Sakura-michi: International Nature Run (250 Km)

Posted on July 6th, 2019

Words & Photos: Filippo Canetta

The idea of running Sakura Michi had stayed lodged in my head for so long I couldn't even remember anymore where I'd first read about the race. The image I'd built up in my mind was very poetic, I pictured myself running light as a gazelle across a soft carpet of cherry blossom petals for 250 kilometers.

Brain: "You're the usual dreamer, you run like a hippo."

The story behind this race is genuinely fascinating, actually. Bus driver Sato Ryoji was forced to stop his bus for roadworks along his usual Nagoya-Kanazawa route. He saw them moving a 400-year-old cherry tree, to make way for construction of a new dam. Every day, he went back to check whether the old tree's roots had taken hold in its new spot, and he became so struck by the tree's resilience that he started planting more along the road he traveled daily. Sadly, Sato died at just 47, leaving his work unfinished. For 26 years now, his initiative has been honored by running the 250 kilometers separating Nagoya from Kanazawa, during the blooming season of the cherry trees he planted.

"Dreaming of running 250 kilometers isn't the same as actually doing it."

But I like to dream, and I'm curious to see if I can still pull it off.

I call a friend who works at Yamaha and ask if he could, please, ask a colleague of his in Japan to call the only phone number listed on the race's entirely Japanese-language website. I manage to get in touch with Mr. Hogo, and thanks to my Spartathlon participation, I get admitted into the small pool of foreign entrants.

"Now here's the fun part, you'll never manage to train properly for a race like this, and even though you still remember Spartathlon fondly, that was 3 years ago, and you're a rusty old wreck by now."

I give it my best shot, running as much as I can in every spare moment. It's not easy to prepare mentally for running 250 kilometers. The goal always feels wildly disproportionate compared to everything else I do. Without disrupting my family too much, I run a test race at the 12-hour event at Castello di Brescia, the experience helps me through a very hot day. I start cautiously, gauge myself against the 1.8 km loop, push hard during the cooler hours to build a bit of margin, slow down in the heat, trying to drink regularly, and try to pick things back up in the final hours to see how much I have left. I feel good, and finish, enjoying one last lap solo.

"Nice, you did 118 kilometers, you're wrecked, and you wouldn't even be halfway there."

Every year, with Wild Tee, we head to the magnificent race in the Cinque Terre. I really love Sciacchetrail, the course is gorgeous and demanding, the organization top-notch, and there are always plenty of foreigners around. I haven't run much on trails, and I'm a little worried I won't be up to it, I start cautiously, the frontrunners fade, and I find myself fighting for a podium spot.

"Nice work, you ran a solid little race, right now you'd be at kilometer fifty, how does that feel? Keep in mind there'd still be over 200 to go."

Organizing the trip turns out complicated, I only manage to leave the day before the race, with my son Claudio, the rest of the family will join us once the race is over. Claudio, meanwhile, will follow the course on one of the organization's vans, though it's still unclear if, or when, we'll actually be able to see each other along the way.

"This is the first time it's just the two of you, you and him, at a race, try to hold onto a shred of dignity, don't let him see what you turn into after 30 hours, please. Who knows what that poor kid will think?"

Here we go, all that's left now is packing the drop bags for a few aid stations where you're allowed to leave a few comfort items, crew assistance during the race itself is forbidden.

"Well, at least we're all in the same boat."

The ceremony (entirely in Japanese) is extremely formal, on one side stand the race organizers in their pink jackets, on the other, local politicians in black jackets, each gives a short speech I understand not a word of, but the ritual calms me, everything in Japan has its place, and I imagine the race will be the same.

The night before, thanks to jet lag, I only fall asleep an hour before the alarm goes off at four.

I look out the window, and there's a magnificent sunrise over Nagoya Castle, finally, the wait is over, now all that's left is to run, and see if I actually make it to the other side of Japan.

Deep down, this is exactly what I love: the challenge, trying to do something that seems, at the very least, difficult, if not outright impossible.

After a quick, calm ritual, entirely in Japanese as always, we set off in groups, three minutes apart. I'm in the second-to-last group, the strongest runners are in the very last one.

"Relax, anyone can go hard for the first 50 kilometers, very few manage it for the last 50."

The first kilometers always feel strange, and that feeling's amplified by the strict rule that we have to stop at every traffic light. The snake of 120 participants bunches up, then breaks apart, at every single one of the thousand traffic lights. Nothing to be done about it, even though part of me wants to keep running, before the heat builds up, I stop and wait. Some more, some less, we all throw in a bit of stretching to pass the time while trying to figure out, amongst ourselves, who'll get there first.

I decide to run alongside a Japanese woman for a stretch, I like how she runs with short, quick steps. I can tell she's not out for a stroll, and she might make a good pace reference for me, sure enough, when the strong Hungarian runner (who's won Spartathlon) passes us, she picks up her step rate to latch onto her. Once the traffic light agony ends, the Hungarian visibly picks up the pace, and we let her go. No point taking risks this early.

