CHAPTER 103

2025-11-07

In the previous essay, I mentioned that when I was in junior high, I sprained my lower back. I couldn’t exercise or lift heavy things, and I was stuck at home bored for nearly a year.

During that time, my mother took me to the outpatient clinic at Tung Wah Hospital in Sai Ying Pun, then later to the Jockey Club Orthopaedic Specialist Clinic in Shau Kei Wan, where I had X-rays taken. Back home, I used two long rulers to measure my spine from top and bottom — and the rulers didn’t meet in the middle. It was obvious that my spine was crooked.

We then sought treatment from a traditional Chinese bonesetter surnamed Luk. His thin young apprentice looked at my X-rays but couldn’t see what was wrong. Another apprentice, who was standing in, said my spine had “wind” in it and that a simple push would fix it. Later, the specialist doctor explained that I was born with two vertebrae separated by a wider-than-usual gap — and that was exactly where I had sprained it. From then on, I was forbidden to lift heavy objects, and the only option was to strengthen the surrounding muscles.

I lived on the second floor of a public housing block. In the past, I often played badminton with friends in the open space below — not for score, just for the joy of the game. But after the injury, I could only sit on a dark gray stone bench under a covered walkway, watching others play, “satisfying” my craving for the sport with my eyes alone.

One day, a few of my badminton friends were chatting. One of them, a neighbor nicknamed Big Disciple, who was a year older than me, told everyone he had a running habit — he would run from North Point all the way up to Rosaryhill School, then take a bus home. That school, a famous private institution on Hong Kong Island, was founded in 1959 and has recently closed. It was one of the first to have its own school bus service, located on Stubbs Road in the Mid-Levels East area of Wan Chai District.

At the time, I didn’t know the distance, but since it took nearly half an hour by bus — and the last section was uphill — I could imagine how tough the run was. I just checked on Google Maps: the route is about 6.4 kilometers, which would take at least an hour and a half to complete on foot.

The younger badminton players were quite inspired — or rather, challenged — upon hearing this. Wasn’t Big Disciple clearly superior? No wonder he boasted that his running shoes (he liked to wear them without socks — quite avant-garde at the time) cost over HK$100. Later, another player challenged himself by running all the way to Happy Valley.

For me, it was like a window suddenly opened in my mind — I realized my legs were still working, and I could still walk. Why not train them, step by step, to regain my strength?

So, after school each day, I would change into casual clothes and jog along the short stretch of pavement beside Java Road in my housing estate. After succeeding there, I moved on to a longer stretch by the East Block, then extended my run eastward toward North Point Funeral Parlour — first one way, then back and forth.

After we moved, I trained inside and outside the Happy Valley Racecourse. At my peak, I could run three laps around the course, and I became so thin I looked like a bamboo stick.

Inspired by the film Chariots of Fire, I entered the 1,500-meter long-distance race at my Grade Six sports day. Because I lacked formal training, I had stamina but no finishing power. In the final 100 meters, two more runners overtook the two already ahead of me — I couldn’t catch up. I reached the finish line almost out of breath, feeling as if I’d died and come back to life.

When I entered the Chinese University of Hong Kong, I wasn’t eligible for dormitory housing, so my legs were used daily to chase trams, tunnel buses, trains, and school shuttles. The cafeteria at United College served rice-heavy meals with few side dishes, and so, just like that, I stayed skinny until I was twenty-five.