Haruki Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running is not just a memoir about running—it is an introspective journey into the nature of perseverance, aging, and mental resilience. In this section, Murakami explores the lessons he learned from pushing his limits, particularly through long-distance races and ultra-marathons. He also grapples with the inevitable effects of aging and how it has changed his approach to both running and writing.
At its core, this section of the book is about how to keep moving forward when the body begins to slow down, when past achievements start to feel like distant memories, and when the simple act of continuing requires more effort than ever before.
Most people will never run a full marathon, let alone push their bodies to complete a race that is more than twice that length. But Murakami, always seeking new challenges, decided to test himself by participating in a 100-kilometer (62-mile) ultra-marathon at Lake Saroma in Hokkaido, Japan.
“Have you ever run 62 miles in a single day? The vast majority of people (those who are sane, I should say) have never had that experience.”
This was not just another race; it was an extreme test of endurance, one that took Murakami well beyond anything he had previously experienced.
The first half of the race went smoothly. He paced himself well, felt strong, and remained optimistic. But as he passed the marathon mark (26.2 miles) and entered the unknown territory of ultra-running, his body began to protest. The pain and exhaustion became overwhelming. His muscles, unaccustomed to such a distance, started shutting down one by one.
“Different parts of my body, one after another, began to hurt. First my right thigh, then my left knee, then my calves, then my shoulders. Each part took its turn complaining, like a jury of exhausted muscles deliberating over whether I should continue.”
At mile 34, he paused at a rest station, changed into fresh clothes, stretched, and ate a small meal. He felt momentarily refreshed, but as soon as he resumed running, something was different. His body no longer responded as it should. His muscles felt stiff, and his legs refused to move the way he wanted them to.
“I still had the desire to run, but my legs had a mind of their own.”
The mental battle had begun.
The next phase of the race was sheer torture. Murakami likens his experience to being a machine running on autopilot. He had to shut down his emotions, ignore the pain, and simply keep moving forward.
“I’m not a human. I’m a piece of machinery. I don’t need to feel a thing. Just forge ahead.”
He repeated this mantra over and over, convincing himself that he could continue as long as he didn’t allow his thoughts to betray him. It was no longer about running with joy or finding fulfillment in the race—it was about pure survival.
At mile 47, something remarkable happened. After hours of pain and struggle, he suddenly broke through a mental barrier. He describes it as stepping through an invisible wall, reaching a state where he was no longer conscious of his suffering.
“I passed through something. I don’t know what it was, but I was on the other side of it.”
At this point, exhaustion was no longer an obstacle—it had simply become part of the experience. He kept running, mile after mile, no longer counting the distance or the time.
As he finally approached the finish line, the usual rush of triumph was missing. He felt no great sense of accomplishment, no overwhelming relief. Instead, there was simply a quiet realization: he had done it. He had endured.
“The end of the race was just another marker in time, another milestone in a long journey. Nothing more, nothing less.”
After completing the race in 11 hours and 42 minutes, he sat down for the first time in half a day. His muscles were wrecked, his mind exhausted, but he had proven something to himself. He didn’t know exactly what that was, but it had changed him.
Surprisingly, rather than feeling elated or empowered, Murakami found himself slipping into a deep, prolonged sense of exhaustion after the ultra-marathon. He called this sensation "runner’s blues."
“Instead of feeling energized by the experience, I felt like something inside me had been used up.”
For months after the race, he struggled with motivation. Running no longer brought him the same joy. He was tired, not just physically but mentally. He wondered if he had pushed himself too far.
This was a crucial turning point. He had always seen running as a source of energy, but now it had become a drain. He was forced to reconsider his relationship with the sport that had been such a defining part of his life.
“Had I crossed a line? Had I pushed too hard? Or was this simply a phase I needed to work through?”
He slowly returned to his daily runs but at a different pace. Instead of chasing faster times or longer distances, he focused on enjoying the process. He accepted that he was no longer as fast as he used to be and learned to find satisfaction in simply moving.
One of the most profound themes in this section is the reality of aging. Murakami acknowledges that he is no longer the runner he was in his thirties. His times have worsened, his recovery takes longer, and his body protests in ways it never did before.
“No matter how much I train, no matter how much I push myself, I will never again be as fast as I once was.”
Yet, he refuses to see this as a defeat. Instead, he reframes aging as an opportunity to shift perspectives. If he cannot run as fast, he can still run smartly. If he cannot run for as long, he can still run consistently.
“Aging is something we all must face, but how we face it is up to us.”
Murakami has always been more focused on personal progress than competition. His goal is not to beat others but to maintain his own discipline, to keep moving forward even when his body resists.
On overcoming mental barriers:
“Once you push past a certain point, the exhaustion doesn’t disappear—it just becomes part of the experience.”
On enduring pain:
“The most important aspect of running is not speed but the ability to keep going, to never give up.”
On self-competition:
“The only opponent I need to defeat is the version of myself who was slower yesterday.”
On aging:
“Just because I can’t run as fast doesn’t mean I can’t still be a runner.”