If I continue to overwork my muscles, she warns, sooner or later something’s going to give. She
might be right. But I also have a feeling—a hope—that she isn’t, because I’ve been pushing my
muscles to the limits like this for a long time. Whenever I focus on training, my muscles get tight.
When I put on my jogging shoes in the morning and set out, my feet are so heavy it feels like I’ll
never get them moving. I start running down the road, slowly, almost dragging my feet. An old lady
from the neighborhood is walking quickly down the street, and I can’t even pass her. But as I keep on
running, my muscles gradually loosen up, and after about twenty minutes I’m able to run normally. I
start to speed up. After this I can run mechanically, without any problem.
In other words, my muscles are the type that need a long time to warm up. They’re slow to get
started. But once they’re warmed up they can keep working well for a long time with no strain.
They’re the kind of muscles you need for long distances, but aren’t at all suited for short distances. In
a short-distance event, by the time my engine started to rev up the race would already be over. I don’t
know any technical details about the characteristics of this type of muscle, but I imagine it’s mostly
innate. And I feel that this type of muscle is connected to the way my mind works. What I mean is, a
person’s mind is controlled by his body, right? Or is it the opposite—the way your mind works
influences the structure of the body? Or do the body and mind closely influence each other and act on
each other? What I do know is that people have certain inborn tendencies, and whether a person likes
them or not, they’re inescapable. Tendencies can be adjusted, to a degree, but their essence can never
be changed.
The same goes for the heart. My pulse is generally around fifty beats per minute, which I think is
pretty slow. (By the way, I heard that the gold medalist at the Sydney Olympics, Naoko Takahashi, has
a pulse of thirty-five.) But if I run for about thirty minutes it rises to about seventy. After I run as hard
as I can it gets near one hundred. So it’s only after running that my pulse gets up to the level of most
people’s resting rate. This is also a facet of a long-distance type of constitution. After I started
running, my resting pulse rate went down noticeably. My heart had adjusted its rate to suit the
function of long-distance running. If it were high at rest and got higher as I ran, my body would break
down. In America whenever a nurse takes my pulse, she invariably says, “Ah, you must be a runner.” I
imagine most long-distance runners who have run a long time have had a similar experience. When
you see runners in town it’s easy to distinguish beginners from veterans. The ones panting are
beginners; the ones with quiet, measured breathing are the veterans. Their hearts, lost in thought,
slowly tick away time. When we pass each other on the road, we listen to the rhythm of each other’s
breathing, and sense the way the other person is ticking away the moments. Much like two writers
perceive each other’s diction and style.
So anyway, my muscles right now are really tight, and stretching doesn’t loosen them up. I’m
peaking in terms of training, but even so they’re tighter than usual. Sometimes I have to hit my legs
with a fist when they get tight to loosen them up. (Yes, it hurts.) My muscles can be as stubborn as—
or more stubborn than—I am. They remember things and endure, and to some extent they improve.
But they never compromise. They don’t give up. This is my body, with all its limits and quirks. Just as
with my face, even if I don’t like it it’s the only one I get, so I’ve got to make do. As I’ve grown older,
I’ve naturally come to terms with this. You open the fridge and can make a nice—actually even a
pretty smart—meal with the leftovers. All that’s left is an apple, an onion, cheese, and eggs, but you
don’t complain. You make do with what you have. As you age you learn even to be happy with what