Haruki Murakami, in his memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, shares his attempt to understand why long distance running sits at the center of his life. Murakami is a celebrated Japanese novelist, author of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and Norwegian Wood. I have read none of his fiction, but the gentle style in this collection of self revelations may induce me to explore his other work.
Murakami uses his immersion in running to delve into the elements that make him a successful writer. He also reveals what may be the primary core of his personality, as expressed in the discipline he applies to both of these primary activities.
A novel, to Murakami, appears similar to a marathon. Successful completion of each requires a steady, persistent, disciplined approach to the development of a finished product. The novel represents, first, a dream, an idea, a commitment to an envisioned story and set of feelings. Next, there is the physical effort to actually put words down, in order, day after day. There is a continual recheck of the story as it grows, against both the original dream and the possible future, which may appear to change as the story evolves. Re-working, re-writing, pruning, refining, produce a peak, the finished book.
A runner training for a marathon first must pick a race, and envision how he will prepare, and how he wants to perform. Then, there is a steady accretion of progressively longer and sometimes harder runs, leading to the final tapering, or peaking phase, where distances are shortened, and goals are sharpened. The race itself, performed in a social setting, sometimes with 10s of thousands of people, is like a novel’s public appearance. Then comes the changing understanding of the novelist’s words and story, once it leaves his home and is seen buy others.
“Most of what I know about writing I’ve learned through running every day. These are practical, physical lessons. How much can I push myself? How much rest is appropriate – and how much is too much? How far can I take something and still keep it decent and appropriate? When does it become narrow-minded and inflexible? How much should I be aware of the world outside, and how much should I focus on my inner world? To what extent should I be confident in my abilities, and when should I start doubting myself?”
As a successful runner/triathlete who is trying to improve his writing, I know deeply how those questions apply to me as an athlete. I want to also use them to become a better writer. The route from athlete to writer seems much easier now with Murakami as a guide.
While Murakami includes a sparse outline of his life, similar to a tree in winter attempting to represent its fullness six months later, he reserves most of his musings for the act of running, and how it contours his life. The primary narrative flow is a four month preparation for the New York Marathon in the fall of 2005. He reaches back to other marathons and longer distance races, forward to the Boston Marathon of 2006, and outward to some dabbling in triathlon.
One of his flashbacks is to a 100 km (62 mile) event at Lake Saroma, Hokkaido, Japan, in June, 1996. This event takes him over 11 hours to complete, the time I have often spent finishing an Ironman. His description of his experience towards the end of the race – the last 15 miles/3 hours – captures with precise lyricism the experience of all those who endure an day-long event like that.
“… I didn’t have to think anymore. Or, more precisely, I didn’t have to think about not thinking. … at this point, being tired wasn’t a big issue. By this time, exhaustion was the status quo. … I realized all of a sudden that physical pain had vanished. Or maybe it was shoved into some unseen corner, like some ugly furniture you can’t get rid of. In this state, after I’d “passed through” this unseen barrier, I started passing a lot of other runners…. I was in the midst of a deep exhaustion that I’d accepted, and the reality was that I was still able to continue running, and for me there was nothing more I could ask of the world.”
While he probably has a deep understanding of physiology and training principles, he assumes his reader has little interest in the mechanics of event preparation. Instead, he emphasizes how running makes him feel, and how he obsesses over barriers and successes on his path. He appears to have a time goal for his marathon, of about 3 hours and 45 minutes. But he also seems quite diffident about the value of setting such goals, and sees little meaning in reaching it.
Nonetheless, he finds fulfillment in the lack of meaning. He seems a very humble runner, intent primarily on finishing his training with nobility, and running every step of the race he trains for. His times or placement, how others view him, are immaterial. Such an attitude has propelled him to the top rank of Japanese fiction. By envisioning a complete work, and polishing it to the limits of his ability, and continuing to write for decades, he has become outwardly successful. But inwardly, he claims to desire none of it – an easy attitude for one in his position, but somewhat suspect. It does acquire validity, though, when expressed through his decidedly middle-of-the pack finishes in marathons and triathlons. In spite of his lack of success in these arenas, he persists. He is, as he says, a long-distance runner.
My own roles, as athlete, and writer, are reversed. An amateur writer, I am a highly successful triathlete, among the best in the country among my age-peers. I claim to strive for the best performance possible, given the amount and quality of training I have endured. I feel that by “merely” paying attention to sufficient training in advance, pacing and nutrition and mental perseverance during the race, that time and place will take care of themselves. But, of course, that’s easy to say for someone who has achieved what I have to say. But, I believe it is true, even if it seems disingenuous. The tricky loss of self while achieving self actualization remains both a necessity and a mystery to me.