Why did it take me so long to read this delightful little book? Perhaps because while I admire Murakami’s fiction, I don’t really like it. This book has a certain oddness to it, it is so straight forward, filled with such short, careful, deliberative, sentences that it puts one into almost a dream state. It’s wonderful and, perhaps better than any other book I’ve read represents the solace that is to be found in a regular running practice.
Murakami reflects on his entry into running, his racing successes, and failures, and his drive to continue to try to do just a little bit better (keeping in mind that “better” changes as we age).
I started this about two months into the pandemic, when I was running everyday, and Murakami’s ups and downs, injuries and triumphs, and consistent, consistent, mileage resonated with the daily run existence I was living. Somehow, I need to get back there.