What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

What I Talk About When I Talk About Running Plot Summary

Introduction

In a world filled with noise and constant motion, there exists a different kind of silence – the rhythmic solitude of a lone runner moving steadily through the landscape. For Haruki Murakami, this solitude became not just a physical practice but a spiritual odyssey that shaped his identity both as a writer and as a human being. When he began running in his thirties, he could hardly have imagined how profoundly this simple act would influence his creative life and philosophical outlook over the next quarter century. Murakami's journey from jazz club owner to internationally acclaimed novelist parallels his evolution as a runner, each pursuit informing and enriching the other. Through his experiences on marathon courses around the world – from New York to Athens to Tokyo – we discover a man constantly pushing against his own limitations, seeking not necessarily victory over others but a deeper understanding of himself. His reflections reveal a unique perspective on the creative process, aging, perseverance, and the fundamental question of what makes a life meaningful. As he logs thousands of miles on roads across continents, Murakami uncovers universal truths about discipline, pain, joy, and the value of moving forward one step at a time, regardless of how difficult the path ahead may seem.

Chapter 1: Finding My Path: From Bar Owner to Novelist

Before Haruki Murakami became known for his surreal fiction and long-distance running, he was simply a young man running a jazz bar in Tokyo. This small club near Sendagaya Station was his livelihood throughout his twenties – a place where he mixed cocktails, served food, and hosted live performances. The work was physically demanding and consumed nearly all his waking hours. He would open in the morning to serve coffee, transform the space into a bar at night, and close in the early morning hours. Despite predictions from friends that his business would fail, Murakami's natural work ethic carried him through. He described himself not as a racehorse but as a workhorse – someone capable of sustained effort rather than brief brilliance. The pivotal moment in Murakami's life came on a spring afternoon in April 1978. At thirty-three years old, he was sitting alone in the outfield at Jingu Stadium, drinking beer and watching a baseball game. When American player Dave Hilton hit a double, something extraordinary happened – Murakami was struck by the sudden conviction that he could write a novel. Without any prior literary ambition, he went home, purchased manuscript paper and a fountain pen, and began writing what would become his first book, "Hear the Wind Sing." Working late at night after closing the bar, he completed the manuscript within months and, almost as an afterthought, submitted it to a literary contest. To his surprise, the novel won the award and was published the following summer. This unexpected success launched his writing career, though Murakami continued running the bar while writing his second novel. Eventually, he faced a critical decision – whether to continue dividing his energy between business and writing, or commit fully to his new calling. Against the advice of friends who suggested he could manage both, Murakami chose to sell the bar. "I'm the kind of person who has to totally commit to whatever I do," he explained. For him, half-measures were impossible – it was all or nothing. The transition wasn't easy. Closing the bar meant a significant financial risk, especially since he and his wife still had considerable debt. Yet Murakami was determined to give himself completely to writing, driven by the belief that he had untapped potential. He set himself a two-year deadline, telling his wife they could always open another bar if his literary career failed to materialize. But failure never came. Instead, his third novel, "A Wild Sheep Chase," established his distinctive voice and connected deeply with readers, confirming that his bold choice had been the right one. Looking back, Murakami views those years in the service industry not as a detour but as essential preparation for his writing life. The experience taught him about human nature, resilience, and the value of consistent effort – lessons that would prove invaluable in his dual careers as novelist and runner. This period represents a profound transformation – from a young man struggling to keep his head above water to an artist deliberately crafting a life around creative expression and physical discipline.