"What exactly do you think you're doing? These women are here to win the race, not to plod along like you, forget it."

Caught up in that strange form of bulimia that overtakes runners, I stop at every single aid station. They're incredibly well-stocked with fruit and onigiri, exactly the kind of food my poor stomach can handle.

"Sure, keep eating, don't do your usual thing, if all goes well we've still got thirty-odd hours and 20,000 kilocalories ahead of us."

The sun burns against my skin, I douse myself as much as I can to keep my body temperature bearable, and avoid wasting energy on cooling down.

I try counting the cherry trees to distract myself and find my rhythm, but quickly lose count.

"And what exactly do you know about pacing over this kind of distance?!? I'm already tired."

They're steadier in some stretches, but keep getting broken up by encroaching urban sprawl, which blurs out any real sense of pattern. Yeah, well, this definitely isn't the long, tree-lined avenue I'd pictured in my head.

"Welcome to Earth, reality never quite matches what you imagine."

The kilometers tick by, I push deeper into the heart of the country, and I start to grasp just how much Japan keeps balancing between Tradition and Modernity. In the villages I pass through, I often see elderly people in traditional clothing and wooden clogs, bent over, pulling weeds from small rice paddies right in front of their homes. They don't buy their rice, they grow it themselves. Round the corner, though, there are dealerships selling hydrogen-powered cars (something that might reach us back home in maybe 20 years, if that). While cities, worn down by suffocating work rhythms, keep pushing toward modernity, out in rural Japan the pull of nature and tradition still runs deep.

Above a riverbed, two eagles chase each other, playing tag, touching, then darting off again. I envy their effortless ability to glide.

The kilometers keep adding up, 50, 100, my cruising pace is still solid, but I'm starting to feel a bit tired, and struggle to keep track of the time of day, partly because of the jet lag too.

I reach the 110th km cutoff (the tightest, by my calculations) with a decent buffer. Now the climb begins, the one that'll take me to the highest point, at the halfway mark of the race.

"Time to stop, forget this race, before it's too late."

The sun sets early in the east, and it won't be long before darkness falls, I grab my headlamp, switch on all the lights attached to my bib as required by the rules, and put on a long sleeve shirt.

"There goes your first blunder, it's still warm out and you're sweating like a buffalo."

Maybe I've lost a bit of my clarity. I take off the long sleeve shirt, running for a bit shirtless, trying to stay out of sight, just in case, somewhere buried in that Japanese-language rulebook, there's a rule against it. The moment I spot anyone from the race, I put it back on, the moment I'm alone again, off it comes, a probably pointless effort.

"You're not even halfway through the race, and you've already lost your mind, forget it."

Luckily, as the road climbs the mountain, the temperature drops, and I'm finally able to keep my shirt on.

Toward evening, traffic thins out, until we're the only ones left on the road, which turns magically silent. In the sunset light, the pale pink cherry petals glow, as if this were finally their true moment, rather than when they simply vanish, nearly scorched away by the daytime sun.

The aid stations are set up inside workshops, carpentry shops and other workplaces, warm, welcoming spots, where lots of people have gathered to watch the runners pass by. On the tables, packaged snacks give way to freshly cooked food. At one point, I'm pretty sure I spot scallops on the grill. The volunteers' level of kindness always leaves me a bit embarrassed, I never actually need what they're offering, and I feel bad turning down their constant offers.

It's hard to resist what, for an ultramarathoner, is exactly what the Sirens' song was for Ulysses.

"They just offered you a cot and you fled without even saying goodbye, you've offended at least five Japanese people."

Every competitor looks incredibly well-prepared, showing no sign of cracking at all.

I reach the mountain's peak and pick up a bag with warm clothing for the night, along with a more powerful headlamp.

Apparently, the bulk of the race has gone by without issues, above my head, through the trees, sits a full moon, and I feel genuinely great. I rarely wear headphones while running, but I want to soak up this moment fully. A gentle descent begins, the music amplifies my emotions, and it feels like I'm flying, a perfect moment, worth the price of admission alone. Fully in a state of bliss, I pass a couple of competitors.

"Nice one! Show off all you want, we'll see at the bottom of the descent."

I don't care at all about the consequences, even if I never manage to run again, right now I'm alive, and I'm running flat out, fatigue simply doesn't exist.

A few kilometers later, a long stretch of rolling terrain begins, with very long tunnels cutting through the mountains right in the heart of Japan.

I've lost track of the time, and the shifting between the darkness of night and the artificial light of the tunnels sends me into a spiral. I feel a bit disoriented.

"Thanks to the time zone difference, this is your second night without sleep, day and night are practically flipped for you, you need to sleep!"

As often happens when balance breaks down, problems start piling up. Inside the tunnels it's 20 degrees, outside it's 3 or 4, and I don't have the clarity or the energy to strip layers off when I go in, and put them back on when I come out. Or rather, I try, but I keep getting the timing backward, bundling up inside the tunnel and stripping down right as I'm exiting it.

"You can't keep this up, just admit it."

