Hadashi the barefooted

I awake needing not to pee, but to . . . peek.

According to my watch it’s only 3.30 a.m. yet the sun is already up. At Soyamisaki, the northernmost point of Japan, the sky is a dazzling blue. Outside a crow looks in and caws, so I close the window, my ears and eyes, and roll over with a grunt . . .

But it’s no use.

After more than two months of rising daily at dawn, I’ve become an early bird myself, and instead of getting back to sleep I think back on the journey. What is its purpose? Does it have a point? And is it going to succeed?

While I toss and turn in the past, let me introduce the ‘me’ I am now. I invite you to call me Hadashi, my Japanese nom de plume. “Why?” you might ask. “You don’t come from that country. Why should a gaijin choose a foreign nickname?’

Well, I’ve lived and worked there, I’m fascinated by things Japanese, and I love the literature that dates back 1500 years. Those authors feel nearer and dearer to me than most people living. They commonly used pen names – why shouldn’t I?

When people first set eyes upon me, the word that comes most often to their minds – if they are Japanese, that is – is hadashi (and it often comes out as an exclamation). You see, I’m likely to be barefooted, which is what the word means. Of course for the Japanese going without shoes is nothing out of the ordinary. In that culture they take them off to enter a home. It’s my habit, however, to use only my feet, indoors and out, wet or fine, through all the four seasons.

I was brought up in New Zealand, a country where casual dress and behaviour are the norm. I dislike all form of formality: suits, ties, stiff shirts and leather shoes. If I must, I’ll slip on Jandals, the rubber version of zori. But I’ll kick those off too at the beach, in a park and, if I can get away with it, at work. My feet function better when they’re naked.

From a young age I was drawn to walking, running, and racing. Many boys are fascinated by engines, tools and machines, but locomotion interested me more than locomotives. Indeed, pedestrians impressed me. They went about freely wherever they wanted. Their lives seemed to lead somewhere – somewhere I wanted to follow. I’m told that I started walking when I was nine months old.



On a related topic, New Zealand has a fine athletic tradition. Although it’s a small country it can boast of three Olympic 1500-metre champions: Jack Lovelock at Berlin (1936), Peter Snell at Rome and Tokyo (1960 and 1964), and John Walker at Montreal (1976). A large number of Kiwis, both men and women, have won medals and set world records, mostly in the middle and long-distance events.

Athletically speaking I can’t say I’m particularly gifted, but I always try to complete any race in which I take part. I’m proud of my ability to hang on, and I’ll get to the end whatever it takes (or I’d better have a very good reason). I admire stamina, not speed; perseverance not power.

The origin of this story goes back to the 31st of August 1998, which was when I was forced to admit that my sports shoes had worn out. That didn’t please me, and I wasn’t keen to pay for a new pair. Running shoes are ridiculously expensive, so I wondered whether I really needed them. The big brands advertised various models of shoe emphasising this or that feature, but I was dubious. What if it were only hype?

In those days – now also – I ran around a track. It suits my personality to run endlessly in circles (which says something about me). This isn’t everyone’s cup of tea; they complain that it bores them. They’d rather run for hours on a treadmill . . .

Yeah right, my point exactly.

Anyway, a running track’s surface is ideal. Its rubber chips cushion one’s feet as effectively as any shoe, so why not dispense with those unnecessary ounces? (The weight adds up over millions of paces.) I decided there and then to rely on the flex in my joints and my lightness of foot. I reasoned that the skin would toughen up. I’d slowly but surely progress from sand through asphalt onto concrete and then roads. I fantasised about unprotected . . . jogging! Why should humans be the only animals to require footwear?

From then on I did the hard yards. I gradually increased the distance I could manage, from a mile up to 10,000 metres. Initially my calf muscles hurt from the extra stretching, my tendons complained at feeling tender, and sometimes I trod on a stone and drew blood. But over time, those niggling aches and pains grew less.

My skin is naturally thin, a trait I’ve inherited from my mother who has only to bump her leg to lose a strip of tissue. I didn’t develop the thick soles that I was after, those you often see in the National Geographic. Nope, I was no tribesman, but it isn’t about the colour or the thickness of your skin; it is more about the underlying tissues. They toughened, and became my ‘moral fibre’ (the saying ‘beauty is only skin deep’ didn’t originate for superficial reasons). Finally, I might have grown an extra shoe-size too . . . though without shoes how would I tell?