Chapter 2: The Running Habit: A Daily Commitment

When Murakami closed his jazz bar and became a full-time novelist, he quickly discovered an unexpected consequence of his career change – weight gain. No longer engaged in the physical labor of running a business, he found himself sitting at a desk all day, smoking sixty cigarettes daily, and watching his once-active body grow softer. This physical decline troubled him, not for vanity's sake, but because he intuitively understood that his writing career would require physical stamina. If he wanted longevity as a novelist, he needed to maintain his health. Running emerged as the ideal solution. It required no special facilities, no partners, and minimal equipment – just a pair of shoes and an open road. In the early 1980s, Murakami began jogging near his home in Narashino, a then-rural area outside Tokyo. His first runs lasted barely twenty minutes before he found himself panting and exhausted. Yet something about the activity resonated with him. Unlike the team sports and competitive athletics he had always avoided, running aligned perfectly with his independent nature and preference for solitary pursuits. The habit quickly became ritualized. Murakami would rise before five in the morning, write until midday, then run in the afternoon. This structured existence contrasted dramatically with his previous nocturnal lifestyle as a bar owner. "I changed my life in order to become a writer," he explains, noting how even his sleeping patterns shifted to accommodate this new identity. Running became the physical cornerstone of this transformation – a daily affirmation of his commitment to his craft. Quitting smoking naturally followed. "I couldn't very well keep on smoking and continue running," he reflects. The cigarettes that had been his constant companions during long nights at the bar were incompatible with his new respiratory demands. Running gave him the motivation to overcome withdrawal and permanently break the habit, marking another clean separation between his past and present selves. By 1983, Murakami had progressed enough to enter his first race – a modest 5K. The experience proved surprisingly enjoyable, encouraging him to tackle longer distances. Later that year, he attempted the original marathon route in Greece, running alone from Athens to Marathon in punishing summer heat. Despite the brutal conditions, he completed the distance, discovering in the process both his capacity for endurance and the profound mental states that long-distance running could induce. This experience, though painful, solidified running as an essential component of his identity. For Murakami, running has never been about competition with others. His goals remain intensely personal – to maintain consistency, to challenge his own limitations, to find satisfaction in the process rather than the outcome. "In long-distance running," he writes, "the only opponent you have to beat is yourself, the way you used to be." This philosophy mirrors his approach to writing, where he measures success not by external validation but by whether he has met his own standards and pushed his own boundaries.

Chapter 3: The Athens Marathon: Facing Physical Limits

In July 1983, Murakami undertook what would become one of his most memorable running challenges – traversing the original marathon course in Greece. Rather than following the traditional route from Marathon to Athens (as the ancient messenger had done), he decided to run it in reverse, starting from Athens at dawn to avoid traffic and the worst of the summer heat. Despite these precautions, he severely underestimated the brutal conditions that awaited him. As the sun climbed higher, the temperature soared to unbearable levels, creating what he would later describe as "something close to an act of madness." The course itself offered little mercy. Marathon Avenue proved to be an ordinary commuter highway with narrow shoulders, speeding traffic, and a road surface that mixed marble powder with asphalt, creating a slippery, unforgiving path. As Murakami pushed forward mile after mile, the Mediterranean sun beat down relentlessly. His sweat evaporated instantly in the dry air, leaving his skin coated with salt that stung with every movement. "I felt like I was in an oven," he recalls, describing how even at nine in the morning, the heat had become almost unbearable. By the seventeen-mile mark, Murakami caught his first glimpse of the Marathon hills in the distance. This momentary encouragement quickly faded as he encountered a powerful headwind from the sea, making each step forward a struggle against invisible resistance. Around twenty-three miles – further than he had ever run before – he hit the wall. "I start to hate everything," he wrote in his journal afterward. "Enough already! My energy has scraped bottom, and I don't want to run anymore." His legs became leaden, his vision blurred from sweat and salt, and even his thoughts turned hostile toward the peaceful countryside around him. To survive this ordeal, Murakami entered an altered mental state. "I'm not a human. I'm a piece of machinery," became his mantra in the final miles. "I don't need to feel a thing. Just forge on ahead." He narrowed his field of vision to the ground three yards ahead, eliminating all distractions and reducing his entire world to the immediate task of moving forward. This psychological technique – a deliberate dehumanization – allowed him to continue when his body screamed for surrender. When Murakami finally reached the Marathon monument after nearly four hours, he felt no triumph, only relief that the suffering had ended. A local gas station attendant, learning what he had accomplished, picked flowers from a potted plant and presented them as an impromptu bouquet. This small gesture of kindness from a stranger moved him deeply. At a nearby café, Murakami celebrated with cold beer that, despite his fantasies during the run, couldn't match "the illusions of a person about to lose consciousness." Though punishing, this experience taught Murakami something profound about human endurance – that physical limits are often psychological in nature. More importantly, it introduced him to the transformative potential of pushing beyond perceived boundaries. The Athens run became a reference point in his understanding of both running and writing: "I think certain types of processes don't allow for any variation. If you have to be part of that process, all you can do is transform yourself through that persistent repetition, and make that process a part of your own personality."

