What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

In the heat of a Greek summer, as sweat dripped onto ancient roads and salt crystals formed on weathered skin, a profound transformation was taking place. This wasn't just about covering twenty-six miles from Athens to Marathon—it was about discovering the rhythms that would define a life's work. The man pushing forward through that blazing afternoon would become one of the world's most celebrated novelists, but in that moment, he was simply learning what it meant to endure.

Haruki Murakami's journey reveals the unexpected intersection between physical discipline and creative expression. Through decades of daily runs along rivers in Cambridge, through the forests of Japan, and across bridges spanning New York's boroughs, we witness how the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other became the foundation for literary excellence. His story illuminates the profound relationship between body and mind, showing us how consistent physical practice shapes not only our stamina but our capacity for sustained creative work. From this unique perspective, we discover insights about dedication, the nature of personal limits, and the quiet courage required to pursue any meaningful endeavor over the long haul.

The transformation began in the most unlikely of places—behind the counter of a small jazz club near Tokyo's Kokubunji Station. For seven years, Murakami lived the exhausting rhythm of an entrepreneur, working from dawn until the early hours, mixing cocktails, managing staff, and hosting live performances. His hands were stained with coffee grounds and cigarette smoke, his schedule dictated by the demands of customers who expected friendly service regardless of his own fatigue. Most observers predicted failure, convinced that a naive young man without business instincts couldn't sustain such an operation.

Yet this grueling apprenticeship in the real world proved invaluable. The jazz club taught him about human nature, about the discipline required to maintain quality under pressure, and about the patient work of building something meaningful from nothing. Every night brought different challenges—difficult customers, equipment failures, the constant calculations needed to stay financially afloat. These weren't the romantic struggles of an artist in a garret, but the practical problems of someone determined to survive and succeed in an unforgiving marketplace.

The pivotal moment came on April 1, 1978, during a baseball game at Jingu Stadium. As Dave Hilton's bat connected with the ball in a perfect arc toward left field, something crystallized in Murakami's mind: he could write a novel. The thought arrived not as a burst of inspiration but as a quiet conviction, solid and unmistakable as the crack of the bat itself. That evening, he bought manuscript paper and a fountain pen, beginning what would become a double life—businessman by day, writer by night.

For three more years, he maintained this exhausting schedule, writing at his kitchen table after closing the club, often continuing until dawn broke over Tokyo. His first novel won a new writer's prize, but success brought its own dilemma. The safe path would have been to continue running the profitable club while writing as a hobby. Instead, Murakami made a choice that revealed his fundamental character: he sold the business and committed completely to the uncertain life of a professional writer.

This decision reflected a core principle that would guide him throughout his career—the refusal to do anything halfheartedly. He understood that meaningful achievement requires total commitment, that divided attention leads to mediocre results. The young man who had survived in the competitive world of Tokyo nightlife was about to discover that the discipline learned there would serve him well in the equally demanding realm of literary creation.

The transition from active business owner to sedentary writer brought unexpected challenges that would reshape Murakami's approach to his craft. After years of physical labor—lifting cases of beer, standing for hours behind the bar, constantly moving through the cramped club—the sudden shift to spending entire days at a desk proved shocking to his system. His body, accustomed to regular activity, began to rebel against the writer's typically sedentary lifestyle. Weight crept on, energy levels plummeted, and the sixty cigarettes he smoked daily while concentrating on his work left him feeling increasingly unhealthy.

The solution emerged not from any grand fitness philosophy but from practical necessity. Living in rural Chiba Prefecture, far from Tokyo's fitness facilities and tennis courts, Murakami found himself with limited options for exercise. Running required no partners, no reservations, no equipment beyond a decent pair of shoes. The roads were there, maintained by the nearby Self-Defense Force base, and early mornings offered a window of time before the day's writing began. What started as a simple attempt to maintain his health gradually evolved into something far more significant.

Those first tentative runs were humbling affairs—twenty minutes left him gasping, his heart pounding, his legs unsteady with exhaustion. The embarrassment of being seen by neighbors gave way to determination as his body slowly adapted to this new demand. Each day brought small improvements: a few more minutes before fatigue set in, a slightly faster pace, a growing sense of confidence in his physical capabilities. The discipline required to lace up his shoes each morning, regardless of weather or motivation, began to mirror the consistency needed for daily writing.

