"I'm a phys ed teacher. Terry is a house painter."
Later, as Frank and I walked to our rooms, he said, "I couldn't do that. Not unless I was positive I'd make it." He thought a moment. "Maybe he's ready."
We tried to run twice a day. I went out before breakfast. Nearby was a park and shrine. Crossing the gentle curve of a bridge I could look east and see canals reflecting red sunrise, silhouetting other bridges. A blue-roofed pagoda rose out of twisted, rope-wound pines. A bronze statue of an ancient Buddhist priest 60 feet high sheltered pigeons. Returning, the growing light revealed the foulness of the canals, shallow slime over broken glass and ordure.
Afternoons we were driven to more distant Obori Park. A lake was spanned by a series of islands connected by more bridges. Willows grew over a cinder path. We ran with schoolboys, soccer teams and karate groups. We were photographed incessantly and on following days our pictures were brought back to be autographed.
Frank, at 5'10" and 130 pounds, looks fragile ( Marty Liquori has called him "a vertical hyphen"), yet he always braved the traffic and ran back to the hotel. Shibuya-san, an occasional jogger himself, was impressed.
" Mr. Shorter has much energy."
"Why do you think it is so?"
"He credits it to his drinking."