Running on Neon: The Marathon Life of Osaka’s Glico Sign

If you have ever found yourself in Osaka, and I do recommend it, since it is one of the friendliest, most food-obsessed, and gloriously over-the-top cities in Japan, you will almost certainly have been drawn to the banks of the Dotonbori Canal. Here, among the neon crustaceans, animatronic pufferfish, and restaurants that shout their existence in letters several meters high, there stands a fellow who has been running, in a state of perpetual triumph, since 1935.

He is the Glico Running Man, and he is both a sign and a sort of accidental city mascot. He does not move. He does not sweat. He never even slows down. Yet for nearly ninety years, he has been dashing toward a finish line in the middle of Osaka, cheered on by millions of visitors who stop on the Ebisubashi Bridge* to throw their arms up in imitation and grin for a photo.

* (yes, I know bashi means bridge, so this is bilingually redundant, like Yodogawa River or Mt. Fuji-San, but it is the most common way to refer to the span in English)

A Predecessor with Big Feet

Curiously, the first gigantic illuminated figure to dominate this patch of Osaka was not a runner at all but a man with unusually prominent footwear. In 1928, the Fukusuke Tabi Company, purveyors of the ubiquitous Japanese split-toe socks (tabi) favored by construction workers and craftsmen, put up an enormous advertising tower featuring their mascot, a squat fellow with a large head and polite crouch. He was lit up in neon, which was still rather exotic at the time, and he cast such a glow over Dotonbori that people came just to stare at him.

This told every business in Osaka two things: enormous lighted billboards were an excellent way to attract attention, and Dotonbori, with its heavy foot traffic and anything-goes spirit, was the perfect place for them.

The First Runner: 1935

Enter Riichi Ezaki, founder of Glico, a confectionery company whose caramel candies were sold with the slogan “One piece for 300 meters of running energy.” Ezaki decided that what his brand needed was not merely an advertisement but a monumental testament to vitality itself. So, in 1935, he unveiled a 33-meter-tall neon tower, utterly enormous for the time.

At its heart was the Running Man, a jubilant athlete crossing a finish line. The figure was meant to convey health, energy, and perhaps the idea that if you ate enough Glico candy, you too might suddenly sprint the equivalent of three city blocks without breaking a sweat.

The sign quickly became a landmark. Children stared at it in awe, visitors used it as a meeting spot, and no one could pass over the canal without glancing at its Technicolor glow. It lasted until 1943, when the materials were requisitioned for the war effort and the poor fellow was dismantled for scrap.

Rebuilding and Reimagining

A dozen years later, in 1955, with Japan recovering from the war, the second Glico sign was installed. It was accompanied by a small stage where concerts and comedy shows were held. Imagine that: a billboard you could admire and also watch live entertainment beneath. One suspects people remembered the shows more than the candy, but the Running Man kept dashing nonetheless.

Then came the third generation in 1963, which was positively bonkers. It spewed water. Yes, really. Twelve tons of it, gushing out in colorful illuminated patterns, turning the sign into a rainbow fountain. No other city on earth would look at a neon sign and think, “Nice, but what if it also sprayed water like a fire hydrant?” Osaka, however, is not like other cities.

By 1972, the engineers had sobered up and produced the fourth version, which finally gave us the design most people recognize. The runner appeared against a stadium backdrop with flashing track lights. For nearly twenty-five years, this man smiled and sprinted his way across postcards, films, and television dramas. He became shorthand for “You are in Osaka.” In 1985, the Glico runner looked on in jubilation as fans of the hometown Hanshin Tigers jumped from Ebisubashi into the fetid canal below to celebrate the team's win in the Japan Series over the Seibu Lions in 6 games.

Disappearing Act and Triumphant Return

Then came a psychological trauma. In 1996, the sign was dismantled during renovations to the building behind it. For two and a half years, the Ebisubashi Bridge looked oddly naked, and locals grumbled that Dotonbori had lost part of its soul.

In late 1998, the fifth generation returned, this time with a distinctly Osaka flavor. Behind the runner glowed the city’s landmarks: Osaka Castle, Tsutenkaku Tower, the Kaiyukan Aquarium, and the Osaka Dome. The man was no longer running through a generic stadium. He was striding proudly through his hometown, past buildings everyone recognized. If you were going to immortalize a runner, this seemed the right way to do it.

The Current Sign: A Runner Goes Digital

In 2014 came the sixth and current incarnation, and it is, as you might imagine, a marvel of LEDs. Nearly 144,000 light chips make up the 20-meter-tall display. During the day, the runner beams against a clean track background. At night, he dashes through scenes of Japan and even the wider world. It is both dazzling and environmentally efficient, something the rainbow water fountain of 1963 was decidedly not.

Above him, the Glico logo itself was updated in 2022, a subtle reminder that even the most iconic images must occasionally change their shoes.

A Civic Treasure

The Glico Sign has long since crossed the threshold from advertisement to civic monument. In 2003, Osaka officially designated it a landscape asset, alongside the Central Public Hall and Minato Bridge. It is not every day that a candy company billboard earns the same recognition as architectural landmarks, but that tells you how entwined this runner has become with Osaka’s identity.

Today, tourists crowd the Ebisubashi Bridge nightly, phones raised, doing the inevitable pose with their arms in victory. Local patience is tested, but the ritual seems eternal.

Memory in Miniature

For those nostalgic about past versions, the Ezaki Memorial Museum in Nishiyodogawa has you covered. There you can admire dioramas of every generation, from the towering 1935 original to the LED masterpiece of today. You can even pose in front of whichever vintage runner you prefer, thanks to the “Glico Time Slip Photo Studio,” which is surely one of the more charming corporate museum gimmicks on earth.

Why Here, Why This?

Why, you might ask, did Osaka embrace a gigantic glowing runner while other cities settled for modest billboards? The answer lies in the city’s character. Osaka has always been Japan’s mercantile heart, full of merchants who believed business was not only about selling but also about entertaining. If Tokyo is the boardroom, Osaka is the street carnival.

As one historian put it, Dotonbori’s signs are a product of the city’s merchant spirit, in which competition for attention naturally escalated until it resembled a theater of light. The signage mimics the people of Osaka - gaudy, slightly brash, and entertainingly direct.

Crossing the Finish Line

The Glico Running Man has now outlived most of the buildings around him, six incarnations and counting. He has endured war, technological shifts, and the occasional threat of demolition. Through it all, he has kept smiling and sprinting.

It is, when you think about it, a delightful metaphor for Osaka itself: resilient, unpretentious, a little outrageous, and always moving forward. Whether you come for the food, the comedy, or the neon, the Glico Sign will be there, waiting to run the next lap.