Chapter 4: Writing and Running: Shared Disciplines

The connection between Murakami's twin passions – writing novels and running marathons – extends far beyond mere coincidence. For him, these pursuits represent complementary expressions of the same fundamental approach to life. Both require qualities that Murakami has cultivated with monastic dedication: focus, endurance, and a willingness to embrace solitude. While talent remains essential for a novelist, Murakami argues that these other attributes – which can be developed through practice – ultimately determine a writer's longevity and success. Focus, the ability to concentrate entirely on the task at hand, forms the cornerstone of Murakami's daily practice. Each morning, he sits at his desk for three to four hours, shutting out all distractions. "I don't see anything else, I don't think about anything else," he explains. This same singular concentration accompanies his running, where extraneous thoughts fall away as he settles into rhythm. Without this capacity for sustained attention, Murakami believes neither meaningful writing nor serious running would be possible. Even more crucial than focus is endurance – the stamina to continue day after day, month after month. "What's needed for a writer of fiction," Murakami observes, "is the energy to focus every day for half a year, or a year, two years." A novel cannot be written in a creative sprint; it demands the patience to return repeatedly to the work, gradually building something substantial. Similarly, marathon training requires months of consistent effort, accumulating miles through daily runs that might individually seem insignificant but collectively prepare the body for extraordinary exertion. Running has taught Murakami tangible lessons about the writing process. From his daily training, he has learned to recognize his physical limitations and work within them. His muscles are "slow starters," requiring significant warm-up time before functioning optimally. Once warmed up, however, they can sustain effort for extended periods – a pattern he sees mirrored in his creative process. The initial resistance he encounters when beginning to write gives way to fluid productivity once he establishes momentum. Perhaps most significantly, running has shown Murakami how to confront and overcome pain. Every marathon brings moments of intense suffering when the body rebels and the mind searches desperately for escape. Learning to push through this discomfort has developed a mental toughness that serves him equally well at the writing desk. "When I'm criticized unjustly," he admits, "I go running for a little longer than usual. By running longer it's like I can physically exhaust that portion of my discontent." This relationship between physical and mental discipline forms the core of Murakami's philosophy: "To deal with something unhealthy, a person needs to be as healthy as possible." Writing, which requires confronting the "toxins" that exist within human consciousness, demands a counterbalancing physical vitality. By maintaining his body through running, Murakami creates the strength and stability needed to explore the darker aspects of existence in his fiction without being consumed by them. The ultimate parallel between running and writing, for Murakami, lies in their solitary, self-referential nature. Both are activities where external validation matters less than personal satisfaction – where the question becomes not "Did I beat others?" but "Did I do the best I could with what I have?" This inward-facing metric has allowed Murakami to sustain both practices through decades of changing circumstances, finding continued meaning in the simple act of moving forward, one step or one word at a time.

