that I had a lot of devoted readers, the one-in-ten repeaters, most of whom were young. They would
wait patiently for my next book to appear and grab it and read it as soon as it hit the bookstores. This
sort of pattern gradually taking shape was, for me, the ideal, or at least a very comfortable, situation.
There’s no need to be literature’s top runner. I went on writing the kind of things I wanted to write,
exactly the way I wanted to write them, and if that allowed me to make a normal living, then I
couldn’t ask for more. When Norwegian Wood sold way more than anticipated, the comfortable
position I had was forced to change a bit, but this was quite a bit later.
When I first started running I couldn’t run long distances. I could only run for about twenty minutes,
or thirty. That much left me panting, my heart pounding, my legs shaky. It was to be expected, though,
since I hadn’t really exercised for a long time. At first, I was also a little embarrassed to have people
in the neighborhood see me running—the same feeling I had upon first seeing the title novelist put in
parentheses after my name. But as I continued to run, my body started to accept the fact that it was
running, and I could gradually increase the distance. I was starting to acquire a runner’s form, my
breathing became more regular, and my pulse settled down. The main thing was not the speed or
distance so much as running every day, without taking a break.
So, like my three meals a day—along with sleeping, housework, and work—running was
incorporated into my daily routine. As it became a natural habit, I felt less embarrassed about it. I
went to a sports store and purchased running gear and some decent shoes that suited my purpose. I
bought a stopwatch, too, and read a beginners’ book on running. This is how you become a runner.
Looking back now, I think the most fortunate thing is that I was born with a strong, healthy body.
This has made it possible for me to run on a daily basis for almost a quarter century, competing in a
number of races along the way. I’ve never had a time when my legs hurt so much I couldn’t run. I
don’t really stretch much before running, but I’ve never been injured, never been hurt, and haven’t
been sick once. I’m no great runner, but I’m definitely a strong runner. That’s one of the very few
gifts I can be proud of.
The year 1983 rolled around, and I participated for the first time in my life in a road race. It wasn’t
very long—a 5K—but for the first time I had a number pinned to me, was in a large group of other
runners, and heard the official shout out, “On your mark, get set, go!” Afterward I thought, Hey, that
wasn’t so bad! In May I was in a 15K race around Lake Yamanaka, and in June, wanting to test how
far I could run, I did laps around the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. I went around seven times, for a total
of 22.4 miles, at a fairly decent pace, and didn’t feel it was that hard. My legs didn’t hurt at all. Maybe
I could actually run a marathon, I concluded. It was only later that I found out the hard way that the
toughest part of a marathon comes after twenty-two miles.
When I look at photos of me taken back then, it’s obvious I didn’t yet have a runner’s physique. I
hadn’t run enough, hadn’t built up the requisite muscles, and my arms were too thin, my legs too
skinny. I’m impressed I could run a marathon with a body like that. When you compare me in these
photos to the way I am now, they make me look like a completely different person. After years of
running, my musculature has changed completely. But even then I could feel physical changes