The Last 800 Meters | A Short Story

The 800 meters is a middle-distance race with the face of a sprint.

It requires speed. But you can't win just by being fast. It's not simple enough to just run at full power from start to finish. You have to pace your breathing, save your legs, steal glances at others' breathing, and squeeze out whatever is left at the very end. Our advisor always used to say:

“The 800 is a combat sport.”

When I first heard that, I thought it was an exaggeration. Track and field is a sport where you run in lanes; there’s no way there could be any fistfighting. But once you actually run it, you understand. From the moment the separate lanes end and everyone merges, it’s a battle of tactics, elbows, and sheer willpower. If you don't secure a good position, it’s over. If you get forced to the outside, you’ve already wasted your legs. If you want to get to the front, you can't afford to be polite.

The summer of my third year of high school, the prefectural tournament.

That day was my last 800 meters.

Ours is a college-prep school. We have quizzes from the morning, and after-school remedial classes and interviews are the norm. The track team isn't large, and we aren't a powerhouse aiming for nationals. But it was fun. It wasn't just fun; it was properly painful, too. I had worked seriously enough that I couldn't have kept going without being strict with myself.

I can run decently within the prefecture. But I’m not good enough to make a living off track. I knew that well enough myself. Once this race ended, I would have to get serious about entrance exam studies, a little behind everyone else. A future where I’d be left behind by my peers after retiring and feel panicked was probably waiting for me, too.

That was exactly why I didn't want to have any regrets.

I finish my warm-up and stand at the starting line.

On a summer track, just standing there makes the soles of your feet hot. I check the sensation of my spike pins biting into the track. I inhale. I exhale. The buzz of the spectator stands feels distant. In the lane next to me was a rival from the same prefecture. We only meet at tournaments, but we talk naturally whenever we see each other. When we passed each other during warm-ups, we both laughed and said, “It’s hot, isn't it?”

But I don't want to lose.

That’s probably the same for him.

The starting gun.

My body flies forward.

Just from the first step, I can tell a little about how I’m feeling that day. Light. Not bad. The first 100, 200 meters are in separate lanes, so I can focus only on my own rhythm. Don't lean too far forward. Don't rush out too hard. But don't get left behind, either. I run while feeling the distance to the front, the presence to my left and right, everything.

200 meters, the merge.

This is where it starts.

I move inward. While moving in, I look at the position of the shoulders of the runner in front. Elbows make contact. The sound of spikes is close. My opponent won't yield. There’s no reason to yield. I don't want to yield either. I get pushed slightly to the outside, so I wedge my foot in. I got in well. It’s not a bad position. Right behind the leader. My field of vision is open.

The advisor’s voice flew from somewhere far away.

“Good, keep it up!”

The 800 meters is a combat sport.

I remember the meaning of that.

Past 300, my breathing starts to get a little rough. I can still endure it. I still have my own legs left. Everyone else is the same. No one is breaking away. Everyone probably doesn't want to use an extra step here. The vertical movement of the back in front of me. The shoulder next to me. The presence closing in from behind. When running in a pack, you are forced to realize that you aren't alone, whether you like it or not. Even the way your legs move is influenced by those around you.

400 meters passed.

Not too fast. Not too slow. A pace that will lead to a real race.

However, this is where it gets tough.

The back of my throat is hot. My lungs are telling me they are already working enough. Even so, if I drop off here, it’s over. The pack still hasn't broken up. There are people in front and to the sides. I can tell everyone is enduring it. No one is pulling ahead. Maybe they are trying not to.

A race over a record.

Today, I had decided that from the start.

If it comes down to the second half, that’s fine. It’s not a day to aim for a personal best anyway. It’s my last race. I’ll commit to the race. I want to win. If possible, I want to win for the first time.

500, 600.

The soles of my feet are getting a little heavy. A nasty tightness is gradually building up in my thighs. I don't want to think about words like lactic acid while I’m running, but the body is honest. It’s already working enough. It’s saying, please give me a break soon.

But, not yet.

200 remaining.

Someone moved.

Reacting to that, I move too.

I don't have the luxury to look around anymore. Just forward. Swing my arms. Rotate my legs. My breathing is broken. I’ve forgotten how to breathe. This time, I heard the advisor’s voice clearly.

“Go!”

The front opens up.

I move into the lead.

