Vijayarajan Subramanium, in Facebook, 26 February 2026
October 14, 1964. Tokyo. Inside the Japan National Stadium, seventy thousand spectators watched the men’s 10,000 meters final at the 1964 Summer Olympics. Among the runners was Ranatunge Karunananda, wearing uniform number 67. He represented Ceylon, now Sri Lanka, a small nation that had struggled to send athletes to the Games. Karunananda was his country’s national record holder. He was also ill, weakened by a cold that had lingered for days.
The pistol fired. Thirty-eight men began the 25-lap race. The pace was punishing. By the tenth lap, the leaders had already lapped Karunananda. By the twentieth, he was several laps behind. Nine runners abandoned the race entirely. Dropping out would not have been disgraceful. It would have been practical.
When Billy Mills of the United States surged to an unexpected gold medal and crossed the finish line, the crowd roared. Officials prepared for the medal ceremony. The race appeared finished.
But number 67 was still moving. Alone on the track, holding his side, breathing heavily, Karunananda continued. At first there were laughs. Some spectators jeered. Why continue when defeat was certain?
Then the mood shifted. As he completed another lap, the noise softened. On the next, scattered applause began. By his final circuit, the entire stadium stood. Seventy thousand people clapped in rhythm as he approached the finish line, long after the medals had been decided. Witnesses later said the ovation rivaled or exceeded the applause for the winner.
He finished 29th out of 29 finishers, more than six minutes behind Mills.
Afterward, reporters asked why he had not withdrawn. Karunananda answered plainly. He said he had a young daughter at home. One day she would ask what he did at the Olympics. He wanted to tell her he ran to the end. He also said that his country had sacrificed to send him. He could not waste that chance. To him, the Olympic spirit meant participation and completion, not only victory.
Japan remembered. The story of “Uniform Number 67” was included in elementary school textbooks for years. Generations of Japanese children read about the runner from Ceylon who finished last but did not stop. In a country that valued perseverance and discipline, his effort resonated deeply.
Karunananda’s later life was quieter. In 1975 he was invited to Japan to receive recognition, but weeks before the planned visit he drowned in Sri Lanka’s Namal Oya reservoir at age 38. The circumstances were never fully clarified. His death left his family in hardship. His children were raised largely apart from the life he had known.
Decades later, his granddaughter Oshadi Nuwanthika Halpe traveled to Japan as a student. There she discovered that her grandfather’s name was still familiar. His race was still taught. Facing her own difficulties with language and study, she watched footage of his final laps. She chose to continue her training, eventually working in elder care, saying she wanted to finish what she started.
Karunananda won no medal in Tokyo. His name does not appear among champions in most record books. Yet in Japan he became part of moral education, an example of persistence beyond pride.
The 10,000 meters in 1964 produced an Olympic gold medalist and a national hero for the United States. It also produced something quieter: a lesson in endurance from a man who crossed the line long after the cameras had shifted away. History often remembers winners. But sometimes it is the one who keeps running alone who leaves the deeper mark.