Chapter 5: Aging and Adaptation: Confronting Decline

In his late forties, Murakami faced an unsettling reality that all athletes eventually encounter – his peak performance was behind him. Despite maintaining the same training regimen and mental focus, his marathon times began to slip. What had once been a comfortable three-and-a-half-hour finish gradually stretched toward four hours. This decline bewildered and frustrated him. "What was going on here?" he wondered. "I didn't think it was because I was aging. In everyday life I never felt like I was getting physically weaker." The evidence, however, was undeniable. His body was changing in ways beyond his control, following natural biological patterns that affect all humans regardless of their determination or discipline. This realization forced Murakami to confront not just his athletic limitations but his mortality – the inescapable fact that time moves in only one direction. "Just as a river flows to the sea," he reflects, "growing older and slowing down are just part of the natural scenery, and I've got to accept it." Rather than abandoning running in the face of diminishing returns, Murakami chose to adapt. He broadened his athletic pursuits to include triathlons and swimming, redistributing his energy across multiple disciplines. This diversification served two purposes: it developed different muscle groups, providing a more balanced fitness, and it created new challenges where he could experience the satisfaction of improvement rather than the frustration of decline. More profoundly, Murakami began redefining what success meant to him as a runner. Instead of focusing exclusively on time – a metric that would inevitably reflect his aging body – he shifted toward more subjective measures: the quality of his experience, the sense of accomplishment in finishing, the joy found in the process itself. "I'll enjoy and value things that can't be expressed in numbers," he decided, "and I'll grope for a feeling of pride that comes from a slightly different place." This philosophical adjustment didn't happen overnight. Murakami describes periods of what he calls "runner's blues" – a mysterious lethargy that descended after completing an ultramarathon in his late forties. For several years afterward, his enthusiasm for running diminished. Though he maintained his routine, the passionate engagement he had previously felt was replaced by something more mechanical. Running became, temporarily, more obligation than pleasure. In time, however, this fog lifted. The joy of running returned, albeit in a different form – less driven by achievement, more centered in appreciation. Murakami came to understand that his relationship with running, like any long-term relationship, would naturally evolve through phases of intense passion, comfortable routine, and periodic reassessment. The constancy wasn't in how running made him feel but in his commitment to continue showing up, day after day. This experience of athletic aging paralleled Murakami's observations about writers who reach middle age. Many authors who produce brilliant early work find their creative energy flagging as they grow older. Rather than accepting this decline as inevitable, Murakami saw it as a challenge to be met through continued physical discipline. By maintaining his body through running, he aimed to sustain the vitality needed for imaginative work well into his later years, creating a virtuous cycle where physical and creative endurance reinforced each other.

Chapter 6: Persistence Over Performance: The Ultramarathon Experience

In 1996, Murakami pushed his running to unprecedented extremes by participating in a 62-mile ultramarathon around Lake Saroma in Hokkaido. This race, nearly two and a half times the length of a standard marathon, tested not just his physical capabilities but the very boundaries of his identity as a runner and a human being. "Have you ever run sixty-two miles in a single day?" he asks readers. "The vast majority of people in the world (those who are sane, I should say) have never had that experience." The race began like any marathon, with Murakami settling into a comfortable rhythm for the first 34 miles. At that point – already beyond standard marathon distance – the real challenge began. His muscles tightened like "old, hard rubber," refusing to cooperate despite his mental determination to continue. To overcome this rebellion, Murakami developed a peculiar technique: he focused on his upper body, swinging his arms widely to generate momentum that could pull his reluctant legs forward. Between miles 34 and 47, Murakami entered what he describes as "sheer torment." Different parts of his body took turns registering complaints – first his right thigh, then his right knee, then his left thigh – creating a cacophony of pain that threatened to overwhelm his resolve. To survive this onslaught, he resorted to a psychological strategy of self-mechanization. "I'm not a human. I'm a piece of machinery," became his mantra. "I don't need to feel a thing. Just forge on ahead." This deliberate dehumanization – reducing himself to a machine with a single function – allowed Murakami to continue when his conscious mind would have surrendered. He narrowed his perceptual field to "the ground three yards ahead, nothing beyond," eliminating all awareness of spectators, scenery, even his own identity as a writer or individual. This extreme mental state represented a kind of breakthrough, as Murakami felt himself "pass through something" – an invisible barrier separating ordinary human experience from something more primal. In the final miles, having transcended normal consciousness, Murakami entered what athletes sometimes call "the zone." Pain disappeared, or rather was "shoved into some unseen corner," and he found himself on "autopilot," functioning with machine-like efficiency. This state brought not euphoria but a profound emptiness – a vacuum where self-awareness should have been. "I run; therefore I am," he reflects, describing how his very existence seemed to merge with the act of running. Upon completing the ultramarathon, Murakami experienced the expected physical aftermath – muscle soreness, temporary difficulty walking. What surprised him, however, was the psychological impact. A peculiar lethargy descended over him, something he dubbed "runner's blues" – a mysterious diminishment of enthusiasm for running itself. For years afterward, this malaise lingered, causing his training to become more perfunctory and his race times to gradually decline. In retrospect, Murakami understood that the ultramarathon had fundamentally altered his relationship with running. The experience had shown him both the furthest reaches of his capabilities and a certain emptiness at the extreme edge of physical endeavor. Having "loosened that knot" of ultimate exertion, he found himself less driven by achievement and more contemplative about the role of running in his life. This shift ultimately proved valuable, forcing Murakami to reconsider what running truly meant to him beyond times and distances. The ultramarathon became a turning point that eventually led to a more mature understanding – that persistence itself, not performance, constitutes the real value of long-distance running. This realization would sustain his practice through the inevitable physical decline of aging, allowing running to remain "a happy, necessary part" of his daily life even as his capabilities changed.

