I watched the hills, the pines rising out of courtyards, trying to mask with images the meaningless pain.
Filtering the stadium, I caught a wobbling Japanese. He spurted. I kept close and jumped him in the stretch. Frank was there.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yeah, I never give up."
Foster was third, Nikkari fourth, Manners fifth, Farrington sixth ("The bloody gales. I couldn't move after 20 miles"), Rummakko seventh. The times, because of the wind, were slow. Of the New Zealanders, only Foster cracked 2:16.
The award ceremony was tedious. Frank put up with it somewhat better than I, accepting four trophies and two medals. The top 10 finishers mounted pedestals. Squarely on No. 10 beamed John Robinson.
In the late afternoon, after hot baths, we were escorted to a buffet for congratulations from dignitaries. Oysters cascaded from a Fujiyama carved in ice. The Olympic torch, fashioned out of butter, rose above a track of p�t�, upon which raced stuffed lobsters.
Frank was brought a beer by a pretty girl in a kimono.
"She is the most expensive bar hostess in all Fukuoka," said Shibuya-san.
"Why?" asked Frank. The girl fled.