More profound than the physical changes was the mental transformation that accompanied his running practice. The rhythm of footfalls and breathing created a meditative state that proved remarkably conducive to creative work. Problems that seemed intractable at his desk often resolved themselves during runs, as if the physical motion unlocked mental pathways that remained closed during static thinking. The endurance required for long runs translated directly into the stamina needed for sustained writing projects.

By the time he completed his breakthrough novel "A Wild Sheep Chase," Murakami had discovered something crucial: the writer's life required the same kind of systematic physical preparation as any other demanding profession. The romantic image of the tortured artist, burning through genius on nervous energy alone, struck him as both unrealistic and unsustainable. If he wanted a long career producing significant work, he would need the kind of robust health that only consistent physical training could provide.

The logical progression from daily running to marathon racing reflected Murakami's characteristic thoroughness in any pursuit he deemed worthwhile. That first official marathon—following his private run from Athens to Marathon in the brutal Greek summer—established a pattern that would persist for decades: one marathon per year, each approached with meticulous preparation and treated as both athletic challenge and personal ritual. The Honolulu Marathon became his regular destination, offering ideal winter training conditions and a course that perfectly matched his preferred running weather.

Each marathon destination brought unique challenges that extended far beyond the 26.2-mile distance. The Boston Marathon's notorious Heartbreak Hill tested not just leg strength but strategic pacing over rolling terrain. The New York City Marathon's bridge climbs demanded different muscles and mental approaches than the flat coastal routes where he typically trained. These varied courses taught him to adapt his preparation to specific demands, a flexibility that proved invaluable in his writing career as well.

The international nature of major marathons exposed him to running cultures from around the world, each with distinct approaches to training, racing, and the role of endurance sports in daily life. Japanese runners brought a particular intensity and attention to technical details. American participants often emphasized enjoyment and personal achievement over pure performance. European athletes displayed a casual competence that suggested lifelong integration of running into their broader lifestyle. These cultural variations enriched his understanding of how different societies approached the challenge of sustained effort.

Training schedules organized around annual marathons provided structure for entire years of his life. Summer months meant building base mileage in warm weather. Fall brought the specific preparation for race day—tempo runs, long slow distances, careful attention to nutrition and recovery. Winter offered either the reward of race completion or the temporary rest before the next training cycle began. This rhythm created a reliable framework within which his writing projects could develop and mature.

The marathon experience itself—the peculiar combination of crowd energy and personal solitude, the physical negotiations with fatigue and discomfort, the mental discipline required to maintain pace over such distance—became a laboratory for exploring themes that enriched his fiction. The relationship between individual will and circumstance, the ways people respond to self-imposed challenges, the strange community formed among those pursuing difficult goals—all of these observations flowed from marathon courses into the pages of his novels.

The sixty-two-mile ultramarathon at Lake Saroma represented both a pinnacle of achievement and a profound psychological reckoning that would influence Murakami's running for years to come. The race itself unfolded like a compressed version of life's challenges: early confidence giving way to unexpected obstacles, the gradual revelation of limits previously unknown, and ultimately a transcendent experience that defied easy categorization. For the first twenty-six miles, he felt strong and controlled, running within himself as the familiar landscape of Hokkaido unfolded around him.

The terra incognita beyond marathon distance brought revelations that no amount of training could have prepared him for. His body began a systematic rebellion—muscles tightening like old rubber, different areas taking turns to voice their complaints in an orchestra of discomfort. The mental game became crucial as he negotiated with each protesting body part, sometimes pleading, sometimes commanding, always searching for the combination of encouragement and discipline that would keep him moving forward. Around mile forty-seven, something shifted fundamentally, as if he had passed through an invisible barrier into a different state of consciousness.