It took me months, but in the end I found it possible to run on actual (handpicked) roads. There was some discomfort, sure, but that was only to be expected; my body was adapting to something new, so I grit my teeth and bit the bullet. It reminded me of meditating where you often have to ‘strain’ to relax (come again?). Eventually the practice became easier. Barefoot I felt lighter and freer. I could tell that my style had improved: I ran faster! More important, it felt natural; I knew that barefooting was what I was born to do (my instincts tell me that I’m a hunter-gatherer).

I laid plans for the new millennium. The changing of digits was an excuse for people to try something out of the ordinary. They desired a special memory and an answer to a future grandchild’s question: “What were you doing in the year 2000, Grandpa?”

We Kiwis were uniquely favoured. New Zealand lies next to the International Date Line, and so we had the advantage. It was relatively easy for us to become the first person in the world to do whatever we felt inspired to do. I read about one person who wanted to be the first bungy-jumper – he paid $5000 for the privilege. Another wanted to parent the first child (more a question of timing). As for me, I would run, and it would have to be a marathon, because they are my bread and butter, really. I’d run my first in 1979 and over the years had completed ten more, but to avoid boredom I needed a new angle, which is why I took on the challenge to become the first person in the world this millennium to run a full marathon without shoes.



One of my earliest memories is of watching the 1960 Rome Olympics. We had no television then (I don’t think the rest of the country did either). But in a documentary at the movies I remember seeing Abebe Bikila lead the marathon, his dark African feet padding over Roman cobblestones (in the same race Barry Magee, the ‘ballet dancer of the road’, won the bronze medal for New Zealand). I wanted to live up to that vision and do something as awe-inspiring. As the year 2000 approached, I prepared.

Running 42 kilometres without shoes would, in addition, make me worthy of the pen name, Hadashi – ‘two birds with one stone’ type of thing. You see, I complement my running with writing. Starting in 1993 I’ve written over 5000 short poems known as haiku, less than one a day on average and just a few syllables long. Nevertheless, my output outdoes Basho, the greatest haiku poet of them all (I’m referring to quantity here, not quality). I’m not in awe of the man, but I did envy him his snazzy name – it means ‘Banana plant’. His friends planted one next to his hut as a gift. I felt that there was room alongside it, him, Buson, Issa and Shiki for an Hadashi, and in this I don’t think I’m too presumptuous. I’ve had over a dozen haiku published. I am one of forty writers who feature in The Second New Zealand Haiku Anthology.

I first tried my hand a few months before I left for Japan. The city of Otaru used to employ an Assistant English Teacher from Dunedin, her sister-city, (until they switched to the JET programme), and from 1994 until 1996 I held that position. I spent a month or two at each of her 17 junior high schools where I’d introduce myself – 200-odd times – and teach a one-shot English lesson. So as not to go crazy I developed half a dozen different strategies.

And so, in 1999, when I wanted to test my progress by secretly testing myself over a half marathon, I flew all the way to Japan to take part in the 6th Otaru Unga Road Race. I fronted up to the starting line and, at the last second, slipped off my shoes. Just over 90 minutes later, I eased them back on (easy does it . . . easy now!).

I’d done it! I’d managed to complete 21 kilometres across asphalt and concrete. Success! No one in New Zealand would be any the wiser. No one was likely to challenge me for the crown.


How does the phrase go - 'success in love and war'? As my soles hardened, my heart softened. Six months before the end of the old millennium I met my future soul mate. Her name was Mami Yamaguchi, and she was in New Zealand for a one-year working holiday. She had recently travelled down to Dunedin from Auckland (a wise move in more ways than one). Little did she know what lay in store.

Mami wanted to experience life overseas not merely as a tourist but as a resident, even if it was short-term. But no matter how determinedly she tried to converse with the natives her level of English proved a problem. One day she turned up at the language school where I taught.

The rest is history. Our relationship progressed surely but steadily – not like a house on fire – that’s not our style – but more like a house-warming party. There was never a doubt in my mind. It was in the cards, in the stars and in the tea leaves. Inevitably, irresistibly, we gravitated together like the sun and the moon (corny, I know, yet every word is true). We went on walks (even then!) and we socialised. I was impressed with her studiousness, her manner and style, and she must have seen something in me!

