminded myself that this was my race, my challenge, and my victory to claim. I took my gels as a duty, even though I hated those and kept pushing forward.

The final kilometers were a blur. My watch showed a longer distance than the course markers, adding to the mental challenge. I reminded myself that I had planned for this—not just for the first three hours, but for the entire race. A tentative plan leads to a tentative finish, and I was determined to push through.

Finally, the finish line appeared. I spread my arms in gratitude and crossed it, exhausted but triumphant. I walked past the finish, looking for familiar faces to share my happiness. I sat on the curb beside an Indonesian runner and struck up a conversation. A Mexican runner joined us soon after. I felt happy with my effort and my new personal best.

As I reflected on the Tokyo Marathon, I realized how much I had learned—lessons that will stay with me as I prepare for Boston next month. Tokyo taught me the importance of mental strength. It’s not just about physical fitness; it’s about pushing through when your mind wants to quit. I learned to adapt to unexpected challenges, from the weather to the strict cut-off times. I discovered the value of meticulous planning, not just for the first three hours but for the entire race. Most importantly, I realized that every marathon is a unique experience, shaped by the city, its people, and its culture.

Tokyo’s efficiency and precision were awe-inspiring, but they also reminded me that marathons are more than just races—they’re celebrations of human spirit and resilience. As I look ahead to Boston, I feel ready. Ready to embrace the hills, the unpredictable New England weather, and the electrifying crowd support. Ready to apply the lessons from Tokyo and push myself even further. Ready to celebrate the joy of running, no matter what the clock says.

Tokyo was a milestone, but Boston is the next chapter. And I can’t wait to write it.