I admit it, I've caught a chill and I've got a stomachache, one, two stops, by the third I'm convinced I need to find a real solution. The fear of not making it wakes me back up, and I decide to stop and pull myself together. I change and properly bundle up, something I should have done hours earlier, I can't manage to eat, and lie down on that cot I'd successfully avoided up until now.

"Nice work, I had to give you a stomachache just to get you to stop, you can't keep burning through energy like this."

I set an alarm, and also ask to be woken up after 15 minutes. It takes me only a moment to fall asleep, I know things will be better afterward.

Getting up, leaving a warm bed behind, and setting back off in the dead of night is anything but easy.

Slowly, my legs start warming up, turning over again. My stomach still isn't right, but I manage to hold a decent pace. Unable to eat anything, I skip the aid stations, to avoid wasting any more time. I haven't run into another competitor in a long while, everyone in the villages is asleep, not a single light on behind any window. I'm alone, but as long as I keep moving, the solitude doesn't weigh on me, I pass through the villages as if I were standing still and they were scrolling past me on a screen.

"You're starting to have mystical visions now, you're simply alone, in a place you don't know, where nobody would ever find you if you took a wrong turn."

I need to hold on until dawn, I know full well that daylight's return brings a fresh reserve of energy with it.

I run into Claudio, who, very sportingly, seeing my face, tells me I'm right on schedule. I contradict him, saying I'd miscalculated and was actually running late.

"Good thing you don't believe him, you've botched every calculation, and you'll never make it to the other side, you probably look absolutely wrecked, at least try to be nice when you see him."

When the numbers stop adding up, everything feels harder than it actually is, and there's only one thing to do, break the problem down into smaller pieces, like reaching the next aid station, and then the one after that. After a stretch of time that feels infinite, I start losing the ability to make out the cone of light from my headlamp on the road surface. The sun's about to rise. I take a short break, testing my stomach with a bit of broth, and tackle the last major climb. Luckily, it's so steep it can't be run at all. Startled, I realize I've actually been running the whole way since the start. I start walking, my effort level drops, and a strange exhaustion takes hold of my body.

"If you slow down, you'll fall asleep."

I struggle to keep my eyes open, in fact, even open, my vision is blurred.

"You're falling asleep, lie down for a second."

I know that if I lie down, I won't get back up, and I'll regret it. Staggering, I make it to the top of the climb, a few spectators cheer me on joyfully, despite my face showing absolutely nothing joyful.

In a burst of anger, I start running again, hoping to leave the crisis behind me.

I enter a tunnel and remember hearing something about this one. I hope, at 6 kilometers, it's the last one before the descent toward the sea. When you pass through a tunnel comfortably seated in a car, you never realize just how claustrophobic and loud it can actually be. My iPod died a long time ago. Every motorbike, car or truck passing me produces a deafening roar off the concrete road surface. The echo lingers in the tunnel, and in my ears, for several minutes afterward. I focus on avoiding the iron reflector posts marking the edge of the narrow sidewalk I'm running on. Every 50 meters I have to step left to squeeze between them and the wall. I curse and scream in frustration through this ordeal, which drags on for more than half an hour.

"What are you complaining about? You wanted a road race, well, here it is."

I run a quick check on the situation. Less than 50 kilometers left, the hardest part is done.

"50 kilometers is an eternity, and anything can still happen."

I often reach a point where all my doubts about a possible bad outcome just dissolve, and I run without thinking about the consequences. This time, too, I got there after a few tough moments. It's almost as if the crises exist to save up energy for the grand finale.

"Genius, I'm the one doing the math here, and I have to keep a certain safety margin, slowing you down so we don't end up dead."

In that moment, my mind and my body finally agree with each other, and the finish line has never felt so close.

I finally start catching back up with other competitors, I read deep exhaustion on their faces. As I pass them, we exchange a quick nod of understanding and a barely sketched smile. They know too, somehow, that they'll reach the finish.

"You're actually doing pretty well, all things considered, you can make it."

Fully in a competitive trance, at the last aid station, I grab my final drop bag, the one saved for the big moment. I ditch my nighttime gear and put on my beloved Bryce shorts, a Hawaii tee, since we're heading toward the sea after all, a pair of ultra-fast Hoka Tracers, my new Rockies socks are perfect, so I don't even bother changing them. I grab the handheld bottle and start running again like there's no tomorrow. I even run the uphills, it feels like I'm flying.

"Don't push it now, you're running well, but you're not actually flying."

I calculate that if I hurry, I can still finish under 30 hours, a time that, in my head, marked the dividing line between running well and running badly.

I run into Claudio, and without stopping, tell him I'll see him at the finish, he looks relieved.

"Who knows what he actually thinks of you?"

Being able to run well through the final kilometers of a 250-km race is something wonderful. This will be the memory that sticks in my mind, not the moments of crisis. Without ever stopping, I reach the final avenue leading to Kanazawa Castle, and find it in full cherry blossom bloom.

"I have to admit, despite everything, once again, you actually pulled it off."