Over time we realised that being together was right, whereas being apart felt wrong, so we made the arrangement permanent. It was literally that simple. Because we couldn’t imagine being single any longer, we moved in together, and that’s the way it has been ever since.

The effect we have on each another, then and thereafter, is to stimulate one another to achieve our goals. We catalyse each other’s dreams. I help her with her English – she was in my class for nine weeks – and she encourages me with my writing and running. Mami has never spoken a word against my shoelessness. Hers is an unconditional acceptance, and I try to reciprocate. Although we are a unit, we are not threatened by each other’s individuality. We allow the other space and freedom. We give ourselves rope.

Our only failure – mine, really – was when I asked her to improve my Japanese. That was about as successful as teaching your partner how to drive! “Mami, how does one say ‘unmitigated disaster’ in Japanese?”

Fast forward to the new millennium . . .


At the stroke of midnight, as celebratory fireworks burst across the sky, the starting gun went off. Twelve of us set off on the first marathon of the millennium. I’d started the ball rolling, and others had helped organise the event. Even Mami was taking part (in shoes) and would try to complete her first ‘half’.

In the dark I ran quietly and conservatively. There were 19 loops of a measured course to complete, but I was running my own race. Reaching 42.195 km was the goal; I wasn’t aiming for any record. It wouldn’t worry me if I were the last to finish (I may well have been). The main thing was to be the first to finish without shoes, and so I was. Who else would be so foolish?

Next year Mami and I repeated that act of madness. We had to, because there’s debate as to whether the second thousand years starts in 2000 or 2001. We needed to cover both bases. This time it was just the two of us. On the night it looked like rain, and we made the decision to go ahead only at the last hour. I ran the thing without any training, so it took me a lot longer than the year before. Little did we know, but we’d started what was to become a trend.

Since those early exploits we’ve gone from strength to strength, embarking on longer and longer treks. The morning after that second marathon, we cycled 400 kilometres from Dunedin to Christchurch (in four days).

Our next feat, in 2002, was to walk up New Zealand’s South Island. Instead of carrying our luggage on our backs, we pushed it in a handcart. In six weeks we walked over a thousand kilometres. Mami wore shoes; I . . . suffered.

In 2003, when we reached Wellington from Cape Reinga, I became the only person to have walked New Zealand ‘on foot’ (other people wore shoes). As before, Mami accompanied me. The only change was an extra pair of wheels (for the pushcart, not Mami) and a brake for going downhill (to save on leather – shoe and sole).

The following year we did the South Island again, but from north to south and down the West Coast. By then, Mami had had enough of walking, so she cycled instead on a three-wheeled recliner bicycle. Our cart I’d reconverted into a trailer for her to tow. Because I’d also had enough of walking, I ran. I couldn’t do so barefoot – the road surface is imply too abrasive – so I set out to become the first person to run the length of the country in Jandals. Everyone is familiar with that type of footwear, but no one dreams of running in them. “C’mon, it’s just not possible!”

‘Jandals’ is a contraction of the phrase ‘Japanese sandals’. They are variously called beach sandals, thongs, flip-flops or bathroom slippers, and they’re an icon throughout Australasia the same way that zori, geta and tabi are in Japan. I asked for, and obtained sponsorship from their manufacturer. He provided me with five pairs of them, though one pair was enough to last the distance. They enabled me to run-walk a marathon per day for a month – over 1000 kilometres.

That might sound extreme, but how would a person know unless you’ve tried? What I enjoy about challenges on this scale is that they help me gain a better and bigger picture of what is humanly possible. They encourage me not to set limitations on myself.

Okay, what’s next on the agenda?

It was to have been an assault in Jandals on the North Island, but we’ll interrupt our scheduled programme. Instead, we’re off to Japan. Mami hasn’t been home for five years. She has just completed her honours degree – an accomplishment in its own right – so we judge that the time is ripe. And of course, I’ll accompany her, the same way that she’s faithfully been dogging my footsteps.

I’ve met her mother and her sister (an identical twin) but I haven’t yet met her father in the flesh. I need to try to get him on side after having virtually eloped with his daughter. I remember those midnight phone calls: “You must come home now!” Scary! Somehow I’ve got to prove that my intentions were, and continue to be, honourable. And a change of scenery can’t hurt either; ferns and sheep for weeks on end can get to you!

And there you have it.