The Reflections of A Bestselling Novelist and Marathon Runner

In certain literary circles, it’s cool to breathlessly declare: “I love Murakami.” What you really mean, as a reader, is that you love the Japanese author’s surreal, dark, sort-of noir novels. Maybe you’ve read just one, or maybe you’re a devoted fan and you’ve devoured all his works, or maybe you have sheepishly read none, but it’s still cool to belong to that tribe. For instance, at a particular lecture at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), when Murakami was asked to address students, the organizers expected about 450 listeners. Instead the hall was packed with 1,700 or more.

Such a cultish following is visible on many American campuses (interestingly, more so in America than in Japan), and perhaps, Murakami is as fascinated by the phenomenon as anyone else. So while penning this article, I must cagily admit that I’m not someone who can honestly declare that “I love Murakami.” Maybe magical realism doesn’t really appeal to me, though I was completely gripped by Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children during a first read. Or maybe, Murakami’s characters are too gloomy, too suicidal, seething with an inner violence, displaying flashes of malice that can be compelling, except when it’s overdone. Or maybe, I just need to read his books again.

Nonetheless, I can, after reading his semi-memoir, essayish journal on marathon running candidly declare that I do admire Haruki Murakami. Not just as a writer, but also as an intensely attentive human being; someone who is keenly observant of the world around him and of nuanced shifts inside himself.  Though I’m not a runner, I walk and swim as obsessively as he runs. And I can relate to many of his everyday impulses and urges. And of the sense he has about what running has become for him: “No matter how mundane some action might appear, keep at it long enough and it becomes a contemplative, even meditative act.”

While this book can specially appeal to marathon runners and novelists, it has insights for anyone undertaking anything long, grueling and personally torturous in parts. The following are some of my takeaways:

A Disciplined Lifestyle Is Key to Novel Writing and Running

In his 20s, Murakami wasn’t a writer. He ran his own jazz club, where he worked long hours, mixing drinks and serving customers. Of course, such a business engendered unhealthy habits: smoking, drinking, eating unhealthy foods. One leisurely day, while watching a baseball game with his head resting on pillowy grass, a thought occurred to him: “And pretty much out of the blue I got the idea to write a novel.” Such thoughts occur to many people. Most don’t follow it through. Murakami did, and to what effect. His first book, Hear the Wind Sing, won a literary prize. Later, Norwegian Wood sold millions of copies.

But since he has taken to writing fulltime, he lives like a hermit. He sleeps early and rises early, and is careful with his eating, in order to keep up with his marathons. As much as he is an icon in the cool set, his lifestyle is brazenly uncool.

Compete Against Yourself More Than You Compete With Others

Murakami has run steadily for more than 23 years. He has also been a triathlon participant. And during his marathons and triathlons, he is tempted like many of us would be, to race against others. Perhaps that is partially the appeal of marathons: you run in a group, so you goad each other to run faster or not give up. But more than racing past others, which he no doubt relishes, Murakami has always been conscious about beating or keeping up with his own past race times.

This outlook is in synch with the profession he’s chosen. “In the novelist’s profession, as far as I’m concerned, there’s no such thing as winning or losing.”

Break Off From Work or Exercise Before You Deplete Your Motivational Reserves         

This is an insight about himself that Murakami uses both with running and with writing novels. He stops running before he is too exhausted, and at a point when he still feels like he could run a bit more. He does the same with his writing. Even if he still has threads he would like to explore, or a raring-to-be-told narrative energy throbbing across his fingers, he stops writing. He stops, in other words, when the juices are flowing. This is to ensure that he feels energized about returning the next day.

Persist Despite Emotionally-Draining and Unforeseen Setbacks

Despite training, despite setting oneself up to complete a particular run inside an expected time limit, one can perform below one’s potential. During a period, when he was drawn to triathlons, he expected to cross the swimming section fairly competently. After all, he had grown up near an ocean, and had been swimming inside seas since childhood. While he was conscious that he did not have the best technique or form, he was confident about crawling across waves and currents, with relative ease. Besides, he had also competed in six triathlons in the past. Despite all this, in 2000, he found he just couldn’t swim at all. “It wasn’t at all clear to me why I couldn’t swim. I mulled over various possibilities in my mind, and as I did so my confidence took a nosedive.” Essentially, his fear overtook his ability to perform.

But he wasn’t one to give up on himself easily: “If there’s something I can’t do, but want to, I won’t relax until I’m able to do it.” After failing to complete the race, he started tackling his technique, an aspect of his swimming he hadn’t heeded till then. He hired coaches, but some of their suggestions made it worse. He also appreciated how difficult the transmission of techniques can be: “It’s difficult to teach how to write novels (at least I know I couldn’t), but teaching swimming is just as hard.”

Eventually a particular woman coach helped. She pointed out his weakness. Despite exuding an outer confidence, he tended to hyperventilate before a race. This wrecked his breathing rhythm. He needed to consciously reduce his intake of oxygen before an event. Till then he had never thought of himself as a panicky person. But he realized his own body and mind were susceptible to ongoing and even surprising changes: “It doesn’t matter how old I get, but as long as I continue to live I’ll always discover something new about myself.” He conquered the swim at a future triathlon.

Relishing Solitude To Fuel Creativity

Many writers are asked: “But how do you put up with being alone?” But perhaps, wanting to be alone or in solitude drives people into writing in the first place. As Murakami confirms: “I’m the kind of person who likes to be by himself.” But even for non-writers, retaining one’s originality, in the face of other opinions or voices, requires spending time with oneself. He realizes such hankering for isolation comes at a cost. Many people do not like him, as a result: “I just can’t picture someone liking me at a personal level…”

Thinking While Running

Given Murakami’s writerly success, many readers and fans assume that he magically receives snatches of his novels, during his runs. He quickly dispels such notions. He admits that his own thoughts, during running, are as jumbled as any other runner’s. But what he does relish, while running, is the sense of evanescence. Since his body is being pushed to its physical limits, thoughts skid by or rapidly evaporate, leaving him occasionally with a relieving blankness. He also uses running to regulate his emotions, sometimes consciously transmuting his anger or frustration into lines in a story or novel.

Be Cognizant of And Tolerant of Changes that Accompany Aging

It doesn’t help that we all reside in cultures that fetishize youthfulness. For someone who was always deeply attuned to changes in his own body, Murakami realized he had been in denial about changes wrought by aging. Because, after he had reached his peak running performance in his late 40s, his marathon timings started slipping. His body, despite his relentless training, his everyday workouts and stretches, was succumbing to time. At first, he was in denial. He didn’t think the slowing down was caused by age. “But no matter, how much I might deny it or try to ignore it, the numbers were retreating, step by step.” He needed to accept that he could no longer complete his marathons at 3.5 hours, but might take 4 hours or more. Such acceptance was easier in theory than in practice. He experienced what he calls “runner’s blues,” an inability to rouse up the motivation to run.

To distract himself and take his eye off the falling stats, he switched for some time to other activities: like triathlons, and squash. He returned to running, later on, with renewed energy and tolerance.

References

Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Alfred A. Knopf, 2008