What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

  I got up on the beach and made straight for where the bikes were parked (which seems easy but actually isn’t), peeled off my snug wetsuit, tugged on my bike shoes and helmet and wraparound sunglasses, gulped down some water, and, finally, headed out onto the road. I was able to do all that so mechanically that by the time I was thinking again, I realized I’d been splashing around in the water until just a minute before and now was whizzing by at twenty miles an hour on a bike. No matter how many times I experience this, the sudden transition feels odd. It’s a different feeling of weight, speed, and motor reflexes, and you use completely different muscles. You feel like a salamander that’s evolved overnight into an ostrich. My brain wasn’t able to make the switch very quickly, and neither could my body. I couldn’t keep the pace up, and before I knew it seven other racers had passed me. This isn’t good, I thought, and up to the turning point I didn’t pass anyone.

  The bike segment follows a well-known stretch of seacoast called Sasagawa Nagare. It’s a very scenic spot, with unusual rock formations jutting out of the water, though of course I didn’t have the time to enjoy the scenery. We raced from Murakami City northward along the sea, with the turn near the border with Yamagata Prefecture that would send us back along the same road. There were slopes in several places, but nothing steep enough to make me blank out. Before reaching the turn, I didn’t worry about passing others or being passed, but focused instead on pedaling at a steady pace, using an easy gear. At regular intervals I’d reach down for my water bottle and grab a quick drink. As I did all this I gradually started to feel comfortable on the bike again. Feeling I could handle it now, when we reached the turn I downshifted, sped up, and in the second half of the race passed seven people. The wind wasn’t blowing hard, so I could pedal for all I was worth. When the wind’s strong, amateur bicyclists like me get pretty dejected. Making the wind work for you takes years of experience and a great deal of skill. When there’s no wind, though, it all comes down to a question of leg strength. I wound up finishing the 24.8 miles at a faster clip than I’d expected, then tugged on my good old running shoes for the final leg of the race.

  When I switched to running, though, things got pretty rough. Normally I would have held back a little in the bike portion to save up energy for the run, but this time, for whatever reason, it just didn’t cross my mind. I just let ’er rip, then plunged right into running. As you can imagine, my legs didn’t work right. My mind ordered them, “Run!,” but my leg muscles were on strike. I could see myself running but had no sensation of running.

  Each race is a little different, but the same basic thing happens every triathlon. The muscles I’ve pushed hard for over an hour while biking, the ones I still want to be open for business when I start running, just won’t move smoothly. It takes time for the muscles to change from one rail to another. For the first two miles both my legs always seem locked up, and only after that am I finally able to run. This time, though, it took a lot longer to get to this point. Of the three events in a triathlon, running is obviously my specialty, and usually I’m able to easily pass at least thirty other runners. But this time I could only pass ten or fifteen. Still, I was glad to be able to even out my performance a bit. In my last triathlon I’d been passed by a lot of people in the bike portion, but this time it was my run time that wasn’t so great. Even so, the difference between the events I was good at and those I wasn’t had decreased, meaning that perhaps I was getting the hang of being a true triathlete. This was definitely something to cheer about.

  As I ran through the beautiful old part of Murakami City, the cheers of the spectators—ordinary residents, I’m assuming—spurred me on, and I wrung out my last ounce of energy as I raced for the finish line. It was an exultant moment. It had been a tough race, for sure, what with my Vaseline adventure, but once I reached the finish that all vanished. After I caught my breath, I exchanged a smile and a handshake with the man wearing race number 329. “Good job,” we told each other. He and I had battled it out in the bike race, where he passed me many times. Right when we started running, my shoelaces came untied and twice I had to stop to retie them. If only that hadn’t happened, I know I would have passed him—or so goes my optimistic hypothesis. When I picked up the pace at the end of the run, I almost passed him, but wound up three yards short. Naturally the responsibility for not checking my shoelaces before the race lies entirely with yours truly.

  At any rate, I’d happily made it to the finish line set up in front of the Murakami City Hall. The race was over. I didn’t drown, didn’t get a flat, didn’t get stung by a vicious jellyfish. No ferocious bear hurled himself at me, and I wasn’t stung by wasps, or hit by lightning. And my wife, waiting at the finish line, didn’t discover some unpleasant truth about me. Instead, she greeted me with a smile. Thank goodness.

  The happiest thing for me about this day’s race was that I was able, on a personal level, to truly enjoy the event. The overall time I posted wasn’t anything to brag about, and I made a lot of little mistakes along the way. But I did give it my best, and I felt a nice, tangible afterglow. I also think I’ve improved in a lot of areas since the previous race, which is an important point to consider. In a triathlon the transition from one event to the next is difficult, and experience counts for everything. Through experience you learn how to compensate for your physical shortcomings. To put it another way, learning from experience is what makes the triathlon so much fun.

  Of course it was painful, and there were times when, emotionally, I just wanted to chuck it all. But pain seems to be a precondition for this kind of sport. If pain weren’t involved, who in the world would ever go to the trouble of taking part in sports like the triathlon or the marathon, which demand such an investment of time and energy? 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—or at least a partial sense of it. Your quality of experience is based not on standards such as time or ranking, but on finally awakening to an awareness of the fluidity within action itself. If things go well, that is.

