An Unlikely Supporter

My good friend Chris (teacher, writer, runner, and original co-host) was kind enough to share a short story he wrote. It's a very good read and very true. Enjoy!

An Unlikely Supporter
by Chris

Running allows me the opportunity to see things I might otherwise miss by leading a sedentary lifestyle. Running in Japan, I’ve seen some amazing things. I’ve run past ornate temples and shrines, verdurous tea fields and rice paddies, and around the local castle with the cherry blossoms in full bloom.

My regular running route takes me across several bridges going back and forth over the river near my apartment. Earlier this fall, a homeless man took up residence under one of the bridges.

His campsite looked like something out of a Stienbeck novel. A large, blue tarp hung from the underside of the bridge to provide shelter from the cold and wind. There were several blankets piled on a worn out mattress, a table made from an old shopping cart and a large piece of plywood, a few crates for storage and a couple of ratty lawnchairs. Near the table were seven or eight different sized rocks arranged to form a semi-circular fireplace. A thin rope, strung between two uneven poles, served as a makeshift clothesline. Countless items, including empty cigarette cartons, discarded food containers and plastic bags of crushed cans, were strewn about the camp.

Wafting from the campsite was a miasma of wet blankets and rotting food. An odor of urine and feces, most likely due to the scores of feral cats that romped around the camp, assaulted my nostrils, causing me to gag when I hurried past. There was also a smell of anguish and hopelessness that permeated the air around the camp. I held my breath as I sprinted past, not just to avoid the unpleasant odor, but also in an attempt to keep the redolence of despair from reaching me.

He was a small, scraggy man, his weather-beaten face cadaverous and partially obscured by a thick beard. His unruly hair was often hidden under a brown wool hat. He usually wore a few faded T-shirts under a dark, tattered windbreaker and a baggy pair of khaki pants covered with numerous mud-colored stains. The black, oversized shoes on his feet were old and held together with duct tape.

While I wasn’t happy about the man under the bridge, I didn’t want to alter my route. I figured since I only ran by there a few days a week, I could live with it. I decided to be like most people and just ignore him. Until he did something that shocked and outraged me.

Early one morning, I ran up the embankment and started across the bridge. I glanced to my left and saw him with his trousers around his ankles, squatting on a rock and using the river as his own personal outhouse. I gasped at the sight and accidentally swallowed my gum. I ran the rest of the way home in a state of nauseated shock and growing anger.

After returning home and showering, twice, I decided to do something about the man under the bridge. Many people, including children, swim further down the river during the summer and I often see people fishing, too. I got dressed and went to the local police sub-station.

The portly officer at the desk, clearly annoyed at being interrupted put down his newspaper and stubbed out his cigarette. He listened with growing impatience to my story and then told me dismissively there was nothing he could do. I reiterated how unsanitary it was and that the possible spread of disease shouldn’t be taken lightly. He sighed audibly and suggested I take my complaints to City Hall. They’re the ones in charge of bridges and tunnels, he told me.

The next morning I was standing at City Hall when they opened for business. I had to explain why I was there to three different people before I was finally directed to the Division of Bridges and Tunnels, a cramped, brightly lit room at the end of the corridor on the second floor. A large man with severely crooked teeth and a combover listened politely while I told my story for what seemed like the umpteenth time. When I finished, he shook his head and said I should contact the local police sub-station. Defeated, I had no choice other to put up with the man under the bridge. That, however, proved difficult to do.

The next time I ran past his camp, he stood up, cupped his grubby hands together and shouted, “Gambare!” Loosely translated, this means “Give it your best!” For the next few weeks, he became my biggest supporter, exhorting me to run faster and not to give up. I was annoyed at first, since he was making it hard for me to ignore him. After I while, I started to wave each time I passed by. He’d smile, wave back and yell louder. This went on for a while. I began to look forward to these short exchanges. I found myself trying harder as I ran past him, wanting to make a good impression. I wondered if he noticed I was getting faster.

I went out running a few days ago, and he was gone. He, along with all of his possessions, has disappeared. Every thing in the camp has been removed, the ground swept clean and cleared of any debris. Even the cats are nowhere to be found. The only evidence of his ever having existed are the charred rocks of his fireplace.

Funny, but I miss him. He was the only consistency in an otherwise unpredictable training schedule. The weather, time and my mood often changed, but he was always there with an encouraging word. His raspy voice, calling for me to run faster, still echoes in my head as I run past his empty camp.