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"Hai. You are Mr. Moo-ah?"
"You have visitor. Prease come down."
It was the man from Tiger. Mr. Yoshihiko Hikita provided us all with leather bags stuffed with his company's racing and training shoes. Not more than 25 and rigid within his black blazer, Hikita-san seemed awed by us.
"Just say, 'This shoe rubs a bit,' " Farrington whispered to us, "and in two minutes he's back with another pair. Meanwhile, you've tucked away the first. That goes on and on. I brought practically no luggage."
"A bloke could get really spoiled over here," said Robinson, clutching half a dozen shoe bags to his chest. By the end of the week he had filled a packing case with shoes, track suits and camera equipment.
Hikita-san was proud of his new "Ohbori" model, named, roughly, for the park where we trained. He had sent a pair to Foster and me earlier and we had promised to race in them. Foster pointed out the shoe's ventilation.
"People at home asked me what all the little holes were for. I told them that's for the blood to run out."
Frank tried on a pair.