What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

Have you ever repeated a daily ritual—say running, writing, or meditating—long enough to discover that it reshapes who you are? In What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Haruki Murakami transforms the endurance and rhythm of long-distance running into a lens through which he explores the act of writing, aging, solitude, and self-understanding. The book is less a manual on fitness and more a philosophical memoir on persistence and identity. Murakami contends that the act of running mirrors the discipline required for writing and for living a meaningful life: pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.

The Philosophy of Motion

For Murakami, running is a daily meditation. He began running seriously in 1982, around the time he decided to quit his bar business and write full-time. Each run became a ritual of cleansing and focus—his way of ordering chaos. He writes, “I run in order to acquire a void.” That void, paradoxically, isn’t emptiness but a space for clarity. He finds that through motion—step by step, breath by breath—he can confront solitude and transform it into insight. This discipline, he argues, runs parallel to the art of writing fiction, which also demands the same patience, rhythm, and acceptance of long-term effort over immediate reward.

Pain Is Inevitable, Suffering Is Optional

One of the most famous lines from the book originates from a marathon runner’s mantra that Murakami adopts: “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.” This simple distinction encapsulates his worldview. Whether in running or writing, every person faces pain—fatigue, mistakes, loss, rejection. But suffering, he says, is the internal negotiation of that pain: choosing how we respond to it. Running taught him that effort and discomfort are constants, and real mastery lies in enduring them without complaint. Like Buddhist philosophy or stoic wisdom, Murakami’s lesson is that transcendence comes from acceptance rather than avoidance.

Running, Writing, and the Long Game

Murakami directly links the physical endurance of long-distance running to the mental endurance of writing. Both are lonely endeavors, with progress measured “mile by mile” or “page by page.” He explains that, for most of his novels—including Norwegian Wood or Kafka on the Shore—his writing routine mimics his running schedule: early mornings of steady work, a fixed rhythm, an unwavering focus. He argues that like marathon pacing, writing demands sustained concentration and perseverance—a quiet commitment that outweighs talent. In this respect, his view recalls other creative endurance writers such as Ernest Hemingway, who stopped writing each day “while he still had something to say.” For Murakami, the ability to maintain steady momentum is the essence of success.

The Mirror of Solitude

Murakami often runs alone, not to escape others, but to confront himself. He admits to being solitary by nature—someone who prefers reading and music to social gatherings. Through running, he cultivates a quiet space where thoughts and memories surface without judgment. He compares his thoughts in motion to “clouds floating in the sky.” They come and go, while the sky—the self—remains unchanged. This solitude allows him to recharge creatively and emotionally, countering the corrosive isolation that artistic work can bring. The run becomes a balanced solitude: introspective, not lonely.

Aging and Acceptance

As Murakami ages, his experience of running changes. Early in his career, he sought improvement—better times, longer distances. Yet eventually he realizes that aging imposes limits that no discipline can erase. His pace slows, his body tires more easily, and he faces what he calls “runner’s blues.” But rather than despair, he learns to accept decline as part of the rhythm of life. He reflects that growing older, like running slower, is a privilege of endurance: “One of the privileges given to those who’ve avoided dying young is the blessed right to grow old.” This insight connects his philosophy of running with acceptance—a recurring theme in his fiction.

Running as a Moral Compass

Ultimately, Murakami’s memoir teaches that the simple, repetitive motion of running can reflect a moral geometry of life. He writes not to persuade anyone to run, but to reveal what running does for him: it anchors his internal compass and keeps him honest. Each mile on the road is an act of discipline and humility, confronting his limitations while strengthening his resolve. Through running—and its metaphors—Murakami explores universal questions: How do we endure pain? How do we live authentically? How do we create beauty through effort? His answer: by committing to the long run, both literally and figuratively, with quiet, sustained effort and a touch of grace.

Murakami’s creative and athletic worlds hinge on routine. He believes that making something meaningful—whether a novel or a life—arises from repeating small, structured habits every day. When he began writing novels, he discovered that his sedentary lifestyle brought weight gain and fatigue, so he began running six miles a day. This daily ritual became inseparable from his writing process. He equates building literary stamina with training the body: one mile, one paragraph, both crafted through persistence rather than bursts of inspiration.

Creating Rhythm and Consistency

Murakami’s days follow strict order: write for three to four hours each morning, run in the afternoon, read and listen to music at night, and sleep early. The rhythm keeps his mental and physical systems aligned. He insists that focus and endurance—two crucial qualities for novelists—are not talents but muscles built by repetition. Running daily reinforces this rhythm; without it, his creativity falters. He sees discipline not as restriction but as freedom—the kind of freedom that comes from mastering one’s time.

Workhorse vs. Racehorse

Murakami humorously calls himself a workhorse rather than a racehorse. In his early days running a jazz club, he worked morning to midnight, learning endurance and persistence. Later, when he became a writer, that same workhorse ethic powered his creative life. He says his strength lies not in artistic brilliance but in the ability to keep moving when others stop. This echoes advice from other endurance thinkers (Steven Pressfield in The War of Art similarly claims that “turning pro” means showing up daily regardless of mood). Murakami’s message: success depends less on inspiration and more on steady labor.