For just a moment, truly just a moment, the world becomes bright.

I’m in the lead.

I thought, I just need to run through like this.

100 remaining.

I felt like I could see my first victory.

At that moment, a shadow stretched from the side.

It’s him, I think.

The guy from another school I’m closest with. The guy I can talk to strangely normally when we meet, even though we only meet at tournaments. The guy I laughed with when we were paired up at a winter record meet and said, “The 800 is a thankless sport, isn't it?”

He pulls alongside me.

I don't want to lose.

I have no legs left. My thighs are stiff and won't move forward well. My whole body is telling me to stop. But I move with just my feelings. Swing my arms. Grit my teeth. I saw one more person in the corner of my vision. I don't know who it is. Just that they are coming.

Side by side.

I can't think about anything anymore.

Finish.

My legs tangled, and I collapsed onto the track. The heat transfers to my back. The sky is white. I can't get any air in. My heart is rampaging. The sound of someone’s spikes. Cheers. Announcements. Everything sounds delayed.

The result was 3rd place.

I was frustrated.

Of course I was frustrated. I had been in the lead that much, only to be taken by two people at the end. It was all the more frustrating because there was a moment when I thought I saw victory.

But, strangely, I had no regrets.

I gave it everything.

I really felt like I had nothing left, I gave it my all.

I think that’s why I knew.

After a while, I get up. He was standing there first and reached out a hand.

“That was close.”

Even though he was gasping for air, he was smiling.

“Don't say that when you won.”

When I replied like that, he just laughed.

Before the awards ceremony, the advisor came. He patted my shoulder and said, “That was a good race.” Just that almost made me cry again. When I returned to the team members, the underclassmen were already crying. I was drawn into it and cried too. Everyone cried. It was a sweaty, messy, and yet happy time.

That’s how the last summer of high school ended.

After that, I focused on entrance exam studies.

Honestly, it was tough. Everyone else had started running long before, while I had just reached the starting line. Even so, the physical strength and mental energy I used for running were more useful for studying than I thought. Even when sleepy, I faced my desk. Even when it was painful, I did a little more. Every day, I patiently endured time longer than 800 meters.

I got into university.

I chose the path to become a teacher.

It’s not that I quit track. It’s just that my position gradually changed from the one running to the one teaching.

And five years later.

I am standing on the track again.

High school students are gathering at the starting line. Lanes with white lines drawn. The heat of summer. The unique buzz. Everything is a little nostalgic.

Watching the 800 meters as an advisor is more unsettling than running it. I even feel like it would have been much easier to run it myself. Not being able to do anything but watch is surprisingly exhausting.

Our athlete stands at the starting line. He is serious, clumsy, but a guy who doesn't cut corners until the end. I feel like I’m looking at myself from last year, and yet it feels completely different.

“Teacher, what is actually important in the 800?”

I remember him asking me that before the race.

At that time, I smiled a little and answered.

“I guess it’s giving it your all at the end.”

That might have been an answer not very typical of an advisor. Maybe I should have said something more technical. But when I remember that last 800 meters, I end up returning to that point.

The starting gun fires.

The athletes dash out.

At first, separate lanes. Merge at 200. Can they get a good position? Elbows bumping. Breathing. Passing 400. I know everything. Because I know it, my chest hurts.

I shout from outside the track.

“Go!”

In probably the same voice I heard myself long ago.

At that moment, I think just a little.

If I had been 1st that day, would I be a little different now?

But, probably not.

I was frustrated because I was 3rd. Because I was frustrated, I could finish. Because I could finish, I could move on to the next thing.

That’s why I’m here now.

The wind blows.

The students enter their final sprint.

I was clenching my fists unconsciously.

*This story is fiction.

However, this race is based on my own high school experience.
I was 3rd in the prefectural tournament. I advanced to the tournament above that, but the result was being eliminated in the preliminaries.

And after that, I spent two years as a ronin student.
I went to prep school while working part-time, and before I knew it, I had gained 15 kilograms, and my body is now in a state where I can no longer run 800 meters. I don't even know how many kilograms I’ve gained now. I don't want to know.

Now, I’m just a pachinko addict who can only function in air-conditioned parlors.

This is fiction.
But what I depicted at the end is another future I didn't choose.

It’s a delusion, one I can think, 'It would be nice if it had turned out like this.'