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"What's the best self-defense technique?"
    The American is pretty pleased with himself because he knows the answer. "Run away, Sensei," he says.
    The old master nods sagely. "Good." Then, he adds, "Start running."
    The American is absolutely perplexed.
    The master repeats. "Start running. If I can catch you, I will beat you up."
    And off they go, the student tearing down the street, running for his life, while this ancient karate teacher chugs relentlessly after him.
    I'm not even sure whether the old guy catches the student, but Yamashita thinks it is tremendously entertaining. Like most things he tells us, the story has a point: a good martial artist needs to stay in shape.
    So I run.
    I hate running, even after all this time. I use it as an exercise in concentration and breath control. I tend to make up little chants to keep time with the flopping of my sneakers. I know the scientifically engineered, dayglow, roll bar-equipped and heel-cup-enhanced productions I wear are more properly referred to as running shoes, but I grew up calling them sneakers and I like to keep the memory alive. When I was a kid, you rooted around for these things in bins that smelled like inner tubes and contained hundreds of mismatched pairs. They cost seven bucks then, which is why I have a minor stroke every time I buy new ones today.
    Mostly, I use the rhythm of exercise as an aid to thinking. It helps focus me, like the repetitious chants used in Shinto ceremonies that are believed to get the attention of the spirits. And, of course, when I think, I'm no longer dwelling on how much I hate running.
    All the research I had been doing made me think about Yamashita, the closest I had ever come to a true master. I had presented myself to him years ago, with formal written recommendations from highly respected teachers. I knelt on the wood floor in the formal position, bowed, and offered him the neatly brushed testimonials with both hands, which is a sign of respect. I waited.
    I knew that there was something missing from the training I had received up to that point. It was a quiet but insistent urging. My teachers could see it in me, revealed in my technique: it's hard to be focused when you're craning your neck to see around a bend. Whatever I was looking for, they knew they couldn't provide it. It must be a hard realization for any teacher to come to. So they passed me on to a higher level of intensity.
    I knew a bit about Yamashita, even then. His prowess in swordsmanship, as a fighter with or without weapons, was grudgingly admitted by the more mainstream teachers. Stories about the rigor of his training were used to scare cocky black belts into a type of humility. So when I came before him that day, I looked at him carefully to see what part of my future was revealed in his form.
    He was stocky and about average size for a Japanese man of his age. I'm not much bigger, but Yamashita radiated a type of power that you could feel. His hair was cut so short that from a distance he appeared totally bald. His eyes were hard and dark, and the expression on his face was one of total reserve. The fingers of his hands were thick and strong looking as they reached for the introductions I brought.
    Yamashita glanced once at me, read the letters, and grimaced.
    "So," he said. "Return tomorrow. We will see."
    You couldn't tell whether he was pleased, annoyed, or optimistic. And in the early days of working with him, I despaired of ever finding out. But over the years, as I passed from one level to another, a subtle form of communication began to take place. I don't know whether it was just that I got more used to the nuances in him, or whether his training was making me more perceptive, but there it was. And, as I persevered on the hard course he charted for me, there were times when I swear I could see a glint of approval or satisfaction in his eyes. And just that hint was enough to keep me going. He was my sensei, after all.
    In the last few days, there had