The Power of Prioritization

In middle age, Murakami learned that time and energy must be rationed. He emphasizes prioritizing tasks and cutting distractions. His highest priority is maintaining the lifestyle that allows him to write well. This sometimes means turning down social events or interactions, a stance that has drawn criticism but also allowed him to protect his focus. Like a runner saving energy for the final miles, he conserves his strength for long-term goals. It is not selfishness, but sustainability.

“All I can do is keep those few reasons nicely polished,” Murakami writes about why he continues running despite difficulty. The same applies to creativity—polish what matters and accept the rest will fade.

Murakami repeatedly returns to the concept of pain—not as a tragedy, but as a teacher. In his first marathon in Athens, running from Athens to Marathon under scorching heat, he learns what real endurance means. By mile twenty-three, he feels as if he's driving a car on empty, seething with anger at sheep, photographers, and the sun. Yet he finishes and realizes the marathon mirrors life: pain strips away illusions until only raw will remains.

Pain as a Gateway to Understanding

For Murakami, pain compresses experience into clarity. In running, when he hits physical breaking points, he sees life stripped to its core—a truth he couldn’t access through comfort. This recalls Viktor Frankl’s insight in Man’s Search for Meaning that meaning often emerges through suffering properly confronted. Murakami’s mantra—“Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional”—teaches that pain’s inevitability can become purification if faced directly. In contrast, avoiding pain leads to stagnation.

The Ultramarathon Revelation

In his sixty-two-mile ultramarathon in Hokkaido, Murakami experiences total breakdown—legs rebelling, body screaming, mind dissolving. He fights through phases of despair until at mile forty-seven he “passes through something” and becomes pure motion: no longer human, but machine. “I run; therefore I am,” he concludes. This state mirrors the runner’s flow described by psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi—total absorption where thought and action merge. Murakami’s ultramarathon is both ordeal and enlightenment, revealing the fragility and resilience of identity.

Overcoming Runner’s Blues

After the ultramarathon, he falls into a slump—a “runner’s blues,” where enthusiasm vanishes. This mirrors the creative exhaustion artists feel after intense output. He slowly regains joy through acceptance and lighter training, realizing that renewal requires rest and patience. The blues aren’t failure but adaptation—the body and mind recalibrating after pushing limits. Murakami’s story reassures you that recovery is part of endurance itself.

Running is a solitary act, and for Murakami, it becomes both solace and mirror. He describes himself as someone who has always enjoyed being alone—an introverted temperament that aligns naturally with writing and long-distance running. But solitude can corrode creativity through isolation, so he uses motion to balance it. When he runs, he connects with the rhythm of the world without needing to interact with anyone.

Solitude as Creative Fuel

Murakami argues that solitude, when chosen, is empowering. It allows reflection without distraction. He writes alone for hours and runs alone daily, using these spaces to process emotion and preserve mental clarity. He compares the emptiness of the running mind to a sky where thoughts drift like clouds—impermanent yet revealing. This mindful solitude nurtures creativity instead of draining it (reminiscent of Anne Lamott’s belief that “writing is a lonely but generous act”).

Resistance and Independence

Murakami admits his independence comes at social cost: “Most people wouldn’t like my personality.” Yet being unliked doesn’t deter him; it reinforces individuality. Both writing and running demand internal validation, not external applause. He equates competition in art with racing against one’s former self. “In long-distance running, the only opponent you have to beat is yourself, the way you used to be.” This internal orientation fosters integrity, creativity, and calm acceptance of misunderstanding.

Solitude as Healing

When criticized or misunderstood, Murakami runs longer distances, directing anger inward to strengthen himself. He transforms emotional pain into physical release—a healthy conversion of energy. His solitude becomes resilience, shielding against bitterness. He likens it to running through wind or rain: external conditions don’t matter as long as one keeps moving. This metaphor teaches us that isolation, properly harnessed, can be both sanctuary and forge.

Murakami confronts aging not as decline but as a philosophical milestone. As he moves through his fifties, his marathon times slow and recovery takes longer. At first, this frustrates him. He calls this transition his runner’s plateau. But slowly, he learns that maturity means redefining what counts as achievement. It’s no longer about records, but about endurance, consistency, and dignity.

Embracing the Natural Order

Murakami writes, “Growing older and slowing down are just part of the natural scenery.” He accepts that time, like a river, flows steadily, and all he can do is run with its current. This recognition transforms his attitude toward performance. Instead of pursuing times, he pursues fulfillment. He shifts from numerical goals to existential ones: finishing with joy, feeling connection, maintaining courage. Races become celebrations of survival rather than contests of speed.