  On the way back to Tokyo from Niigata I saw quite a few cars with bicycles strapped to their roofs on their way back from the race. The people inside were all tanned and strong looking—the typical triathlon physique. After our unpretentious race on a fall Sunday, we were all on our way back to our own homes, back to our own mundane lives. And with the next race in mind, each of us, in our place, will most likely silently go about our usual training. Even if, seen from the outside, or from some higher vantage point, this sort of life looks pointless or futile, or even extremely inefficient, it doesn’t bother me. Maybe it’s some pointless act like, as I’ve said before, pouring water into an old pan that has a hole in the bottom, but at least the effort you put into it remains. Whether it’s good for anything or not, cool or totally uncool, in the final analysis what’s most important is what you can’t see but can feel in your heart. To be able to grasp something of value, sometimes you have to perform seemingly inefficient acts. But even activities that appear fruitless don’t necessarily end up so. That’s the feeling I have, as someone who’s felt this, who’s experienced it.

  I have no idea whether I can actually keep this cycle of inefficient activities going forever. But I’ve done it so persistently over such a long time, and without getting terribly sick of it, that I think I’ll try to keep going as long as I can. Long-distance running (more or less, for better or worse) has molded me into the person I am today, and I’m hoping it will remain a part of my life for as long as possible. I’ll be happy if running and I can grow old together. There may not seem to be much logic to it, but it’s the life I’ve chosen for myself. Not that, at this late date, I have other options.

  These thoughts went through my head as I drove along after the triathlon, headed for home.

  I expect that this winter I’ll run another marathon somewhere in the world. And I’m sure come next summer I’ll be out in another triathlo
n somewhere, giving it my best shot. Thus the seasons come and go, and the years pass by. I’ll age one more year, and probably finish another novel. One by one, I’ll face the tasks before me and complete them as best I can. Focusing on each stride forward, but at the same time taking a long-range view, scanning the scenery as far ahead as I can. I am, after all, a long-distance runner.

  My time, the rank I attain, my outward appearance—all of these are secondary. For a runner like me, what’s really important is reaching the goal I set myself, under my own power. I give it everything I have, endure what needs enduring, and am able, in my own way, to be satisfied. From out of the failures and joys I always try to come away having grasped a concrete lesson. (It’s got to be concrete, no matter how small it is.) And I hope that, over time, as one race follows another, in the end I’ll reach a place I’m content with. Or maybe just catch a glimpse of it. (Yes, that’s a more appropriate way of putting it.)

  Some day, if I have a gravestone and I’m able to pick out what’s carved on it, I’d like it to say this:

  Haruki Murakami

  1949–20**

  Writer (and Runner)

  At Least He Never Walked

  At this point, that’s what I’d like it to say.

  Afterword

  On Roads All Round the World

  As the headings of each chapter of this book indicate, the bulk of the writings collected here were composed between the summer of 2005 and the fall of 2006. I didn’t write them at one stretch, but rather a little at a time, whenever I could find free time in between other work. Each time I wrote more I’d ask myself, So—what’s on my mind right now? Though this isn’t a long book, it took quite some time from beginning to end, and even more after I’d finished, to carefully polish and rework it.

  Over the years, I’ve published a number of essay collections and travel writings, but I haven’t had much opportunity like this to focus on one theme and write directly about myself, so I was scrupulous about making sure it was exactly the way I wanted it. I didn’t want to write too much about myself, but if I didn’t honestly talk about what needed to be said, writing this book would have been pointless. I needed to revisit the manuscript many times over a period of time; otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to explore these delicate layers.

  I see this book as a kind of memoir. Not something as grand as a personal history, but calling it an essay collection is a bit forced. This is repeating what I said in the foreword, but through the act of writing I wanted to sort out what kind of life I’ve led, both as a novelist and as an ordinary person, over these past twenty-five years. When it comes to the question of how much a novelist should stick to the novel, and how much he should reveal his real voice, everyone will have his own standard, so it’s impossible to generalize. But for me, there was the hope that writing this book would allow me to discover my own personal standard. I’m not very confident that I’ve done a good job in this area. Still, when I finished, I had the feeling that a weight had been lifted. (I think it may have been just the right moment to write this book when I did.)

  After I finished, I took part in several races. I’d been planning to participate in a marathon in Japan at the beginning of 2007, but just before the race, unusually for me, I caught a cold and couldn’t run. If I had run, it would have been my twenty-sixth marathon. As a result, I reached the end of the season—which ran from the fall of 2006 through the spring of 2007—without running a single marathon. I feel a little regretful, but will try my best next season.

  Instead of a marathon, in May I participated in the Honolulu Triathlon, an Olympic-length event. I could finish it easily and really enjoy myself, and ended with a better time than the last. And at the end of July I was in the Tinman Triathlon, also held in Honolulu. Because I was living there for about a year, I also took part in a kind of triathlon training camp, practicing with other Honolulu residents three times a week for three months. This kind of training program really helped, and I was able to make some “Triath buddies” in the group.