Chapter 7: The Joy of Process: Triathlon and Growth

After decades dedicated primarily to running, Murakami broadened his athletic horizons by embracing the triathlon – a multidisciplinary event combining swimming, cycling, and running. This evolution wasn't simply about seeking new challenges; it represented a fundamental shift in how Murakami approached physical discipline and, by extension, his creative life. Rather than pursuing singular mastery, he deliberately placed himself in situations where he was less comfortable, forcing continued growth even as he entered his fifties. The triathlon's swimming component presented particular difficulties. During his first competitive attempts, Murakami experienced unexpected panic in the water. Despite being a capable swimmer in practice, race conditions triggered anxiety that disrupted his breathing and technique. "I'd lift my head to breathe, same as always, but the timing was off," he recalls. "And when I'm not breathing right, fear takes over and my muscles tense up." This problem proved so severe that in one race, he was disqualified when he couldn't complete the swimming portion. Rather than accepting this limitation, Murakami methodically addressed it. He hired a swimming coach to refine his self-taught technique, patiently rebuilding his stroke through countless repetitive drills. Simultaneously, he analyzed the psychological dimension of his swimming difficulties, eventually identifying hyperventilation caused by pre-race anxiety as the root cause. With this understanding, he developed pre-race routines to manage his breathing and calm his mind. The cycling segment of triathlons presented different challenges. Murakami found bicycling "an intricate form of torture" – repetitive, uncomfortable, and fraught with potential dangers. Unlike running, which came naturally to him, cycling required technical skills, specialized equipment, and constant vigilance. "To get to a decent bike path I have to ride through town," he explains, "and the fear I feel when I weave in and out of traffic on my sports bike with its skinny tires and my bike shoes strapped tight in the straps is something you can't understand unless you've gone through it." Despite these discomforts, Murakami persisted, gradually building competence across all three disciplines. His motivation wasn't mastery but growth – the satisfaction of developing new capabilities and overcoming personal limitations. This multilayered challenge provided fresh stimulation at a time when running alone might have become routine, reinvigorating his physical practice with new forms of awareness and effort. The triathlon also offered Murakami an unexpected social dimension. Though naturally solitary, he found himself connecting with fellow triathletes, people who shared his seemingly eccentric commitment to rigorous physical discipline. "Those of us who participate in triathlons are unusual people," he acknowledges. "The world, with its commonsensical viewpoint, thinks their lifestyle is peculiar." This community of like-minded individuals provided a sense of belonging that Murakami, often isolated in his writing life, particularly valued. Most profoundly, the triathlon taught Murakami to find joy in the process itself rather than fixating on outcomes. Each race brought its share of mishaps and frustrations – foggy goggles, cramping muscles, untied shoelaces – yet these setbacks became opportunities for learning rather than sources of discouragement. "In a triathlon the transition from one event to the next is difficult, and experience counts for everything," he notes. "Through experience you learn how to compensate for your physical shortcomings." This embrace of process over results mirrors Murakami's mature approach to both athletics and writing. The value lies not in achieving particular times or accolades but in the sustained engagement with difficulty – the willingness to continually place oneself in challenging situations and respond with patience and adaptability. "Pain seems to be a precondition for this kind of sport," he observes. "It's precisely because of the pain, precisely because we want to overcome that pain, that we can get the feeling, through this process, of really being alive."