Resignation and Renewal

Murakami’s acceptance doesn’t mean giving up. He adjusts expectations and finds new rhythms that suit his body. In the New York Marathon at age fifty-seven, he faces cramps and misses his goal time, yet he finishes with grace. Later, the Boston Marathon repeats the frustration. But by redirecting purpose—from competing to experiencing—he rediscovers peace. “What matters is how much I can enjoy myself.” This evolution models emotional adaptability: embracing imperfection without losing commitment.

The Privilege of Continuity

He concludes that longevity itself is triumph. To keep running, writing, and living—without burning out or quitting—is victory. The body, like the creative spirit, eventually slows down, but both thrive through care. “One of the privileges given to those who’ve avoided dying young,” he reflects, “is the blessed right to grow old.” His acceptance of time aligns with the Buddhist notion of impermanence—honoring transience as truth rather than tragedy.

Murakami insists he learned “most of what I know about writing fiction by running every day.” Running taught him how to manage pacing, rhythm, and stamina—skills that transfer directly to storytelling. Like training muscles through repetition, he trains sentences through daily use. His parallel between running and writing becomes a toolkit for creative life.

Focus, Endurance, and Talent

According to Murakami, the three essential qualities for a novelist are talent, focus, and endurance. Talent is a given—fuel for the creative engine—but focus and endurance are developed through effort. Writing requires sustained concentration over months or years, like holding breath while still breathing slowly. These qualities, he argues, are trainable: like muscles, they grow with consistent practice. His writing schedule mirrors his running discipline to strengthen these faculties.

Writing as Physical Labor

Murakami calls writing manual labor—"grueling, dynamic work going on inside you.” He compares the writer’s body to a machine expending physical energy to think vividly. This embodies his belief that intellect depends on physical vitality. A healthy body forms a strong immune system against the mental toxins of creative isolation. Running isn’t escapism—it maintains the foundation that allows imagination to thrive.

Health and Creativity

Murakami refutes the stereotype of the self-destructive writer. He insists that to handle unhealthy subjects in art, one must be physically healthy. “An unhealthy soul requires a healthy body.” By running, he builds immunity to despair and burnout. This balance lets him face darkness in his novels without surrendering to it. His approach echoes contemporary psychologists like Anders Ericsson’s principle of deliberate practice—regular, sustained effort beats chaotic intensity.

Throughout the memoir, running evolves from exercise into a spiritual discipline. It becomes Murakami’s meditation: a repetitive motion yielding clarity, humility, and perspective. He respects its simplicity—no teams, no complex equipment, just shoes and a road. Each run is both physical and metaphysical, an act that unites body and mind in steady rhythm.

The Ritual of Effort

Just as monks repeat chants or bow in ritual, Murakami repeats strides and breaths. These motions become mindfulness in motion. He does not seek transcendence through ecstasy but through repetition—what he calls “exerting oneself to the fullest within one’s limits.” This practice the Buddhists might see as samadhi: disciplined unity between self and activity.

Finding Meaning in Effort

Through running, Murakami cultivates gratitude and perspective. He acknowledges he isn’t the fastest or the best, but that doesn’t matter. Merit lies in sincerity of effort. Finishing a race honestly—without shortcuts or excuses—is moral beauty in his worldview. “Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional” becomes a code of ethics: hardship accepted gracefully defines character. In this way, running serves as his spiritual training for art and for living.

Movement as Meditation

When Murakami runs through Kauai or along the Charles River, he becomes absorbed in surroundings—the trade winds, eucalyptus leaves, jazz rhythm. These sensory moments—mundane yet sacred—mirror meditation’s awareness of the present. He teaches that you can find spiritual steadiness not in withdrawal but in movement, turning each stride into contemplation.

The book culminates in the metaphor that defines Murakami’s worldview: life itself is a marathon. From his first Athens race to the New York and Boston marathons, he discovers that success isn’t winning but enduring. He wants his epitaph to read, “Haruki Murakami, Writer (and Runner)—at least he never walked.” That phrase captures his creed: stay the course, whatever the pace.

The Long Journey

Murakami’s races across the world—from Honolulu to Hokkaido—become allegories for creative and emotional life. Each run mirrors the phases of writing a book: excitement at the start, exhaustion in the middle, and reflective completion at the end. From each finish line, he extracts one concrete lesson, something tangible he can carry forward. This makes the marathon not goal but process—the continual act of moving forward defining existence.

Effort Versus Outcome

Murakami argues that numbers—speed, rank, sales—are secondary. For him, what truly matters is finishing “under one’s own power.” The dignity of effort outweighs measurable results. This principle echoes throughout his writing life: he never aims to be “Japan’s best novelist” but to write each novel sincerely. Effort itself becomes virtue, mirroring Aristotle’s idea that excellence is habit, not act.

Endurance as Legacy

Murakami’s dream epitaph embodies his philosophy: integrity through perseverance. “At least he never walked” signifies steadfastness amid difficulty—a quiet pride that he kept going even when tired or doubted. For readers, this lesson converts into a personal compass: life’s value lies in showing up each day, respecting limits, and continuing the run.