In this transformed state, the distinction between self and activity seemed to dissolve. He became less a person choosing to run than a running entity that happened to contain consciousness. The effort continued, but the struggle against effort ceased. Miles passed in a trance-like state where the physical act of running felt as natural and automatic as breathing. He passed other competitors not through increased effort but through a kind of mechanical persistence that required no conscious decision-making. The finish line appeared almost as an interruption to a process that could have continued indefinitely.

The aftermath of this achievement brought unexpected complications that Murakami came to call "runner's blues." Despite the satisfaction of completing such a demanding challenge, a peculiar flatness settled over his running in the months that followed. The simple joy he had always found in daily runs seemed muted, covered by what he described as a thin, milky film. His motivation remained intact intellectually, but the emotional connection to running—the pure pleasure that had sustained him through decades of consistent training—had been somehow altered by the intensity of the ultramarathon experience.

This period of diminished enthusiasm forced him to confront fundamental questions about the relationship between challenge and satisfaction, between achievement and contentment. Perhaps some experiences are so complete in themselves that they create a temporary void rather than the expected sense of accomplishment. The runner's blues became a kind of philosophical laboratory, a chance to examine what truly motivated his continued engagement with endurance sports and, by extension, with the sustained effort required for any meaningful long-term pursuit.

The transition from single-sport focus to triathlon represented Murakami's response to both physical necessity and psychological renewal. As marathon times began their inevitable decline with age, the three-discipline challenge offered fresh goals and different measures of progress. Swimming demanded technical refinement of self-taught strokes, cycling required mechanical knowledge and tactical skills, while running became just one element in a complex athletic equation. This diversification protected against the staleness that can afflict any long-term pursuit.

The swimming portion proved most problematic, revealing how past traumas could unconsciously undermine performance years later. A mysterious inability to breathe properly during race conditions—despite smooth pool training—eventually traced to hyperventilation caused by pre-race nerves. The solution required not just technical coaching but psychological detective work to identify and address the root causes of his panic. Working with a patient instructor who understood both the physical mechanics and mental challenges of adult swimmers, he gradually rebuilt his stroke and his confidence.

Cycling brought different challenges entirely, demanding attention to equipment, road safety, and tactical positioning that running never required. The specialized gear, the vulnerability to mechanical problems, the need to maintain high speeds while navigating traffic—all of this pushed him well outside his comfort zone. Training rides along the Japanese coast became exercises in managed risk, where small mistakes in judgment or technique could result in serious injury. Yet mastering these skills opened up new dimensions of athletic experience.

The transitions between disciplines—from swimming to cycling to running—created their own unique physiological and mental demands. Bodies trained for one type of movement had to instantly adapt to completely different muscle patterns and coordination requirements. The disorientation was intense, like being asked to switch languages mid-sentence or change musical instruments in the middle of a performance. Success required not just fitness in each individual sport but a kind of athletic flexibility that could accommodate rapid shifts in physical requirements.

Triathlon training also necessitated a more sophisticated approach to time management and life balance. The volume of preparation required for three sports could easily overwhelm other commitments if not carefully structured. This challenge forced him to become even more efficient in his writing schedule, more selective about social obligations, and more strategic about energy allocation. The result was not just better athletic performance but a more intentional approach to living that eliminated unnecessary activities and focused attention on what truly mattered.

Haruki Murakami's journey from jazz club owner to celebrated novelist, told through the lens of his running life, reveals that sustained excellence in any field requires the same fundamental qualities: consistent daily practice, physical and mental endurance, and the courage to commit fully to long-term goals. His story demonstrates that the discipline learned in one arena—whether it's maintaining a business, training for marathons, or writing novels—transfers to all areas of life, creating a foundation for achievement that transcends any single pursuit.

The insights from his decades of running offer practical wisdom for anyone seeking to maintain high performance over time. The importance of establishing sustainable routines, the value of incremental progress over dramatic gestures, and the necessity of adapting goals to changing circumstances all emerge as universal principles. His example suggests that the secret to longevity in demanding fields lies not in brilliant bursts of activity but in the patient accumulation of consistent effort, day after day, year after year. For readers seeking to understand how extraordinary achievement develops from ordinary dedication, Murakami's story provides both inspiration and a practical roadmap for the long journey ahead.