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I enjoy running because I can do it anywhere, at any time, and it will lead me to unexpected places. On the day of the marathon, the feeling is magnificent. Finally - instead of dodging cars and rickshaws and packs of irate dogs as you trod along another lonely mile - you are in the company of dozens of thousands of fellow lunatics. Suddenly, people cheer, and however much you suffer, you get a medal and a bottle of beer at the end. And whatever you eat for dinner that night, it's the best meal you have ever had.
In Ireland, I felt like I knew the life story of every runner but the time we reached the finish line. In Tokyo, I think all 13 million people were there to cheer for us. In Bali, as the sun rose over the volcano, the mythical Barong was squaring off against the sorceress Rangda by the side of the trail, and in Hyderabad, I had to push through throngs of pre-dawn commuters to get to the next water station. In Chicago, I ran down roads I knew from my childhood, and in Okinawa, and eighty-year-old took a break from playing his snake-skin sanshin to give me a high-five.
The best, though, was last year's race in Kota Kinabalu. Officially, it was cancelled on police orders, to avoid unrest on the eve of the General Election. Unofficially, a few dozen of us met in a car park after curfew, and set off along the dark roads of Borneo at midnight. A few supporters - my parents among them - handed us bananas from the backs of pick-up trucks, and we detoured from the route to buy water from neighborhood shops along the way. We ran until our watches told us we had gone 26.2 miles, and then we went to our beds, exhausted and satisfied.