  Running a marathon during the cold months and taking part in a triathlon during the summer has become the cycle of my life. There’s no off-season, so I always seem to be busy, but I’m not about to complain. It’s brought me a lot of happiness. Truthfully, I am sort of interested in trying a full-scale triathlon like the Iron-man competition, but if I went that far I’m afraid the training would (most definitely) take so much time out of my schedule it would interfere with my real job. I didn’t pursue more ultramarathons for the same reason. For me, the main goal of exercising is to maintain, and improve, my physical condition in order to keep on writing novels, so if races and training cut into the time I need to write, this would be putting the cart before the horse. Which is why I’ve tried to maintain a decent balance.

  Meanwhile, running for a quarter century makes for a lot of good memories.

  One I remember in particular was running, in Central Park in 1983, with the writer John Irving. I was translating his novel Setting Free the Bears at the time, and while I was in New York I asked to interview him. He told me he was busy but if I’d come in the morning while he jogged in Central Park we could talk while we ran together. We talked about all kinds of things as we jogged around the park early one morning. Naturally I didn’t tape our conversation and couldn’t take any notes, so all that I recall now is the happy memory of the two of us jogging together in the brisk morning air.

  In the 1980s I used to jog every morning in Tokyo and often passed a very attractive young woman. We passed each other jogging for several years and got to recognize each other by sight and smile a greeting each time we passed. I never spoke to her (I’m too shy), and of course don’t even know her name. But seeing her face every morning as I ran was one of life’s small pleasures. Without pleasures like that, it’s pretty hard to get up and go jogging every morning.

  One other memory I hold dear is running high up in Boulder, Colorado, with Yuko Arimori, the Japanese silver medalist in the marathon at the Barcelona Olympics. This was just some light jogging, but still, coming from Japan and running all of a sudden at a height of ten thousand feet was very tough—my lungs screamed, and I felt dizzy and terribly thirsty. Miss Arimori gave me a cool look and just said, “Is something the matter, Mr. Murakami?” I learned how rigorous the world of professional runners is (though I should add that she’s a very kind person). By the third day, though, my body had gotten used to the thin atmosphere, and I could enjoy the crisp air of the Rockies.

  I’ve met many people through running, which has been one of its real pleasures. And many people have helped me, and encouraged me. At this point what I should do—like in an Academy Awards acceptance speech—is express my thanks to many people, but there are too many to thank, and the names would probably mean nothing to most readers. I’ll confine myself to the following.

  The title of this book is taken from the title of a short-story collection by a writer beloved to me, Raymond Carver, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. I’m thankful to his widow, Tess Gallagher, who was kind enough to give me permission to use the title in this way. I am also deeply thankful to the editor of this book, Midori Oka, who has patiently waited for ten years.

  Finally, I dedicate this book to all the runners I’ve encountered on the road—those I’ve passed, and those who’ve passed me. Without all of you, I never would have kept on running.

  HARUKI MURAKAMI

  AUGUST 2007

  ALSO BY HARUKI MURAKAMI

  FICTION

  After Dark

  After the Quake

  Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman

  Dance Dance Dance

  The Elephant Vanishes

  Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World

  Kafka on the Shore

  Norwegian Wood

  South of the Border, West of the Sun

  Sputnik Sweetheart

  A Wild Sheep Chase

  The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

  NONFICTION<
br />
  Underground: The Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  TRANSLATION COPYRIGHT © 2008 BY HARUKI MURAKAMI

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, A DIVISION OF RANDOM HOUSE, INC., NEW YORK.

  WWW.AAKNOPF.COM

  ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN JAPAN AS HASHIRU KOTO NI TSUITE KATARU TOKI NI BOKU NO KATARU KOTO BY BUNGEISHUNJŪ LTD., TOKYO, IN 2007.

  COPYRIGHT © 2007 BY HARUKI MURAKAMI

  KNOPF, BORZOI BOOKS, AND THE COLOPHON ARE REGISTERED TRADEMARKS OF RANDOM HOUSE, INC.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  MURAKAMI, HARUKI, [DATE]

  [HASHIRU KOTO NI TSUITE KATARU TOKI NI BOKU NO KATARU KOTO. ENGLISH]

  WHAT I TALK ABOUT WHEN I TALK ABOUT RUNNING: A MEMOIR / BY HARUKI MURAKAMI; TRANSLATED FROM THE JAPANESE BY PHILIP GABRIEL.

  P. CM.

  “ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN JAPAN…BY BUNGEISHUNJŪ, LTD., TOKYO, IN 2007”—T.P. VERSO.

  “A BORZOI BOOK.”

  1. MURAKAMI, HARUKI, [DATE] 2. MARATHON RUNNING.

  I. GABRIEL, PHILIP. II. TITLE.

  PL856.U673Z465 2008

  895.6'35—DC22

  [B] 2008017774

  eISBN: 978-0-307-26947-8

  v3.0