Summary

Haruki Murakami's journey as both writer and runner reveals a profound truth: the paths to excellence in any domain are marked not by dramatic breakthroughs but by quiet consistency – showing up day after day, embracing discomfort, and finding meaning in the process rather than the outcome. His decades of early mornings, solitary miles, and steady output embody a philosophy that transcends both literature and athletics: commitment to the long road. In a world increasingly fixated on instant results and viral success, Murakami stands as a compelling counterexample – someone who has built an extraordinary life through ordinary persistence, moving forward one step and one word at a time. What makes Murakami's perspective so valuable is its humble practicality. He offers no secret formulas or mystical insights, only the earned wisdom of someone who has logged thousands of miles on roads around the world while producing dozens of books that have touched millions of readers. His approach suggests that meaningful achievement requires neither exceptional talent nor revolutionary methods, but rather the courage to establish a sustainable rhythm and the discipline to maintain it through changing seasons of life. For anyone pursuing difficult goals – creative, physical, or otherwise – Murakami provides both inspiration and a roadmap, demonstrating how small, consistent actions accumulate into a life of significance and satisfaction, even as our capabilities inevitably change with age.

About Author

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Haruki Murakami

Haruki Murakami (村上春樹) is a Japanese writer. His novels, essays, and short stories have been best-sellers in Japan and internationally, with his work translated into 50 languages and having sold millions of copies outside Japan. He has received numerous awards for his work, including the Gunzo Prize for New Writers, the World Fantasy Award, the Tanizaki Prize, Yomiuri Prize for Literature, the Frank O'Connor International Short Story Award, the Noma Literary Prize, the Franz Kafka Prize, the Kiriyama Prize for Fiction, the Goodreads Choice Awards for Best Fiction, the Jerusalem Prize, and the Princess of Asturias Awards.Growing up in Ashiya, near Kobe before moving to Tokyo to attend Waseda University, he published his first novel Hear the Wind Sing (1979) after working as the owner of a small jazz bar for seven years. His notable works include the novels Norwegian Wood (1987), The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (1994–95), Kafka on the Shore (2002) and 1Q84 (2009–10); the last was ranked as the best work of Japan's Heisei era (1989–2019) by the national newspaper Asahi Shimbun's survey of literary experts. His work spans genres including science fiction, fantasy, and crime fiction, and has become known for his use of magical realist elements. His official website cites Raymond Chandler, Kurt Vonnegut and Richard Brautigan as key inspirations to his work, while Murakami himself has named Kazuo Ishiguro, Cormac McCarthy and Dag Solstad as his favourite currently active writers. Murakami has also published five short story collections, including First Person Singular (2020), and non-fiction works including Underground (1997), an oral history of the Tokyo subway sarin attack, and What I Talk About When I Talk About Running (2007), a memoir about his experience as a long distance runner.His fiction has polarized literary critics and the reading public. He has sometimes been criticised by Japan's literary establishment as un-Japanese, leading to Murakami's recalling that he was a "black sheep in the Japanese literary world". Meanwhile, Murakami has been described by Gary Fisketjon, the editor of Murakami's collection The Elephant Vanishes (1993), as a "truly extraordinary writer", while Steven Poole of The Guardian praised Murakami as "among the world's greatest living novelists" for his oeuvre.

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