Running News Daily

On July 14, 1912, Shizo Kanakuri stood on the start line of the Olympic marathon in Stockholm, carrying more than just race-day nerves. At 20 years old, he was representing Japan for the first time in Olympic history, introducing his country to the global stage of athletics.

Kanakuri wasn’t there simply to participate. He was one of the world’s best distance runners, having recently set a world record for 40 kilometers in 2:32:45. Expectations were high.

But Stockholm delivered brutal conditions. Temperatures soared to 32°C (90°F), devastating for marathoners. Sixty-eight runners from 19 nations started the race, the largest Olympic marathon field to date. Many would not finish.

Running near the front early on, Kanakuri made a decision shaped by the training beliefs of the era: he chose not to drink water, convinced it would slow him down. In extreme heat, the decision proved disastrous.

By 27 kilometers, he was in serious trouble—blurred vision, heavy legs, heat overwhelming his body. Near the course, he spotted a family garden party. Staggering off the route, he was taken in by the Pettersson family, who gave him water and juice. Exhausted, Kanakuri sat down—and fell asleep.

When he woke, the marathon was long over.

Ashamed and overwhelmed, Kanakuri quietly left Stockholm without informing race officials. To the Swedish Olympic Committee, he simply vanished. For decades, Olympic records listed him as missing.

But Kanakuri wasn’t lost. He returned to Japan, continued running, and later competed in the 1920 and 1924 Olympics. He never won a medal, but he became a teacher, mentor, and pioneer of Japanese distance running. He built a full life—married, raised six children, and inspired generations.

In 1962, Swedish journalist Claes Fellbom uncovered the mystery while researching Olympic history. He tracked Kanakuri down in Japan and learned the full story. When Swedish officials heard it, they made an extraordinary decision.

They invited him back.

In 1967—55 years after the race—Kanakuri returned to Stockholm at age 76. He visited the same neighborhood where he had stopped in 1912, met the family connected to that day, and was escorted to the Olympic Stadium.

A finish-line banner was raised. Cameras rolled.

Dressed in a suit, not racing gear, Shizo Kanakuri walked across the finish line he never reached as a young man. The clock was stopped ceremonially.

Official time:

54 years, 8 months, 6 days, 5 hours, 32 minutes, 20.3 seconds

The longest marathon in Olympic history.

Asked about his race, Kanakuri smiled and joked:

“It was a long run. Along the way, I got married, had six children, and ten grandchildren.”

Kanakuri died in 1983 at age 92. He is remembered not for medals or records, but for a story that captured something deeper about sport.

Sometimes running isn’t about winning.

Sometimes it’s about finishing—no matter how long it takes.

And sometimes, a finish line waits.